It was two months to the day since she left that I found him. Months in which the pain, which had at first threatened madness and driven me to mutilate my flesh in the vain hope that the sting of the blade and the flow of blood would bring some relief, had receded to an ever-present ache. I now lived again, in a sense, the ache inside me like the taut strings of an electric guitar, still and silent, waiting for the soft brush of a memory or a glimpse of her to bring forth discordant crashes of pain, which only the sweet emptiness of the opiates allowed me to survive. At first I mistook him for a bundle of rags, a pile of rubbish that had somehow found its way onto the small square of roof outside my window. I almost ignored him and returned to my writing, before a sudden violent shudder revealed that the crumpled thing was indeed alive. Thinking that perhaps some large wounded bird had chosen to share it’s dying hours with me, I climbed out of the window and cautiously approached the filth covered heap. As I drew near, the half-light allowed me to make out some more details. What I had mistaken for rags and sticks was in fact a small boy, no more than nine or ten, huddled in a broken heap on the cold tarmac of the roof.. Beside him lay a shattered pile of wood and string, and from his thin shoulders protruded two bloody stumps. Perhaps the morphine coiling through my veins insulated me from the strangeness of the situation, or perhaps even then I knew him for what he was - whatever the reason, I crouched down next to him and gently gathered him into my arms. He weighed almost nothing, his pale skin was streaked with blood and grime, and he was completely still, except for occasional shudders which shook his thin frame with a violence that threatened to tear him apart. I carried him through the window, and carefully laid him on the threadbare sofa, before switching on the small reading light in order to examine his injuries more closely. He seemed oblivious to me as I unlocked his fingers from his shoulders and laid his arms, which had been crossed over his chest as if in an effort to hold himself together, by his sides. His eyes were bound by a filthy bloodstained bandage which encircled his head. His hair, which appeared black in the light of the lamp, was matted and clotted to his scalp, and in one place at the side of his head, a clump had been torn out completely, whether by his own hand, or by whatever violence had reduced him to this condition, I had no way of telling. Of his wings, for that was what they were, little remained but two shattered stumps of gristle, bone and feather, projecting up and back from his shoulder blades. They were caked in half-dried blood and ichor, and whenever a spasm passed through his body, both stumps would twitch and beat pathetically, as if unaware of the tremendous trauma that they had suffered. I still do not know what motivated me to care for him. His condition aroused little or no compassion in me, whether because he was so obviously something far removed from human, or because my own pain had burned away my capacity for empathy, but I found myself filling a bowl with warm water from the kettle, and took an old white sheet from the airing cupboard, before returning to my find. He had not moved, and he uttered no sound as I tore the sheet into strips, and began to clean the blood and grime from his broken body and the stumps of his wings, before dressing and binding the wounded flesh as best I knew how and turning my attention to his face and eyes. I don’t know what I expected to find as I unwound the long, filthy rag from around his head, but when I finally uncovered the ruins of his eyes, I remember I felt nothing, no shock, awe or revulsion, just an empty coldness to rival the warm nothingness of the morphine. His eyes were gone, or perhaps they had never been. I cleaned the blood and pus away from the ruins of his sockets, and gazed into two pools of liquid emptiness…each abyss seeming to extend to infinity, occasionally pin-pricked by half-glimpses of light, random flashes which did nothing to illuminate the total nothingness, but only served to make the emptiness deeper. I have no idea how long I stared into those holes, but after awhile I returned to my senses, and resumed my task of cleaning and dressing his sockets and face, before tearing a long strip from the bedsheet and binding his head and eyes afresh. That was eight weeks ago. In that time my guest has neither spoken, nor given any indication that he is truly aware of my presence or his situation. He sits crosslegged on the floor in my living room, staring with unseeing, bandaged eyes into the sky beyond my window. He will eat and drink nothing, but for occasional drops of blood that he licks from my wrist when I offer it, and even then, no more than a sip. He will not move – every day I return from my work to find him in the same place, in the same position. His wings, which I had at first hoped would recover, have healed into shiny scarred stumps, studded with occasional feathers, which he pulls out with slow deliberation when they reach a certain length, and arranges in intricate shapes on the floor before him. I have told no-one about him, made no report of my find. The police have no database of missing Gods, there is no incident line for lost angels, and the only one who would understand and could maybe heal us both is lost to me , and so we wait, in silence, for someone who will never come to ease our pain.
I like it. It's got the beginnings of a good story line. Hopefully you can develop a story and go somewhere with this. I'd like to see chapters 2, 3 and 4. Also your grammar and spelling are very good.
