Chapter 5: 5 - stormstars- - Fallen Angels
When I woke up every morning, my ceiling fan always hummed as it whirred around, sending a cascade of cool air down on my flushed cheeks. I had a habit of laying awake for a few moments, staring up at the darkness of my room, feeling the breeze on my face. It was the dark before the dawn, the peace before the business of each day. For a moment I relished the silence, I savored the peace.
Creaks resonated through the empty halls, and I knew that it was my father waking from his slumber, stumbling groggily to the coffee machine in the kitchen. My mother would soon follow and both would be downstairs, awaiting me, keeping their faces cheerful and light. I resented that they had to pretend, had to mask their concerns for me. But truly, how could I fault them when I was guilty of the same charge? How could I not pretend that I didn't lie awake at night, waiting for the anxiety to seize my chest and make my breathing slow? How could I pretend that if I just acted right, we could think things were normal? That I was normal?
That was the ugly truth. I was a freak.
I got my first black eye when I was seven years old. Danny Jacobs gave it to me after I tagged him out in kickball. The injuries and the insults followed in quick succession after that. There was an inconsequential tea party that I wasn't invited to in the third grade, a twisted ankle from a mean-spirited trick, a heartless rejection at my eighth grade formal, and endless taunts and jokes. All of which I was the butt of.
So you see, I truly must not be normal.
I rose slowly from my bed, stretching out the familiar aches and pains that come from a deep sleep. A sleep of the dead. Yawning, I stumbled over to my bureau and grasped the handle of my brush. Dragging it mercilessly through my hair, I managed to wake myself completely. The sharp pain forced my mind to brace itself for the battle to come.
Slipping into my adjoining bathroom, I avoided the mirror, but if I were to take a look, I would have seen the rich dark brown of my eyes. I would have seen my nearly flawless complexion, and my long dark hair, a crowning glory. I would have seen how much my Asian heritage was brought out in my features and in my body type. I was half Asian and half white and could trace my family line on my father's side all the way back to the Brownstons, a well respected family in the little old town of Chelsea. But, at least in this town, people tended to look past the white and only see the Asian. Once, many years ago, a customer of my father's bakery had remarked about me as I was playing happily in a corner with my Barbies. "Such a beautiful child, Mr. Wilson, but what a shame that she is so dark. Takes too much after her mother and not enough after you."
Miserable old cow, Dad had laughed heartedly to me afterwards. Don't fret, love. I spit into her loaf of sourdough.
Her remark didn't stop others from making them. The phrases noodles and rice were often associated with me, people would make funny bows after talking to me, and people frequently asked if I spoke Chinese. Which was ridiculous since I had lived my entire life in Chelsea, Iowa, and I did not speak my mother's native tongue. I had an American name but that didn't stop my classmates from calling me Ling Ling or Mulan.
"Rachel," I heard my mother cry softly from downstairs. "Hurry, or you will be late for school."
Ah yes, school, I thought bitterly as I stepped under the beating water of my steaming shower. The droplets pounded down on my skin, raising red welts and engulfing me in heat. I washed quickly, trying to push down disgust for my childish body even though this was the first day of sophomore year.
I stepped out of the tub, reaching for a white fluffy towel. I wrapped myself around in it, trying to calm the erratic pounding of my heart.
You can do this, I tell myself. You can do this, Rachel.
And after I told myself this a couple hundred times, I started to believe that I could. I slipped into the comforting fabric of a loved and well worn out pair of jeans. They were soft with wear and perfectly molded to my legs. I donned a clean T-shirt and jacket and slowly packed my bag. My face was devoid of any makeup. It was a part of my clever disguise.
I stooped to pick up my backpack and straightened myself, finally facing my bureau mirror. My twin stared back at me. Some days, it was impossible to face my reflection without cringing away with shame.
Keep your damn head up, I told myself, echoing the voice of my long-ago friend. A friend who had deserted me, succumbed to the cruel clarity of life just as I surely would.
"Rachel!" the voice came more urgently this time. "You can't be late!"
"Coming," I called, running a brush through my hair one last time. There. I was as ready as I could be.
