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He waited quietly in the autumn night. Quietly at the door—quietly for her. Waited in a place that seemed from a cold, lonely dream. Lights hummed faintly, flickering here and flickering there: the fading lights of a motel whose better years had long passed—or perhaps never existed.
He heard the sound—the twist of a handle—and he stood upright. The door opened slightly. A half obscured face looked out.
"Hey…" he said. A grocery bag dangled from his hand. "I bought some food… Nothing special. Just some snacks."
The door opened further. He could see her face clearly now—the weariness, the listlessness. Hazel eyes, encircled by darkness, stared blankly. The lights hummed softly.
"Did I wake you?" He felt like a bastard. "I'm sorry."
She looked away, sighed, then slowly shook her head. "No. I was awake."
"…Good." He raised the bag. "Take whatever you want. Laura has plenty, so don't worry."
She scrutinized the bag with anxious and analytical eyes, as if some great mystery lay within. Slowly, her hand drew closer then stopped an inch away, trembling. He twitched. She flinched, pulling her hand away. A deep breath followed. Once more, she reached toward the bag, faster this time and without hesitation, retrieving something and bringing it close.
"Th-thank you…" she said, a chocolate bar clasped in her hands, "…for this… and the room… and…"
She trailed off. A light flickered once, twice, then burned out.
"I don't deserve to be thanked," he said. "You and Laura deserve better. I wish… I wish there were a nicer place nearby."
Her expression only deepened his guilt.
"We're in the next room," he said, signaling to his left. "If you need anything, just—"
"Would you…" She closed her eyes. "…Sorry."
"No… It's fine. What did you want to say?"
She hesitated. Her lips quivered slightly. "…Would you… like to come in?"
"I…" His breath hitched. "…Sure."
On tired, uneasy feet, she led him through the doorway and across the room. The air was heavy with a mixture of unpleasant smells poorly masked by cheap cleaning products. Stains were on the walls and on the carpet and on the furniture. Stained room. Stained memories. A painting hung near the bed. A familiar scene—Toluca Lake. He looked away. It had only been a matter of hours—the wounds from Silent Hill were excruciatingly fresh.
He let himself sink into a worn-out sofa chair—sink into sweet nothingness. He placed his bag on an adjacent table. Angela was lost in her own world—sitting on the side of the bed, hands in her lap, eyes to the floor. The chocolate bar lay to her right. Muffled sounds bled through the wall—conversations and music from some television program.
Laura.
He cleared his throat. "Do you… want to talk?"
"…No."
He patted the armrests. That was fine, he supposed. He wasn't much in the mood to talk, either. He closed his eyes and let his mind sink further and further into the void. The sounds from the other room began to fade, fade, fade… before growing louder, harsher—scrambling and distorting. A cacophony of static—radio static. Nothingness began to take shape. He could see them now… so alive in his mind's eye… the monsters.
He opened his eyes.
"Do you…" he gasped, "…do you want to watch something on TV?"
"N-no!" She stood up, stumbling slightly. "Look… I just… I just didn't want…" Her entire body was shaking. The fear in her expression shifted to pain then to anger. "Forget it! If you're so uncomfortable, just go! Get out!"
For a moment he sat still, hands gripping the armrests. With a deep breath, he rose from the chair, faltering on unstable legs. Angela was still shaking, her back now turned to him. No further words were exchanged. Only the faint noises of the television in the other room could be heard. He let uncertain steps carry him slowly across the carpet, slowly to the door—slowly away from her.
Get the hell out of here.
I told you to go! Are you deaf?!
Trembling fingers hovered above the handle.
Angela's voice came softly from across the room, "Wait…
"I… I'm sorry…
"Please… please don't be mad at me…"
He turned around. Her arms were wrapped in a self-embrace. Her eyes met his, the look in them unmistakable—the frightened, desperate gaze that haunted his most painful memories. He stepped away from the door.
"I'm not… I'm not mad, Angela."
She squeezed her arms, casting her gaze to the floor.
"Listen," he said. "I'll stay. I… I want to stay.
