Deus Intus

Deus Intus

Her name is Helena. She talks to angels. They answer.

Dull, rainy days come easy in Brickstown, but this one can be attributed to sympathy; there was a hurricane tearing through the south and our storm was merely showing its concern with a steady, chilling drizzle.

With that, I believe, we have the makings of a story, a bit of environment, and the compulsory dramatic tagline letting you know someone’s going to be sporting a few new scars after this is finished; presumably the first character you meet. This one actually starts off with my little sister Anya, who escapes with no discernable marks or flaws. Sorry to disappoint.

Anya was a fascinated creature, yes “fascinated,” and with everything. “Because,” was never answer enough for her. I swear, she’d stare for hours at two monarch butterflies, trying to sketch their wing designs and map the differences. She was always doing weird stuff like that. On the occasion that I would question her actions, she’d merely say she was seeking the answer to life; fair enough. I guess she figured it out, because she is a psychologist up in Baltimore now; she must have some of the answers.

Anyway, back to the tale at hand. I’m sure by now you think I’m just rambling to fill up space, “We want Helena,” and all that jazz… well, we’ll get to her soon enough. You’ll be glad I waited.

Anya only read two kinds of books: whack-job existentialist novels about how everything is interconnected in nothingness, and obscure, off-the-wall science fiction stories featuring multiple layers of plot and sub-plot; not to mention a healthy dose of social commentary. Like I said, she was a fascinated creature.

Helena’s story, and my involvement therein, can be traced back to a specific passage in one of Anya’s science fiction books. It was a fairly new release, the first, ambitious work from some eighteen-year-old fresh out of high school. I had read the synopsis a week or two earlier, some bit about a renegade angel, and differing responses of three guys to similar situations. Kids need to learn to wait thirty or so years before they start writing about pain and heartache.

The passage in reference here detailed a man’s reaction to the discovery that his sister was murdered. Here’s a clipping for you unimaginative types:

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From Sleep into Madness: BIRTH OF AN ANGEL

Godspeed my wish, to find your lips and find these days finished; a satellite of conscience, unbroken chain of memories to guide you from sleep into madness. Turn in sight with pleading eyes to cry soundless ‘Love!’; it will not be had.

Petro shuffled his feet on the torn concrete steps where he rested. Straining under the weight of his thoughts he slowly lifted his burning eyes to the mocking sunset. Beneath the horizon and clouds the light could sleep, Petro was not so fortunate.

Haunted, her voice and vision mock my endeavors to bring closure this war. The Pariah was a failure; carry their bodies to be burnt for their sins, as they burned for his sins. A path un-tread in years for the strength to remake what is left, all this sacrifice for one star soon to burn black at the birth of the Son of Apollo. Dear Orpheus, this is where I begin. Shred the wings of that in my way.

Petro slowly reached up towards the fading light of Deos and grasped at the sun, blocking its light with his clenched fist.

Soon Sunday, I’ll be the meteor…

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Crazy stuff, and of course Anya picks up on the phrase “birth of an angel” like deciphering it is going to give the meaning of life she’s been searching for. It did for Helena at least.

Helena was Anya’s age, and would have been in her class, I assume, had she not been home schooled. She had an eerie beauty, or at least showed promise of it. Her eyes had this way of boring into you, like you were all she could see. She always kept her hair down, and it billowed around her face on windy days, sending jet black tresses waving through the air like pennants on some medieval castle. Majestic, really, she was majestic.

The two met at church, Helena’s family were devout Catholics. We were… Catholics. Religion wasn’t something we discussed all that often. Sure, we’d say the Rosary on Christmas Eve, and a Hail Mary on Easter for my grandmother who passed away before Anya and I were born, but we weren’t exactly your model religious family.

I know I’m building this up like the church is going to be some big, instrumental factor in this story… well I’ll put your mind at ease, we’re finished with it. Honestly, I went only to meet Helena, and once I had accomplished that I had no more use for the place. We can move on now.

