Resignation of an Angel

We're working on short stories in Creative Writing. My obsession of late (I go through periods of obsession. For a while it was dragons. Then birds.) is angels, so, naturally, I wrote about angels. 'Course, it didn't start out that way. Initially I thought I was going to write a story about Chinese dragons. Funny how that happens.

But I was lacking in ideas (usually I have a brainful of them), so I decided to go through some old art. Here's what I found:

Angel Pox (Eva). 8.5x11". Graphite on paper. (c) Alexa Ke 2011

Perfect, I thought. Just the right amount of angst to make a good story. So multiple drafts and edits later, here's the story of Eva, a very disgruntled angel.

(As always, this is a working copy, so if you have any edits to make or questions please make them known. :) )

Resignation of an Angel             

            “Today’s my last day!”

            Lucy, absorbed in her work, didn’t hear the announcement until a hand on her shoulder shook her out of her concentration. “Huh?” she said, bewildered, as though she had just been roused from sleep.

            “I said, it’s my last day,” Éva repeated, exasperated. Her robes swished and her wings rustled dryly as she sat across from Lucy. “I finally got the guts to leave. Put in my resignation two weeks ago.”

            “I thought you said you would give it another couple of years,” Lucy said, surprised.

            “I can’t wait that long. This work is driving me up the wall! There’s nothing to do but sort files and run the shredder!”

            Lucy hmmmed. “Well it’s not a prestigious job or anything, but Record work has its perks.”

            “Like what?” snorted Éva.

            Lucy didn’t have anything to say to that, so she hmmmed again. “Have you found a new job yet?”

            Éva’s voice frowned. “I looked around for a while, but with the labor surplus there just aren’t any good jobs anymore. In fact, the only place that’s hiring is Admissions, but they’re even worse than Records! Dealing with all the newly fledged… no. Not for me.”

            “Well, I suppose you could always go into Christmas or Easter Celebration if all else fails,” Lucy said ironically.

            “Yeah. Right. Because you can totally imagine me being a Christmas angel.” The idea was amusing. A chronically apathetic cherub escorting the King of Kings would provide an interesting contrast to the celebrations. “Besides. Joy Larker is head of Celebrations, and that woman is so sweet it gives me a toothache. I’d be out of there before I even got past the doors.”

            Lucy sighed and shuffled some papers. “Well you’ve got to do something, Éva. Maybe you should just stick around here until you’ve got something lined up, otherwise you’ll get Guardianship.” She shuddered. Éva agreed.

            They were silent for a long time; the only sound was the rustling of papers and feathers, clacking typewriters and filing cabinets slamming shut.

            “By the way, your halo’s crooked,” Éva said with a quiet cough to break the silence.

            Lucy blushed. “This darn thing! It won’t stay on straight no matter what I do! And it’s so hard to put on in the dark.” She reached up and adjusted the radiance that floated behind and about her head, but it still tilted off to one side.

            “How do you saints keep those things on, anyway?” Éva asked, trying to carry on the conversation. “My stupid angel’s ring is hard enough to keep straight as it is.”

            Lucy shrugged and the conversation died once again.

            “I just think… There’s got to be something else out there for me,” Éva finally said.

            “Everyone’s got their calling, Éva,” Lucy agreed. “You’ll find yours.”

            Éva’s voice was dark, confused. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean… maybe I’m not meant to be an angel. I just… I’ve changed. There’s nothing left here for me but menial chores and—mediocrity.”

            Lucy’s voice was thin. “What—what are you saying?” She choked, swallowed. “What do you—”

            Éva touched a finger to the Lucy’s lips and leaned close to her ear. “I’ve decided to go away,” she whispered, her voice tremulous, wary.

            “Yes, you said that before—”

            “No. Away from Heaven.”

            Lucy jumped out of her chair and slapped Éva’s hand away from her, scattering paperwork everywhere. “You’re doing what?” she cried.

            The clattering of the typewriters petered out. One last filing cabinet quietly rolled closed. Papers fluttered to the floor. All were listening intently to the scene.

            Éva muttered something. When asked to repeat herself she was no louder, her voice low.

            “Éva.” Lucy’s voice shook like leaves. “What did you say?”

            Éva was silent except for her quiet breathing, which steadily grew louder until she broke out, “You know what? I’m sick of this! Keeping my feelings secret, living a lie. It’s my last day! I can say whatever I want!” She whipped around and faced the crowd of listening angels. “I hate it here! I hate it! I hate this job, I hate this life, and I hate all you! And especially you,” she spat at a shocked Lucy. “I just hate!”

            She brushed away into an office and slammed the door. Just as suddenly the click-clack of the typewriters struck up again, as though Éva’s tirade had been nothing more than a noisy rest between movements of a symphony.

            Lucy stood with her mouth numbly hanging open. Blindly she gathered the scattered files together and set the mess on her desk, then steeled herself and followed Éva.

            Éva kicked a desk, fuming. Through the dark of the room, Lucy reached out for Éva and put a hesitant hand between her friend’s wings, but flinched away. Éva’s skin was ice cold.

