Fallen Angel
Authors: Heather Terrell
Fallen Angel
HEATHER TERRELL
For Jim, Jack, and Ben
“How art thou fallen . . .”
Isaiah 14:12
I watched my curtains billow in the early autumn wind that wafted through my opened bedroom window. The night beckoned to me. And I answered its call.
Lifting the bedcovers off me, I walked over to the window and floated out into the darkness of midnight. The wind surged behind me, as I flew through the shadowy streets of my town. Weaving between the familiar shingled homes of my sleeping neighbors, I reveled in the sheer pleasure of flight and the secrecy of my journey.
I was so lost in the sensation that the tall steeple of my town’s eighteenth-century church loomed before me unexpectedly. The church’s spidery, whitewashed spire stopped my progress, momentarily forcing me to drop and hover in midair in front of the church’s circular stained glass window. Although the window was colorless in the night sky, I swear it stared at me like a preacher from the pulpit. Judging me. Why had I never noticed the window before? In my other dreams?
Without warning, the wind picked up speed and whipped at my face. It was cool and damp, and smelled of the sea. Suddenly, the church and the town structures and even the streets felt confining, and I longed for the openness of the ocean.
My shoulder blades lifted and expanded. I streamlined my limbs to gain speed. Taking a sharp left away from the church, I headed toward the bracing—and freeing—air of the nearby sea.
Civilization disappeared as I raced along the jagged cliffs and rocky beaches of the Maine coast. The ebb and flow of the great ocean waves crashing on the shore below began to lure me farther and farther out to sea.
A bright flash on a rocky promontory caught my attention. The light burned brightly—and inexplicably—in the deep darkness of the moonless night. Tearing myself away from the hypnotic enticement of the tide, I swooped down to the promontory to inspect this unanticipated deviation in my recurrent dream.
As I neared the stony outcropping, I saw that the light on its surface wasn’t a fire or a lamp. It was a man. What looked like a light was the shimmer of his blond hair, so white it gleamed even in the scant illumination of the night.
The figure stared out at the sea, hands in his jeans pockets. He looked young, maybe around my age of sixteen. I flew a little closer, but not too close. I wanted to see him, but didn’t want to be seen.
Although his face was hazy in the dim light, I felt a powerful connection to him. An attraction. He had green eyes and surprisingly suntanned skin. With such pale hair, I expected that he’d be fair.
He adjusted his position, and I could better see his almond-shaped eyes and cleft chin. But the more I studied his face, the more it changed. The eyes looked blue instead of green. The nose lengthened just a touch, and the lips filled out. He no longer looked young like me, or old like my parents, but sort of ageless. His features became more perfect and angular, and his skin grew paler and paler, almost as if his human flesh was turning to smooth, cold marble. Nearly as if a master sculptor had fashioned a human being into an ethereal creature.
Then he turned and stared at me, as if he knew I’d been there all along. And he smiled a horrible, knowing smile. His perfect face no longer seemed the sculpture of an angel but a demon, and I knew I looked into the face of evil itself.
I opened my mouth to scream in terror. And then I fell.
I fell to earth with a thud. Or so I thought.
I opened my eyes and saw my bedroom. I was lying on my tall sleigh bed, with the weak sun of early morning starting to stream through my blinds. The dream had been so real that I half-expected to find myself sprawled out on the promontory instead of back at home under my warm covers.
Still, the dream clung. Rubbing my eyes to wipe it away, I heard a familiar voice call up the stairs.
“Ellie.”
I still felt kind of drugged by the dream. I moved my lips to answer but couldn’t get out much more than a croak.
“Ellspeth? It’s time to get up.”
The spell of the dream lifted the moment my mom’s voice got louder and she used my full name. She only called me Ellspeth—my old-fashioned given name, which she knew I hated—when she was really irritated with me. My voice returned, and I responded to my mom. “I’ll be down in a minute!”
Disentangling myself from my sheets, I slid off the bed and padded over to my dresser, where I’d laid out my clothes for the day. I shivered; I could actually see my breath in the air. Why was it so cold?
I looked around the room and saw that my window was ajar. Just a crack, but enough to let in the chilliness of the Maine autumn morning. I didn’t remember opening it before I went to bed. Odd, but I could be a bit absentminded at times.
I closed the window, gathered up my clothes, and headed down the short hallway to my bathroom. Shutting the door behind me, I turned on the water—hot. Then I lathered lemony soap onto a damp washcloth, and took my first look into the mirror.
I ignored the pale, almost translucent, blue eyes looking back at me as best I could: their odd, unsettling color had brought me nothing but stares for years. Instead, I focused on the things I could control. I studied my face, wondering for the millionth time just how I’d tame my unruly, obstinately straight black hair. Picking up my brush, I began the long, painful process of undoing all the knots, yawned, and slowly awakened to the sunny morning.