"Laura's watching something in the next room." He knew that she was brave, young as she was. Strong. Independent. He also knew… that she needed space. "I think… she'll be okay for a bit."
He drifted back to the worn-out sofa chair, once again letting himself sink into it. Angela still had her arms wrapped around herself—her shield from the unpleasantness of the world—but was no longer shaking. The fear remained, as did the confusion and the pain. He could see it in her eyes, in her face, in her movements. She was lost. She was barely keeping herself together. But she was there, living and breathing. For that, he was eternally grateful.
With a sigh, he took a packet of something from the bag he had left behind. He then tore it open.
"These…" he said, "…these are alright."
She sat back on the bed, took a deep breath, then grasped the chocolate bar. With careful, timid fingers, she slowly unwrapped it—then took a small bite.
"…Yeah. This is alright, too."
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
She tossed and turned, mind adrift in that foggy limbo that lies between consciousness and sleep. Impressions of faces and places came to her—fading colors and shapes dancing in ethereal spaces. Faint sounds accompanied them—forgotten songs and indecipherable voices echoing evermore. Unclear channels and distorted frequencies. The disarming numbness that preceded the terrifying pain of night.
It was a scream that whisked her away from this vague world and back into the one of the living.
At first, she lay still, uncertain if the scream had been real. She then thought of all the screams in her own life that had fallen on deaf or uncaring ears. She then thought of James: the look in his eyes whenever he asked if she was alright; the way his features grew softer and his voice grew gentler whenever he was concerned. She had only known him for a matter of weeks, but in that time he had become someone…
…She cared about.
She stumbled out of bed and to her door, unlocked it, then drifted out of her room and through the hall.
His door was slightly ajar. She pressed her fingers against it, gently, as to not make a sound, then hesitated. Her heart was a jackhammer—her mind a typhoon. She pushed the door open and with a tremulous finger, flicked on the light.
James lay in bed, his hands gripping disheveled sheets and his face twisted in a look of pure agony. His breaths were frequent and frantic as his chest rapidly rose and fell. Sweat streaked his forehead and cheeks. She stifled a gasp. She had never seen him in such a state. His moods had always been so subtle, so subdued. How much had he been repressing?
"I… I heard a scream," she said, stepping closer. "…Are you okay?"
Slowly, his breathing seemed to stabilize. "…I'm… I'm fine." He closed his eyes. "S-sorry if I woke you."
She gazed at his suffering form, stricken by the familiarity of it all. The fear. The pain. The desperation. She felt as though… she were watching herself. Her next words came suddenly and without conscious thought: "You're not fine."
The bed creaked. He opened his eyes.
"…Excuse me?"
"The nightmares…" she said. "I have them, too."
He released a strained sigh. "…I don't want to talk about it."
"Neither do I." Her voice had become softer, and she noticed how close she was to the bed—how close she was to him. When had that happened?
"It's just…" she said, "…you're not… you're not alone."
With neither hesitation nor fear, she placed a hand on his. It was cold and wet with sweat. She felt it slowly relax under hers. Moments passed in silence as the room seemed to spin around her.
She then remembered… Remembered everything that had hurt her. Everything that had scarred her. Everything that had destroyed her. A storm brewed within, and fear rose like a tower spiraling through the clouds. She wrenched her hand away.
What was wrong with her?
What the hell was wrong with her?
Like so many other times in her life, she did the only thing that made sense—she ran. Ran from that room. Ran from that moment. Ran from him. Ran quietly into the cold, uncaring night.
She had been so reckless, so foolish—so stupid.
Why?
Why had she done all that?
Why? Why? Why?
And worst of all—she hadn't apologized.
It must have been forgetfulness, she told herself. Yes, forgetfulness. Nothing more. Nothing less.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
The November air was a welcome companion, its cool and comforting presence nurturing the growing calmness in his soul—a calmness he hadn't felt in years. Leaves danced gently in the wind, swirling and swaying, descending from above and veiling the earth—the children of fall painting the world with fiery strokes.
Faint figures and faces blurred through the leaves and between the trees—the park a sea of people and pets. It had been his idea to bring Angela and Laura here, and as the sound of a child's laughter cut through the hum of a nearby streetlamp, he couldn't help but think it had been one of his best in… too long.