I think the benefit of our youth is that we skipped over the formalities. We were in love, and that was that. A lot of our time together was spent holding hands and talking about…

[The letter is torn here. A small note is attached to the bottom reading, "The time Helena and I had together remains spotless in my memory... I won't tarnish it by inclusion here." I can tell you the long and short of it... this story is all too familiar. The boy falls in love with his girl... begins to make her more than she is in his sight. In his fervor to gain her favor, he overlooks a lot of warning signs... a lot of signs he should have seen. You see, Helena's situation wasn't exactly stable. Her father had left her mother when Helena was young... as it turned out to drink himself to death within a few years. In lieu of a better method, Helena's shattered mother turned to religion as the be-all-end-all to child raising. In her absence, the forgotten daughter adopted the Bible as parent. God was not some hazy idea to Helena, he was a tangible presence that she could nearly hear if she just closed her eyes... just closed her eyes and listened. At this point in the story we find Helena alone in her world of light and sin; a dead father, a detached mother. Alone... save one boy, who will soon learn that fantasy must remain in the fiction.]

I think phones are really the defenders of sanity in our world. Everyone should talk on phones and never see each other. I think we’d all be a lot happier.

Helena called me… it was a Thursday… she said she had figured out the answer, and that Anya and I should come over. I pulled my little sister out of her book, and we started walking over. I remember trilling my hands across the picket fence on the way to Helena’s, trying to figure out what the question was that she had solved. Anya looked nervous, but she didn’t offer anything up so I didn’t ask. A leaf fell from a tree, autumn was coming, and stuck in Anya’s hair. She walked half the trip before I finally pulled it out for her… something was bothering her, and I should have asked what it was instead of being a self-absorbed kid who probably picked up on less of what was going on around him than a blind man in a hurricane.

I think it was Helena’s mother that finally pushed me over the edge and made me worried; she was drinking… she never drank. As we walked in the door, I could see her in the kitchen… standing completely still, save for the mechanical motion of her arm drawing a vodka straight like a gun to her mouth. She was chanting something rhythmically, possibly the “Beattitudes”, and jerked convulsively, as if out of a trance, when I called her name. “Helena… she…I… I can’t…” she muttered before slipping back into her stupor.

My nerves were screaming as I turned the corner to Helena’s room; it felt like I was drowning in tides of adrenaline. Wide-eyed, obviously delirious, Helena raised her face to mine slowly. “She is inside me… she needs to be free.” I could barely hear her… I was in shock from all the blood. It was everywhere… on the floor, on her bed, soaking her clothes… still running down her arms. Her eyes pleaded at me, “She needs to be free…”

“Helena… no… no, no, no…” I stammered, my mind racing desperately for some way to help her, “What did you do?”

“I had to let her out… she was trapped… don’t you see?”

I opened my mouth, not sure of what I was going to say, but before I could speak Helena’s eyes began rolling back; she was going into shock. Before her knees buckled and drop her to the floor I leapt to her and carefully lowered her down. All across her face and legs there were cuts, some superficial, some gurgling dark blood like gaping mouths. It was her arms that scared me the most though. Long, deep slashes criss-crossed by smaller ones stained the length of both arms. Her breathing slowed, as did the bleeding… and I knew I was about to lose her. “Helena… why?” I begged of her.

“I… am… filled… with… light…” Her eyes closed softly, like an angel… and then, she just stopped breathing.

I bowed my head and prayed for her… prayed that she would be at rest. When I looked up… there was Anya… shaking. “She talked to angels.”



I found out much later, after the funeral, after everyone had gone back to their lives, what had happened. It seems Helena had gradually begun slipping into psychosis after the death of her father, and was hearing voices. The severe religious indoctrination her mother had abandoned her to made it clear what these voices were, angels. Frustrated and tired of her daughter’s claims of speaking to heavenly beings, Helena’s mother had told her that angels spoke only to other angels. I believe that was when we lost her.

Helena knew she was no angel… her daddy wouldn’t have left an angel, momma wouldn’t forget about her if she were an angel. If she were an angel… someone would love her. She kept hearing these voices however… she just knew they were angels… and so she concluded the only other natural thing given her state of mind; there was an angel inside of her, trapped beneath her skin. There was an angel inside of Helena, and she cut it out to set it free… because she couldn’t keep an angel trapped in her suffering any longer.

I believe there was indeed something inside of Helena… but it was no angel. Born from a worthless, alcoholic father who died before she realized his measure, and a mother who hid inside her own hopelessness, was something far to the other end of the spectrum.

We all have to fight our own demons… some of us just don’t win.