I turned to leave, but a framed picture sitting on my desk caught my eye. I paused, picking up the frame. Violet was still there, smiling back at me as always. I scrutinized the faded, speckled photo. It was taken a few years before she died. Our limbs were long and tanned from the summer sun, our smiles easy, and our arms were draped around one another. Her dark hair stuck out from her head making it seem like there was a halo encircling her. Her clear brown eyes were filled with mirth. No one could realize the depth of pain she was in because she always pretended. A sort of Band-Aid over a bullet hole.
Don't worry. We're soul sisters, she had said to me on the first day of kindergarten. You're a fellow fallen angel. I hadn't known what a fallen angel was, but was happy with the way it sounded. We were best friends, right up to the day she died.
Keep your damn head up, she had said to me in the hospital as machines beeped around her. Don't let them see how much they hurt you. That's what they crave. You'll be fine one day, Rach. Which is more than I can say about them.
Vi, aren't you scared? I responded, reaching for her hand.
Yeah, she replied, leaning back in her bed. Yeah Rach, I am.
Then she had left me, her fellow fallen angel who suddenly found herself zooming down to Earth. She had always managed to get what she wanted. I just didn't know that she wanted me to stay behind.
It had been almost a year.
Setting the frame back down on the desk, I slowly walked out of my bedroom. For the first time in about a decade, I was starting a year without my rock, without my friend, without my angel.
You'll be fine one day, Rach.
I just didn't understand how I could be fine without her.
"Happy first day of tenth grade!" Mom greeted me at the foot of the stairs with a bright cupcake, messily slathered with pink frosting. No doubt my father had baked it, and by the looks of it, he had let my younger sister, Jenny, frost it. My name was spelled, Rachle, surely a kind of joke only Jenny thought was funny.
I mustered a smile, taking the cupcake and sinking my teeth in it. Delicious. It was a strawberry cream cheese, my absolute favorite. Dad was looking at me expectantly, awaiting the praise he was due.
I swallowed and took another bite. "Ith's delicious," I mumbled, catching a few stray crumbs from my mouth.
Jenny, my fourteen year old sister, rolled her eyes. "That's gross, Rachel. I find strawberry cream cheese disgusting after watching you eat it every first day of school for ten years. I like Violet's cupcake way better."
The house fell silent as the warm cake in my mouth suddenly went dry. Tears prickled my eyes. How long would the name Violet cause a lull in otherwise lively conversation? Why couldn't grief be restricted?
Violet's cupcake (yes, my father baked a special one for her too) had been a sweet triple berry cake with a dark violet buttercream. I knew that my father didn't sell triple berry cupcakes in the bakery anymore. Every time I see one, tears start coming, and I can't reign them in. Kind of a business-stopper, he had joked. That was my dad, always full of jokes. Even when the days I came home bloodied and bruised from my daily torment, he would always have a fresh roll from the bakery waiting for me along with an abundance of corny jokes. Violet had always joined in.
Jenny flushed dark red. "Sorry," she mumbled, grabbing her cupcake (a carrot cake because she thought it was less fattening) and stuffed it in her mouth.
"The bus is here," my mother suddenly interrupted, handing us our lunches. Her brown eyes, so much like mine, were begging me to have a good day. "I love you, Rachel," she murmured into my hair. "Have the best day."
School looked normal enough. I stepped off the bus and glanced around, shrinking from the masses of people. My anxiety kicked in. How I hated large crowds. Keep your damn head up, Violet's voice came back to me, giving me courage.
Taking a deep breath, I walked boldly into the main entrance of the school. I followed as the streams of people curved and meandered through the halls. If only I could make it to first period undetected, I could get though until lunch. A busy cafeteria was a whole new battleground.
As I twirled my combination lock, I could feel the stares of others. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but I didn't dare turn around. I didn't have Violet by my side, and my bravery seemed to have deserted me.
"Rachel," a peppy voice said off to the side of my left. Startled, I turned to see Christine, a brunette with too big of a smile. I had always avoided Christine. She was the leader of the youth group, a girl who took her job very seriously. A little too seriously
When I saw that she was holding a bouquet of fake flowers I knew that I was in for trouble.
"Rachel, I heard about Violet," she said mournfully, her brown eyes melancholy. "A tortured soul, wasn't she? A shame she had to leave us so early."
"Thank you," I said guardedly, closing my locker. Christine jammed her foot in it before I managed to close it. She smiled again, blinding me by the whiteness of her teeth.