Angela stood to his right, a few steps away, looking ethereal in the lamplight—her eyes glowing almost golden. She was gazing out into the distance—toward the source of the laughter.
Toward Laura.
Laura was running carelessly through the foliage, a dog following closely with spirited strides. Her friend's pet—a sweet and energetic little thing. It was a nice scene. Laura looked so… happy. The happiest he had ever seen her. She let herself fall backwards into a pile of leaves, and the dog rushed to her—gracing her cheeks with a flurry of wet, little kisses.
He blinked, felt a familiar sting, then looked away.
Just something in his eye.
Angela was still in the lamplight, and there was something wonderfully strange about her face. As the leaves fell and danced around her, swaying and swirling as they did, he found himself overcome by a pleasant dizziness. He felt weightless, formless, as though he were fading in the wind—mesmerized by the sight before him.
Mesmerized by her smile.
Soft and subtle. Serene and sweet.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
"What are you reading?"
"This?" he said, his eyes meeting hers. "It's a collection of short stories."
"Are they good?"
"I'm enjoying them so far." He retrieved a bookmark from the end table, placing it between the pages. "The writing's great… though I'm not sure if I'm grasping everything."
He sighed.
"This book was one of Mary's favorites…" He carefully set it aside. "…I… I never got around to reading it… when I should've…"
The subject of Mary was… complicated. Complicated and unpleasant. Angela knew what had happened to her. Knew about the disease. Knew what James had done in that one moment of despair. She also knew who he was—a man plagued by regret. It was apparent in the way he carried himself—in the way he drifted from one day to the next. She saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. Regret followed him like a shadow. Not a shadow that faded into the night, but a shadow that became the all-encompassing night.
Thinking about it all… Thinking about Mary… It made her uncomfortable. Talking about her, more so. Nevertheless, her curiosity persisted. "Could you… tell me about her?"
He tensed. "There's… a lot to tell. I don't really know where to start."
"Just one thing," she said. "Please… I know Mary was… is an important part of your life… of Laura's life. I just… want to understand a little better."
He watched her silently, his face solemn. She tugged on her sleeve.
"Well," he finally said, "I suppose I can tell you more than one thing…
"…She was a very kind and understanding person. Very empathetic… But she could also have a scary temper if the moment called for it.
"She loved animals—especially birds. She loved seeing them when we'd go for walks.
"I remember she used to dream about all sorts of things—visiting beautiful and exotic places, being a painter, being a writer, being a musician…
"…starting a family."
He closed his eyes, and they remained closed for some time.
Perhaps he wasn't ready for this conversation.
She looked down. Her hands were shaking.
Perhaps she wasn't ready.
"There are a lot of things I miss…" he said. "Too many to count…
"I think… what I find myself missing the most… are the little things I took for granted.
"Waking up to her sleeping or smiling face. Hearing the pitter-patter of footsteps when she'd be walking through the house or when she'd sneak up from behind just to surprise me with a hug. Hearing her hum little tunes when she'd be busy with something…"
He covered his eyes with a trembling hand, turning away.
"…Hearing her…" he sniffed, "…hearing her breathe… f-feeling her heartbeat… when we'd… when we'd lie next to each other…"
She couldn't see his eyes, but she saw the tears that rolled slowly down his cheeks and fell faintly into his lap.
"…The little reminders that there's… that there's someone near who cares about you… who loves you."
There were no more words. Only the sounds of soft weeping.
"I'm sorry…" she said. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Once more, Angela ran.
It was a while later, sometime in the cold, wintry night, when he found her in some nameless, insignificant place, among the trees and the leaves, lying still on the amber grass. She didn't know how he found her. Didn't ask—didn't particularly care. When he drove her home, he assured her that everything was alright, that he was grateful he had someone to talk to—someone to open up to—and that, above all, he was happy she was alright.
Happy.
Not disappointed. Not sad. Not angry.
Happy.
She wanted to feel relieved—wanted to share his happiness.
But… she didn't.