Its brightness drove away the creepy ending to my dream and lifted my spirits a tiny bit. I thought maybe I’d be able to make it through my first day at the upper high school after all. Then again, I’d probably still wish I could fast-forward through all the nonsense—past the hallways and classrooms full of social posing and gossipy distractions from schoolwork—and go straight to college.
Within the hour, I was careening through the hallways crowded with all-too-familiar seniors and juniors. I approached my newly assigned locker with a single, silent prayer on my lips: “please, please, for once let Piper’s locker not be near mine.” In an unfortunate twist of fate, I was regularly subjected to the uber-popular Piper Faires both at home—where she was my next-door neighbor—and at school. Our last names—Faires and Faneuil—doomed me forever to be Piper’s locker neighbor as well. The fact that Piper routinely ignored me at school, while still acting like my friend at home, made the whole situation very awkward. Although I had to admit, our unavoidable in-school proximity and neighborhood friendship had benefits: they brought me a certain immunity from her group’s petty little games.
Scanning the lockers, I didn’t have to look too hard or too long before I spotted my assigned number twenty-four, and realized my prayer hadn’t been answered. There stood Piper with her swarm of friends circling around their queen—Missy—like honeybees. With their even tans, perfectly faded jeans, and colorful summer flip-flops, they glowed and seemed carefree—even young—in a way I’d never experienced. With all our environment-saving missions to impoverished countries, my parents had imbued me with such a strong sense of responsibility to the world at large that I never really felt happy-go-lucky. If I ever had a minute to spare, I felt like I should be volunteering more hours at the local soup kitchen instead of just hanging out.
I knew I shouldn’t care about their little pack, and really, truly didn’t care most of the time. After all, Piper had “invited” me to be part of her inner circle back in middle school, and I rejected her. Even then, I just couldn’t stomach being part of a group that routinely voted their friends “off” the lunch table, relegating them to some “loser-ridden backwater table” until they were voted back “on.” Still, in such close proximity to their light, I couldn’t help but feel like a black hole, with my dark hair and jeans.
Missy, the most malevolent of the group, leaned directly on locker number twenty-four. My eyes rolled at the thought of having to cut through all Missy’s nastiness to get to my locker before the bell rang. She caught my gesture, and I braced myself for some sort of backlash. Instead, Missy flipped her golden brown hair over her shoulders and said, “Hey, how was your summer?” With a smile.
I turned to look behind me, wondering just who she was talking to. My relationship with Piper ensured that Missy never bothered to belittle me, but she sure never bothered to be nice, either.
She repeated herself. “How was your summer, Ellie?”
“Fine,” I answered warily, as I opened my locker. I busied myself inside it, slowly organizing my books in the hopes that she’d disappear by the time I emerged.
It didn’t work.
“Where’d you go this time?” Missy asked when I peeked out.
“Kenya,” I said as I shut my locker. That she admitted to knowing my name and the fact that I took summer trips abroad was beyond me.
“You’re so lucky your parents take you all over the world. I was stuck here in Tillinghast all summer long.”
I didn’t know what to say to her, especially since Piper and the rest of the golden group were watching with expectant grins on their faces. And especially since I was pretty sure that Missy’s glamorous vision of my world travels didn’t jibe with the third-world reality. So I didn’t say anything.
Missy filled in the silence. “The girls and I were just talking about meeting at noon for lunch. Want to join us?”
I was just about to ask why when Ruth walked down the hall toward me.
Ruth’s pace slowed and her shoulders tensed when she spotted me talking to Missy. Ruth knew that she’d have to pass by her to get to me, and that the immunity my relationship with Piper bought me didn’t extend to her, even though she was my best friend.
I watched as Ruth bravely squared her shoulders, tucked her long red hair behind her ears, and approached me. Compared to the suntanned perfection of Missy and her friends, Ruth looked plain with her pale skin, wire-rimmed glasses, and basic T-shirt and jeans. But I knew that she hid a quiet prettiness behind that camouflage; it was just that she hated any kind of attention, even the positive variety.
“I think the bell’s about to ring, Ellie,” she said. Our first class was AP English, and rumor had it that the tough Miss Taunton was a stickler for timeliness.
Before I could respond, Missy swatted her hand in the air. She said to her little audience, “Did you guys hear something?”
The other girls snickered. I shot a quick look at the unchar-acteristically quiet Piper. I didn’t expect Piper to defend Ruth, but I was happy to see that she didn’t chime in.