"I just wanted to see if you're okay and to know that the entire youth group's prayers are with you," she told me, still smiling. "I hope that you haven't fallen into Violet's...influence."
A million comebacks rose up in my throat, but I held them back. My eyes narrowed at her. "Depression isn't contagious, Christine," I replied haughtily. "It can be treated, and those who are depressed need to have our support." I straightened my back and challenged her, "Not our condemnation."
Christine's smile tightened and her eyes hardened. "I'm not condemning anyone, Rachel. I'm simply inviting you to our youth group. I offered it to Violet once, before she passed, and she quite rudely refused me." The tone of her voice indicated that she was not yet over this breach of youth group etiquette.
"Why would I join your youth group?" I asked, now more confused than ever. Masses of students milled around us, but all their ears seemed to be focused on my conversation.
"To pray for Violet," Christine said in a "duh" kind of voice. "She rejected the Lord's favor before she died. You must pray for her soul. What if she goes to hell?"
I stared at Christine as her blabbering mouth continued to move. Something in my chest grew hard and red hot. I couldn't hear what she said anymore, I could only feel my anger. Violet knew God in her own way before she died. She had a spiritual soul. And if people like Christine said otherwise...
I felt the stares of half the student body on me as I rose to my full height, glaring at Christine.
"I don't believe in God," I hissed.
I ignored the shouts of teachers and Christine's offended protests. All I knew was that I needed to get out of there. This school had never welcomed me. It was the place where bullies had pounded me into the ground. It was the place where I had been teased and tormented without mercy. And Violet was no longer with me.
I burst through the doors of my school and breathed deep, the familiar anxiety seizing my chest. I had been diagnosed for anxiety when I was very young, a result of endless bullying. There were times when I feigned illness just to get out of going to school.
The coolness of the morning air chilled me. There was no noise except for the honking of cars. I bent over coughing, trying to undo the damage that Christine had wreaked.
"Hey," a voice said softly from behind me. I turned to see a brown haired boy standing behind me. His face was familiar, I had seen him in a few of my classes but never learned his name. "You dropped this."
He held out a pendant. A rosary that Violet had bequeathed me, one that she had worn underneath her clothes every day. I had shoved it into my bag and tried to forget about it.
Something in me went cold. "No," I moaned, shaking my head. The world swirled below me. I thought I was going to be sick.
I backed away from the rosary as if it were poison. "No," I told the boy. "No, get that thing away from me!" Though I wanted to tear my eyes away, they seemed to be frozen on the image of the worn little cross dangling from the chain. She had loved that thing, that cross, but ultimately it had forsaken her. It had left her.
Charms and prayers were for little children. They weren't real. Just as soon as you would reach to grab them, they'd disappear from your grasp. The cruelest trick.
"Ssh! Be quiet!" the boy cried, rushing to me, but I viciously batted his hands away. The rosary fell to the ground. Beads scattered over the pavement.
"No!" I shrieked louder this time. "No! No more! No more! Please!" As I backed up, my foot caught a garbage can cover, and I tumbled into a heap. Tears started to come faster now as I curled into a ball, unable to reign in the torrent of sobs. "Vi," I whimpered. "Why did you have to leave me? Why did you do it? Oh God why?"
Gentle hands were on my shoulders as they lifted me to my feet. "Ssh, it's okay," the boy said, his blue eyes looking earnestly in mine. "My name's Andrew."
"Get away," I said, shrugging my shoulders in an attempt to shake him off. He didn't budge.
"I was a friend of Violet's," he said softly. "She was amazing." He steadied me and leaned me against the wall for support. I slumped back, submitting to his care.
"They said," I hiccuped, "that she was in hell for what she did. She can't be." My shoulders shook. "I hate Him," I said bitterly, sitting down on the cold pavement. I leaned my heavy head against the brick of the school. "I hate God and anything related to God." Somehow I relished my words, relished the shock factor of them.
But Andrew wasn't shocked. "Bad things happen to good people, Rachel," he said softly.
"But why?"
"I don't know," he confessed. "All I know is that I choose to believe in a God that loves me for who I am. Is that so hard for you to believe?"
"He loved her," I whispered. "Everyone did."