She couldn't explain why, but his assurances only made her feel guiltier.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
"James?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever wonder… about my life? Before… before we met…"
"I… Of course I do, Angela." He breathed deeply. "Whatever you feel comfortable telling me… I'm willing to hear."
"Then why… why haven't you ever asked?"
Because I'm afraid.
The memories of that town would always haunt him—lurking in the shadows of his consciousness, ever poised for attack. What he had experienced… What he had seen her experience… It had all replayed so many times in his mind—too many times. He still heard the voices… The desperate, pained cries. The violent, hateful screams. He still saw that monster… The one that had hurt her. The one that had done such unspeakable things to her. The one that had taken so much from her.
He was afraid of making her relive it all.
He was afraid that what had happened… was even worse than what he already knew.
"…I didn't want to pry," he said. "Didn't want to pick at wounds that were still healing." He was trying to navigate this conversation as carefully as possible. "I just figured… if you wanted to talk about it, you'd let me know."
She said nothing. Weary, hazel eyes, pleading and lost, spoke for her.
"It was…" he said, "…it was hell, wasn't it?"
The same look.
The same silence.
"…I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry about." Her voice was low. "What they did to me… You had nothing to do with that."
What they did to me… He felt sick. "Is there… a particular moment you want to talk about?"
"Yeah…" she said, "…there's something." She squeezed her arm. "I've been having these dreams recently—dreams I stopped having a long time ago. When I wake up from them, I always think about something that happened when I was little…
"…There was this neighbor—another little girl. I… I didn't know her very well. I'm not sure if I forgot her name or never knew it in the first place. I used to watch her sometimes. She had loving parents, friends… a smile. Everything I lacked.
"I envied her so much… That comfort… That life.
"I remember watching her play in her backyard one day, and she had… she had wings…" She swallowed. "She was wearing this pair of wings, and she looked so happy. Smiling. Laughing. Not a care in the world.
"I remember… I remember feeling so empty in that moment. Those wings… they were my wings—the wings in my dreams.
"Among all the nightmares… the constant nightmares… sometimes there'd be these dreams—these little escapes and fantasies. In them I'd have these wings. Such beautiful wings…
"I'd have wings and I'd fly and I'd be free and I'd feel… happy.
"That girl… that girl who had everything I lacked… everything I wanted… that girl also had my wings."
Her tears fell silently.
He felt helpless watching her. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He didn't know what to say. Words seemed so meaningless—so hollow. She slowly reached out her hand. Trembling fingers brushed against his, lingered for a moment, then gently tightened around his hand. He sighed then placed his other hand over hers. For now… maybe this was enough.
That night, he dreamed of an angel.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
Slews of colorful pages were strewn about the carpet in a vibrant, if somewhat reckless, display of artistry. Laura, crayon in hand, sat in the center of this little exhibition, working diligently on her latest piece. There was something so serene about the scene, Angela felt. Laura's drawings, simple and childish as they were, had a way of taming her wild heart, of calming her restless mind.
"Laura, what do you think about James?"
Laura looked up. "I don't hate him." Then she looked down. She was drawing blades of grass swaying in the wind. "I think he thinks I hate him, but I don't."
Angela stepped closer, carefully as to avoid any of Laura's drawings. "Have you told him how you feel?"
Laura hummed softly. Crayon scratched against paper.
"Have you?" Laura asked.
Angela paused. Telling James how she felt… Telling anyone how she felt… It was difficult. She appreciated everything he had done for her. She cared about him—so much she sometimes surprised herself. But how did she feel about James? Truly? It was a complicated question. One that summoned a whirlwind of frightening and wonderful and endlessly confusing emotions.
She sighed then shook her head. This conversation wasn't about James and her. It was about James and Laura.
"He really cares about you, Laura."
Laura's eyes stayed fixed on her drawing. "And he really cares about you."
Angela sighed. Either Laura was surprisingly perceptive for her age or she was deflecting. She wasn't sure which was true. Maybe both. James did care about her. What she didn't know was why. What had she done to deserve that care?
"…What do you think about me, Laura?"
Laura set her crayon aside. She had finished her drawing: a red fox lay in a grassy field; a crescent moon hung above in the starry sky.