Thanks for the kind words, but I don't think there's going to be any more of this. There are three main reasons for this : 1) It was never intended as a story, short, long or otherwise. it was more a kind of...catharsis. Apart from the (admittedly quite important) bit about finding a wounded God outside my window, everything else in the story is absolutely true, almost literally word for word. I wrote it about 4 1/2 years ago after my girlfriend had left me and I thought I was actually going to die of a broken heart. 2) I actually find writing fiction very unsatisfying. It's not for want of ideas or inspiration, but something to do with the fact that once you've got an idea or concept down on paper, it's kind of...dead. It can't evolve or change anymore. It stops being interactive. The most satisfying fiction writing I think I've ever done was back in my very early teens when I was Games Master for a number of roleplaying games that I played with a group of very good friends. I loved writing the various adventures that the group would go on, inventing worlds, characters, monsters, aliens, weird artifacts etc etc...I preferred this because it remained dynamic, interactive, and alive. I've recently got involved in a project to develop some kind of multi-media, interactive, dynamic narrative engine thing, amongst other things...not sure how it's all going to work yet, but I'm quite excited about it. I don't know if all that makes sense...not sure if I explained it very well. Having said all that, I do absolutely love reading, and have done for as long as I can remember I think that's probably why my spelling and grammar are ok. 3) I don't have the patience Thanks again for your comments - they're much appreciated, and if I do go on to write any more, I'll let you know
I'm not sure what you mean by this. What writing does change, once it's written? But anyway, I don't agree that writing is "dead". One mark of good writing is that it can be different things to different people, or at different times. This is probably more true of poetry than of fiction ... but your little story fragment here is a perfect example. Who or what is this boy? Where did he come from? What is the hold he seems to have on the narrator? These questions don't have to be answered literally in the story. They can be left to the reader. That's certainly not what I would call "dead".
From your standpoint, you'll probably be happier with video games and pinball machines than with reading and writing.
I don't think I explained myself very well - for a start I can't stand video games and pinball is just....utterly mindless. I absolutely love reading - It's very rare that I haven't got at least three or four books on the go. When I said that I felt that writing was dead, I don't think I picked my words very well. What I was trying to say is that I'm always left feeling unsatisfied whenever I write something, because...that's it, it's done. I have no desire to re-read it, and the idea/concept, whatever, to me, in the form that I've written it down, ceases to have any interest to me. If other people enjoy it, great, but I've never written anything for other people to enjoy. I agree totally with Caliente - well written stuff can be many different things for different people at different times, or even the same person at different times, and there are many books and stories that I've read many times and enjoyed every time - I just don't feel like that about my own writing.
Very true, but it's never been a driving force behind me writing anything...and I can't see that changing. I do write a lot of notes, short snatches of fiction, bits of blurb and whatnot, but always to clarify or fix something in my own mind....
Okay, now you've got your fallen angel, and the beginning of a story line. Some possibilities: - the narrator nurses the angel back to health, and his wings grow back. One fine morning, the angel is gone. - it turns out that the angel is an angel of death, who goes on to inspire a Khmer Rouge type of movement in England, complete with torture camps. OR, - the angel becomes active in human affairs and helps reconcile the followers of Christianity and Islam, OR, - the angel grows to adulthood, complete with huge wings, and pursues a career as a billboard model for candy bars, beer or Toyotas. Once he gets too old for modelling, he falls on hard times, and can be seen dragging his dirty wings around London's skid row district, begging for food, OR, - the angel is an angel of mercy. He remembers the man who cared for him, and gives him the power of a seer, or helps him find love, or eases his transition to death. OR, - your imagination, your story, you tell us how it all turns out. I think you do have the patience to write this. Think of people posting here and telling you what a great piece it is. (This happens, but posters here can and do say anything.) You won't know if you don't try.
Thanks again for your thought and kind words. I think the "Angel as run down humanity" angle has been done far better than I could by Patrick McGrath...there are a lot of good ideas in what you've written and maybe someone will pick them up and run with one of them, but it won't be me. I really do appreciate the response this story has received here, but I just don't think I can add anything to it myself - when I wrote it, it pretty much dropped into my head, fully formed, as a result of extreme emotional stress...I don't want to go back there. However, the very positive responses I've had to this story have made me reconsider my position on writing fiction...maybe I'll go back over some of my notebooks and see if any of the one or two paragraph "colour pieces" I've written over the last few years could be expanded into anything else... As they say, Watch This Space....
Thanks - the positive response it's received has made me consider adding to it, but I don't think I will - for one thing, I just don't have the emotions that I did when I wrote it originally...plus, I quite like it as it is - it says everything I wanted it to. Anyway, thanks again for the kind words.