“No?” Egged on by her friends’ laughter, Missy batted the air and continued with her little charade. “Must be some nasty fly.”
“What did you just say to Ruth?” I said, unable to keep the anger from my voice, which only made me really mad at myself. Missy’s clique delighted in belittling those who could not—or would not—wear the “right” skinny jeans or date the “right” senior jocks. The bigger the reaction, the better. I didn’t like to satisfy them—or feed their little games—with any sort of reaction. Particularly since Ruth was plenty capable of defending herself in the classroom and in the hallways, if she so chose. And today, she did not so choose.
Missy waved her hand around again, and this time, it nearly brushed up against Ruth’s cheek.
I felt anger sweep over me like a wave, something I’d promised my peace-loving mom to avoid ever since I got into a nasty argument this summer with a spiteful member of our mission. I sensed my fair skin turning a fiery red and experienced the oddest sensation of my shoulder blades lifting and expanding.
Without thinking, I grabbed Missy’s wrist. Suddenly, the school hallway faded away, and I got a vivid flash of six-year-old girl Missy as if I were her. She stood at the edge of the pool at the posh Tillinghast country club she so often bragged about. In the image, a group of boys and girls teased her about her buck teeth and knock-knees. Missy turned around, looking for the protection and consolation of her mother. Her mother was indeed watching. But rather than answer the call for help in her daughter’s eyes, she gripped her gin and tonic and walked over to her own gaggle of friends, many of whose children were teasing Missy. Her mother kept pretending she’d never seen the weakness in Missy’s eyes. In that very moment, the young Missy promised herself to never show that weakness again. She vowed instead to create that weakness in others, to make others buckle at her feet.
I started to get another, more recent, image. Missy was locked in a tight embrace with a guy. Looking through Missy’s eyes, I couldn’t see the guy’s face, but I could hear his low, gravelly voice whispering in her ear. At first, I couldn’t make out his words, but I could feel the warm, feathery sensation send shivers down Missy’s spine. Then the words became more distinct, and I swear he said, “Ellie.” But the guy could only know my name from Missy, and why would she bother to talk about me?
Lost in that thought, I was jarred back to reality by Ruth, who was trying to pull my hand off Missy and whispering, “C’mon, Ellie, she’s not worth the bother.” The image disappeared as quickly as it came, bringing me back to the horrible, and very real, teenage Missy. Yet, of the two images, the childhood scene remained so real to me that I felt Missy’s six-year-old feelings and thought her six-year-old thoughts as if I were the six-year-old Missy, and I experienced a deep sense of pity for her.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had this kind of flash, as I’d come to think of them. They’d been occurring more often since my sixteenth birthday in June, although they usually didn’t amount to much. Usually, they showed me what people had for lunch or told me what they thought of their friends’ outfits. In the beginning, I thought my imagination was just going into overdrive, but it wasn’t long before I realized that what I was hearing and seeing in my mind wasn’t made up. It was true. One of the first times it happened, I imagined the girl sitting behind me in Spanish class was wondering about whether to break up with her boyfriend, and then a few seconds later she turned to her friend sitting next to her and asked about that very thing. But who could I tell without getting locked up for delusions?
Despite Ruth’s attempt to pull me away, my grip on Missy’s wrist tightened as my feelings about her swung wildly between sympathy and rage. She didn’t move; I guess she was too stunned by my action to lash out with one of her usual barbs or even yank her hand away. We stood frozen until I felt Ruth’s hand forcibly pry my fingers off Missy’s wrist and lead me away.
“What were you thinking, Ellie? You know I can take care of myself with those idiots,” Ruth whispered as she pulled me toward our classroom. I could tell she was mostly mad that I’d put myself in jeopardy; Ruth was very protective of me.
“I’m sorry, Ruth, I know you can. I really don’t know what came over me,” I whispered back.
We grew silent as we wove slowly through the crowded hallway. I felt someone staring at me, and I turned, hoping that it wasn’t Missy or her crew behind us ready to retaliate.
It wasn’t. A tall, impossibly blond-haired guy was leaning against a door frame, watching me. He smiled a wry smile as though he’d seen the whole scene with Missy and company, even though he couldn’t possibly have witnessed it from his vantage point. He wasn’t traditionally good-looking, but he seemed older than the average high school guy. His body language was comfortable in a way that I’d never seen before in the other guys. I usually hated arrogance. But this was something else. He had an easy confidence that I was surprised to find instantly attractive. I felt certain that I didn’t know him—an oddity in the town where I grew up and where I recognized pretty much everyone.
The bell rang. “Oh my God, we can’t be late on the first day with Miss Taunton,” Ruth said and picked up the pace. I let her drag me away from his penetrating gaze. And away from my own pounding heart.