"I think you're sad." Laura grabbed a blank sheet of paper. "You look sad."
Angela squeezed her arm. Oh…
Laura picked up another crayon. "But when you're around James, you don't look so sad." With a confident stroke, she began her latest piece. "He doesn't look so sad, either."
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
"Do you like her?"
"Like who?"
"You know who—Angela."
"Of course I like her."
"Do you like-like her?"
James sighed. "I'm not sure that's any of your business, Laura."
He had learned some time ago that she had a habit of asking uncomfortable questions at awkward moments. Just part of being a child, he had once thought, but she seemed to delight in the flustered expressions and sputtered nonsense her questions would often elicit. He expected a smirk, a mischievous glint in her eye—some sort of tell, obvious or subtle. There was always something that betrayed her intentions, whether or not he could detect it in time. Her expression, however, was solemn, her eyes dull—revealing a weariness, an old sorrow, unbefitting her cherubic face.
"She's not Mary, you know," she said.
He flinched. "Yes… I know." Then another sigh. "She's Angela. She's no one but herself."
She stared silently, her expression unchanging.
"Laura, she's not a replacement." His voice was firm. "No one will ever replace Mary, no matter how much I like them."
And he meant those words. Mary would always live in his heart, his memory, his dreams. When he felt the April breeze caress his body and soothe his soul, when he saw the infinitude of wildflowers color the spring and light the world, when he heard the city's ceaseless song: rolling trains and blaring cars and echoing voices—he remembered her.
Remembered her face.
Remembered her love.
Remembered his sin.
"Do you miss her?" Laura asked.
"Every single day."
"Honest?"
He sighed. "Yes."
"Cross your heart and hope to die?"
"Stick a needle in my eye." He lightly poked his eye for emphasis.
She smiled softly—a much more fitting expression. "But Angela…"
"What about Angela?" he said.
She looked away. "…Nothing. I like her, too."
"I'm glad to hear that."
She looked back—her soft smile replaced with an all too familiar smirk. "But you like-like her!"
He mumbled something unintelligible, and with a playful tap, she ran off giggling. She had done it again—left him flustered like an idiot and bereft of any meaningful response. He had to admit, she had a skill for it.
Like-like her… A childish phrase, but almost profound in a strange and succinct way. Perhaps there was some truth to it. Perhaps what he felt for Angela… ran deeper than he realized.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
Timid steps carried her slowly into the kitchen. The subtle scents of herbs, spices, and fresh vegetables mingled pleasantly in the air. James stood over a cutting board, the picture of concentration—head down, knife in one hand, a rib of celery under the other.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Knives had been a source of unease for her for… some time. It had been a while since she had handled anything sharp. Whenever she had held such objects, she would feel a pull—a strange, disembodying feeling—as if she were on the brink of losing all sense of control, all sense of herself. It was terrifying—that lack of stability. What was more terrifying was the violence of which she was capable. She remembered the rage she had once felt, the blood she had once spilled.
She wanted to believe that this was something that could be confronted—that this was something that could be conquered.
The kitchen fell silent. James set aside the knife.
He had always been wary of using knives around her. She appreciated the concern, understood it completely, but was still bothered by it. Being treated as if she were made of porcelain, as if any kind of difficulty or discomfort would cause her to shatter, was frustrating. What was most frustrating, however, was the persistent fear that she had remained the same. That despite how much everything around her had changed as the months had gone by, as the flowers had wilted then blossomed, as the days had grown shorter then longer—deep down, she was still the same lost, frightened girl, drifting helplessly through a world of fire.
Perhaps… she could put these fears of hers to rest.
She stepped closer.
"Hey, Angela…" There was an uncertainty in his eyes, a quaver in his voice. "Just… making dinner."
"It's… it's alright," she said. "We've been over th-this a lot now." Inhale. Exhale. "You're just… chopping vegetables."
Nervous eyes studied her—analyzed her. With a trembling hand, he picked up the knife.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
"I know," he said. "I'm just—"
"Worried about me? I know… I appreciate it, but I… I'm not that fragile. Not anymore."