Rachel, open your arms and feel the wind. Feel it on your face.
"She was...the best."
He's talking to us. Can you hear Him? He misses his angels.
"What about you?" Andrew asked.
That's what freedom feels like.
"I don't know," I said, my eyes swollen and red. The wind whistled around me, calming me. "I'm...just me I guess. Just Rachel. I close my eyes at night and think about the thousands of things that I could have done better." Shame settled in my chest as my voice broke. "How could I not have known? How could I let her..."
This is the best place in the entire world.
Andrew nodded, listening as I kept talking. "Sometimes I can hear her voice. Sometimes I have dreams about her. She used to tell me so many stories and jokes. How can I believe in a God after what has happened?"
Because you're here with me.
"Don't always believe when things are good," Andrew spoke quietly. "That's not what faith is. That's not what He thinks faith is."
"I had faith in Violet," I snarled. "That's all I need. If God took her away, her of all people, then I want nothing to do with Him. Do you hear me? I hate him!"
"Rachel," Andrew began.
Don't be scared. You'll be fine one day, Rach.
"Give me one good reason," I cried. "Why would He do this?"
"I don't know," Andrew confessed. "I don't have all the answers. But Christians aren't all like Christine. Faith is your own."
"Don't you get it?" I screamed, stamping my foot, "I don't want Him to be real! I don't want Him to see me!" Because then, I would surely not survive the shame. If He stayed imaginary then I could carry the burden myself, the secret that I would carry to my grave. If he stayed imaginary then I would never have to face what I had done. I wanted Him to look away. How could I not have known?
God couldn't be real because that would mean Violet would rather be with Him instead of me.
"The Lord sees you, Rachel," Andrew said, squeezing my hand. "And He loves what He sees. God's existence isn't what you find hardest to believe, is it? It's God's love."
I looked to him, my vision blurring through my tears. "Why would God love me?"
"He sees your pain," Andrew whispered. "He sees the pain you go through everyday. Let Him take it, Rachel. Let Him take it."
"I deserve it, though," I whimpered.
"He'll take it anyway."
I pushed him away with a sob. "Enough! I don't even know you! Stop trying to fix me. This isn't some hit TV show where you can just swoop in and save the day. You're not a therapist. And I am not Christine."
Be brave, Rachel.
"Rachel—" he cried grabbing my arm.
But I didn't have a chance to hear what else he had to say because I ripped my arm away and ran.
I didn't know where I was running to, but I did until I found myself in a graveyard. Violet's graveyard.
The breeze tickled my cheeks as I walked down the aisles and aisles of graves, some many years old. I wasn't sure if I wanted to find her. I wasn't sure about much these days.
Her's was at the back of the yard, a headstone that was still very new compared to the others. I fell to my knees beside it as the familiar wave of tears fell from my eyes.
"Sometimes I can hear your voice," I cried into the wind. "We've been best friends so long,Vi, I can't seem to let you go."
I knelt and touched the V in her name. "You made me brave."
The breeze grew stronger now, whipping my hair in my face as I silently cried.
You cry because you're human, I heard her say to me. It's okay to let the tears fall.
So I did, sitting alone, without her. I breathed in deep, savoring the peace. I didn't know what sophomore year would bring. But I could feel something expanding in my chest, and it was not anxiety.
Hope.
The revelation nearly overwhelmed me as the tears fell even faster. I had thought that hope had deserted me. I thought that I was finished.
"Okay," I whispered, a tear dripping down my nose. "Okay." I placed my hand on the grass where she was buried.
"I don't know how I can be Rachel without a Violet," I told her. "And I'm sorry that I didn't see your pain." I opened my hand and took the broken rosary that Andrew had placed in my hand. "He was your friend too. He misses you."
I set the rosary down on the ground. "I'm gonna try, Vi. I think you would have wanted me to."
I sat back on my heels, basking in the feeling that everything was going to be okay. The wind dried the tears on my face as I sat there for many minutes.
"Help me Lord," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "If I'm going to believe in you, just help me survive. Help me to heal."
Feel the wind on your face? You're free, Rachel. Spread your wings.
And fly.
I opened my eyes and placed my forehead against the cool surface of her headstone, remembering.
VIOLET WILSONA FALLEN ANGEL
By stormstars-.
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