            “Éva, are you well? You’re freezing!”

            Éva laughed through her anger. “You really are blind, aren’t you?” Her voice was poison. “I’m just as well as I’ve always been, Lucy. Nothing’s changed. I’ve just finally got the guts to admit it.”

            Lucy grasped for the chair next to her, sat and clasped her hands in her lap. “You aren’t happy here,” she sighed.

            “I never have been,” Éva replied. “Not from my day of fledging. Not ever.”

            Lucy’s was confused. “But that can’t be. A Merciful God would not suffer you to be somewhere you can’t be happy. It’s one of the fundamental laws of Heaven. He should have found you a job you like—”

            “There isn’t a job I like, Lucy,” Éva muttered. “Employment has stuck me in every opening they could find. I even served a Guardianship for a few years. My boy died in a car accident while I wasn’t watching so Employment pawned me off to someplace I couldn’t screw up. Records was my last chance and now I’ve blown it.

            She paused. When she spoke again her voice was distant. “On my day of fledging, while I waited outside the Gates, I looked out to the side, down that little corridor between Heaven and Hell. It looks like it goes on forever, but it has to end somewhere. It has to, doesn’t it?”

            Suddenly Lucy understood: the depression, the chilled skin, the unhealthy rasping Éva’s feathers made as they rubbed against each other. “You—have the Pox, don’t you.”

            Éva hesitated before solemnly answering, “Sinner’s Pox? Yeah.”

            Lucy sucked in her breath, biting back a cry. “But—for how long?”

            “Since day one. My wings came like that, with little black specks all over them. They weren’t noticeable at first, but as time went on the spots got bigger and darker. I didn’t know what to do about it so I just hid it.”

            “How?”

            “I bleach my feathers.”

Lucy flinched, imagining the pain.

“It hurts, yeah. Every movement sets my skin on fire, and I can’t fly anymore, but I have to… I have to do it. In my weaker moments the stains show through, and when that happens I have to pluck myself. Or if I wait long enough the feathers just fall out by themselves. They die once they’re completely black.”

            “Éva—” Lucy choked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you.”

            Éva’s voice was as black as the feathers that stained her back. “There is no helping me,” she said. “There is no hope for a sinner in Heaven.”

            “Why you? You never did anything that bad, did you? Why do you deserve this?” Lucy didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.

            Éva swallowed back the lump in her throat. “When the Admissions officer was weighing my good deeds against my bad, the scales wouldn’t settle between Heaven or Hell. I was nervous and I didn’t want to go to Hell, so I—I begged him to let me in. I promised him I’d be the perfect angel, I’d follow all the rules and make up for my sins. The lines were getting longer and I wasn’t taking no for an answer, so he admitted me, but—I met God on my way in. I couldn’t fool him; He could see every sin like sores on my skin. As punishment for cheating my way in, He gave me this curse to remind me of what got me here, and—I just can’t take it anymore. The pressure. The guilt.”

            “So… you’re leaving?”

            “Yes.”

            Lucy frowned. “But—where will you go?”

            Éva was indifferent. “I don’t know. All I really know is that this Heaven isn’t meant for me. I could go to Hell, or Home, maybe.” Her voice became distant again. “Or maybe… maybe I’ll just toe the line and see where I get. Walk along that corridor for a while, see where it leads. It has to end somewhere. Maybe—I’ll find my Heaven out there, somewhere beyond this, this—black-and-white, Heaven-and-Hell world.”

            She stood, sniffed, brushed off her robes, brushed past a silent Lucy. Hand on the doorknob, Éva turned back to her stunned friend. “I don’t hate you, Lucy. I just… I have to move on, and—saying I hate you makes it easier to leave.” The door creaked open. “I hope the best for you.” Then she was gone.

            “And for you the same,” Lucy whispered, then broke into tearless sobs. Lucy, patron saint of the blind, had no eyes with which to cry.

            A myriad of black-spotted feathers fluttered through the air behind the retreating Éva, who held her head high past the legions of staring eyes. Out the doors, down the steps of the Records Hall, through the gold-paved street; not an eye turned away from the Fallen angel who smiled with freedom.

            Shouldering her way past the bewildered Gatekeepers, Éva hesitated at the Golden Gates. Her once-white wings had been reduced to ashy feathered stubs protruding from her shoulder blades, marking her as a Sinner. But she did not care.

            Slowly she turned to face the awe-struck crowd of angels, a twisted smile gracing her features. Thoughtfully she reached up, grabbed her halo, and shattered it against the pavement.

            With arms held wide open she faced the Gates to embrace Fate, Oblivion, whatever awaited her. They swung open, unleashing a blinding light. Joyfully, Éva stepped through.

            The Gates slammed shut, the light blinked out. Dark fell back to the streets once again like curtains drawn. A single black feather floated to the ground where Éva had stood, spotted with steadily growing white streaks.

EDIT (12/13/11): Updated to a more final draft.