She desperately wanted to believe her words.
He smiled—his eyes betrayed his true feelings. "…I'm happy to hear that."
Chop. Chop. Chop.
"What are you making?" she asked.
"Just some sauce," he said. "I hope Laura will like it."
"Well, it has vegetables, so…"
"Yeah, yeah, it might take some coaxing to get her to try it, but I have a feeling she'll be satisfied when she does."
A sea of anxiety had been crashing against the shore of her mind, but its tide seemed to slowly ebb as their little conversation unfolded. She felt a slight smile play upon her lips.
"I'm sure it'll taste great," she said.
"Thank y—damn!"
She saw the wince.
She saw his hands.
She saw red.
What followed was a whirlwind of panic. She couldn't recall the sequence of events that had led to her cradling his hand in hers. It was as if she had just woken up, and there she was, wrapping a bandage over his wounded finger.
"It's really not… that bad…" he said.
Her gaze traveled upwards. Those eyes… He had such endearing eyes: curious and shy and full of concern. Sometimes she couldn't help but stare. Then she felt something against her fingertips—mostly smooth, with some coarseness here and there. It seemed her hand had also traveled upwards, feeling the contours of his face.
What was she doing? Why was she doing it? Before she could answer those questions, she felt a presence against her lips.
Warm yet cold.
Vicious yet gentle.
Comforting yet terrifying.
In a moment it was over. A moment too long. A moment too short. She traced trembling fingers over her lips—a feeling… an indescribable feeling lingered. Who had initiated it? She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore. She felt dizzy, terrifyingly so, as if the concept of equilibrium had left her. Memories scorched through her mind like an inferno. Ugly, sick memories. Memories of anger and violence and stolen innocence. Monsters. Her father. Her brother. She could see them. Looming over her. Taking her. Devouring her. Fucking monsters. James wasn't… James wasn't like them. Was he? Mary… She knew what had happened to Mary.
She looked to the knife.
Blood trickled down its edge.
She looked to James.
His eyes… They were still as endearing as she remembered. The eyes of the man who had saved her from hell, who had shown her so much kindness, whom she had told of her dreams.
The man she… The man she…
She fell to the floor.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again and again.
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
Winter's first breath had come suddenly and strongly, sweeping away the remnants of fall in a whirlwind of white. The December night was aglow with multitudes of vibrant colors—life exploding on a vast canvas. A city of lights in a snow globe world. Through the falling flakes they walked—over faded paths and past adorned homes and under frosted branches.
"What do I mean to you?"
Her question came as suddenly as the snow. He stopped, a thousand thoughts swirling in his mind as he watched her. There was a distinct look in her eyes as she adjusted her snow specked scarf—a yearning, a quiet intensity. He stood there, motionless in the snow and motionless under her gaze.
"When I…" he said, "…when I first met you, I saw someone who was afraid.
"Someone who was lost.
"Someone who needed help."
He looked back and down to the parallel paths that lay behind them—the two trails of footprints fading under the falling snow.
"I wanted to reach out," he said, "wanted to do… something, but it seemed I was never able to do the right thing."
His eyes met hers.
"I realized later just how much of myself I was seeing in you."
There was something about her expression… The way it made him feel… He couldn't explain it.
"I want…" he said, "…I need you to know how much you've helped me. I… I wouldn't have been able to survive this last year without you…
"…You've given me strength. You've given me hope. You've given me… a reason to smile again."
He paused to admire her for a moment. She was beautiful: hazel eyes glowing with life; hair specked with whispers of white; cheeks glowing pastel pink; scarf pulled over her chin and lightly tickling her lower lip.
She was an angel in the falling snow.
"That's what you mean to me, Angela."
It was the most open he had been about his feelings in a long time. There were no regrets. No uncertainties. No fears. The longer he watched her, the stronger his conviction grew.
She closed her eyes, drawing her hands to her chest. A serene smile played on her lips. The snow softly swirled around her. She removed a mitten, letting her hand free in the wintry night. She reached it out—snowflakes melted in her palm. He pulled off his own mitten. The snow felt cold against his skin—cold yet comforting. Gently, he took her bare hand in his.
She opened her eyes. "It's beautiful…"
He gave her hand a soft squeeze. "It is."
«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»«•»
Christmas Eve.
Her second with James. Their first Christmas together had gone by with little fanfare, blurring together with all the other December days. Uneventful, but an improvement over the Christmases that preceded it. There had been a time, long ago, when the idea of the holiday, the joy, the hope, provided comfort—a quiet, ephemeral comfort. The reality of Christmas, however, had never amounted to more than a day of shattered dreams and unfulfilled wishes.
She sighed.
James was by her side but seemed a mile away. Still and silent. Lost in thought and lost in the colorful glow of the room.
"You've really gone all out," she said.
And he had. The room was a spectacle of lights and decorations. The tree was draped in tinsel and adorned with an assortment of ornaments. The star atop shone brilliantly, lightly scraping the ceiling. A pile of colorfully wrapped gifts nestled under glowing branches. Three stockings hung from the mantel of an unlit fireplace—a wreath hung above.
It all felt foreign and familiar at the same time.
"I tried," he said. "I just… want Christmas to feel special."
"For Laura?"
He offered a subtle, wistful smile. "For all of us."
She looked away, wringing her hands.
"It's been… a long time since Christmas felt special," he said. "Too long."
He sighed.
"I don't know…" he said. "Maybe I'm trying to recapture something that's been lost for good."
She closed her eyes. Lost for good… It seemed so many things in their lives had been lost for good.
She heard faint footsteps followed by the sound of things being shuffled about. She opened her eyes: he was on his knees, carefully sifting through the presents lying under the tree. With a soft groan, he rose with a present in hand. There was an endearing expression on his face—a boyish and shy kind of excitement.
It was a look that suited him, she thought.
"I, uh, got you something…"
"It's still Christmas Eve," she said.
"Maybe," he said, "but I think you've earned an early present."
It was a small, unassuming present, wrapped in red and tied with a green ribbon. He gently placed it in her hands. She held it carefully and quietly, wondering what lay inside. She hadn't asked for anything. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how few material things she desired. None of that really mattered, she supposed—it was a sweet gesture.
With great care and precision, she unwrapped her present.
A black case.
Curious.
She held it in one hand, turning it slowly as she slid her fingers across its surfaces. She felt excitement begin to build. Her mind tried to fathom the possibilities, but everything she envisioned was foggy and vague.
She heard James swallow. She swallowed, too.
Her fingers tightened around the case.
Slowly, she opened it…
…And in it lay something small and silver, attached to a thin chain.
An angel—with outstretched wings.
Such beautiful wings…
"My wings…"
She cradled it in her trembling hands, gently, so gently, as if it would crumble at the slightest touch. She felt a sting in her eyes and a growing wetness on her cheeks. A breath came, long and deep. She looked to James—he was smiling. A beautiful smile, she thought—one of pure joy and contentment. A smile that felt like home… a real home.
She looked down to the angel—a tear had fallen on it.
She grasped the chain in her still trembling hands. He took her hands in his, gently guiding her fingers as they clasped the necklace.
"Merry Christmas, Angela."
She let herself fall into him, holding him close and holding him tight. Strong arms wrapped around her. Strong hands held her. Not the violent, oppressive hands of the past, but the warm, caring hands of the present. Hands that provided hope for a worthwhile tomorrow. Lips brushed against her forehead—gentle lips, passionate lips. She felt his heartbeat—a drum beating wildly. He was nervous. That was fine. She was nervous, too. The good kind of nervous. The kind of nervous that made her spirit soar.
As she lost herself in his embrace, she thought back to when they had first met. Back when she had been in hell. She remembered the fear, the confusion, the anger. Remembered when everything had seemed hopeless, when nothing had seemed to matter anymore. She then thought of the countless moments that had brought them closer, that had slowly made her realize just how much meaning there was in everything. Her world had changed so much. What had once been an existence of emptiness and despair had become a life—a life of struggle but also hope.
Finally, she thought of how she felt now—in this room and in his arms.
Safe.
Comfortable.
Happy.
"James… thank you… for everything."