The End and The Beginning

The glowing red numbers on the digital clock on the book shelf read 10:30 pm.

The prowler stepped quietly around Rick’s darkened basement bedroom and rifled through his dresser drawers, pulling socks and underwear to the side with his gloved hands.  He then moved to the closet where he fingered each one of the pockets of the hanging shirts and pants and peeked up at the top shelf and bumped the boxes on the floor with his dirty boots.

With his head on his pillow, Rick watched the shadowy figure.  He tried to control his breathing and mimic what he thought was a normal sleeping rhythm.  What was this joker looking for?  Drugs?  Cash? Good luck with that buddy.  No and no.

Having used it many times himself for his own late night adventures, Rick knew the man must have slipped in through the window above the washing machine in the next room.  He chided himself for leaving the window ajar.  How could I have been so stupid?

The man grabbed a framed picture of Megan from the top of his book shelf.  He held it with his right hand and ran the index finger of his left over her dimpled cheeks.  Put it down, you jerk.  With an audible sigh, the intruder put the picture back, face down.

Rick followed him across the room with his eyes.  The man pulled open some boxes that were stacked on the floor by the lamp.  He reached into his coat pocket and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he flipped open a knife.  The sharp pop of the knife point plunging into the tape that secured the flaps of the box startled Rick slightly.  If he wasn’t faking sleep, he would have woken up by now.

“Rick!” his mother called down.  “Can you bring the wash when you come up?”  She paused as if waiting for his answer.  He heard the wooden steps creek as she shifted her weight at the top of the stairwell.

The thug instantly rose with his blade at the ready.  With swift movements, he stepped back to the left side of Rick’s bedroom door and waited.

He heard his mom descend a few more steps.  “Do you hear me?” she waited, “Or is this more of your silent treatment?”

The next wooden step squeaked under her slippers.  Then another.  The intruder put his left hand on the door knob and leveled his knife hand at the opening as if he were readying himself to lunge out and strike her before she reached the door.

“FINE!” she called out.  “You can’t hate me forever, son.”

I don’t hate you, mom.  Rick instantly wish he could take back the words that she last heard from him.  He regretted the anger, the force in which he kicked the end table before he stomped back downstairs to his room.  It was just a car, after all, and just another Friday night.

Rick swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  His muscles tensed as he prepared to knock the intruder away from the door.  He decided to worry about the knife after he warned his mom.  Roughly the same size as the man, surprise would give him the upper hand.

His mom descended another step. “Ricky?”

The intruder turned the knob slowly with his thick gloved hand. 

“Mom!  Get out of the house!  Now!“  Rick bolted from his bed.  When his feet hit the carpet, he felt immediately off balance and clumsy, like his equilibrium was thrown off.  Keeping his legs churning, he dove toward the dark figure in an attempt to tackle him football-style.  Rick’s body slammed into him at full speed.  The killer never turned around.

Dizzy from the collision, Rick looked up at him from the floor.  He still clutched the door knob.  The blade still gripped tightly in his fist.  All he had to do was push the door open and attack.

Rick’s mom went down another step.  “Answer me.”

“Get out of here, Mom!” he shouted from the floor.  The man did not flinch or even notice him. 

Rick kicked his bare foot out and connected solidly with the man’s knee.  The man's lower half was solid as if he had two columns of cement in his jeans.  He kicked again, sadly, with equal success.  The thug’s concentration on the middle-aged woman coming down the stairs could not be disturbed.

Rick cursed out of sheer frustration.  Confused and exhausted, his hands slapped his forehead and slid down the sides of his face.  His cheeks were moist with tears and sweat.  Please.  Please.  Please, Mom, go back upstairs.  Leave, leave the house.  Why can’t you hear me?  Oh, God, please.  Listen to me, Mom.  I love you.  Go.  Go, go, go.

Rick and his uninvited guest waited for her next move.

“This isn’t the end of this young man!” she called out.

Out of the silence, a voice called, “She is correct.”

“What?”  Rick looked to the corner of the room where the voice seemed to emanate.

“I said that she is correct,” responded the same gentle voice  “This is the beginning.”  A small triangle of light floated in the corner of the room where Rick continued to stare.  Pulsing rythmically, it grew larger and larger.  He felt the golden glow hit his face.

“What the . .? “

“Shhh.  Listen,” said the voice.

Rick held his breath as he was bathed in the warm light.  Then, clear as day, he heard his mother take the steps back up to the main floor of their home.  As the son sighed in relief, the man relaxed and left his post at the bedroom door.  He searched the boxes more.

The light grew brighter, illuminating the entire room in golden beams of warmth.  Oddly enough, the brightness didn’t make him squint or even shield his eyes.  Rick looked straight into the triangle until he saw a figure emerge.  Cloaked in a streaming white robe, the being was faceless.  If it had arms, they were folded and covered by the robe.  It floated about two feet above the floor.

“I have come to bring you home.”

“Huh?”  It was all Rick could think to say.

“Your earthly form has betrayed you.”  The figure gracefully extended a white cloaked arm toward Rick’s bed.  “You are ready.”

At this point, doubting that he was actually awake, Rick glanced in that direction from the floor.  On his still wobbly legs, he fought to balance and rise to a standing position.  He saw the large lump under this blankets.  He tentatively stepped forward.  The lump had a face.  Rick’s face.

The eyes stared upward, as if they were examining the tile of the drop ceiling.  Blood dripped from the corners of the mouth and was smeared on the cheeks.  Below the chin, Rick could see that the throat had been cleanly sliced open.  A flood of red had poured down the sides of his neck and soaked the sheets.  His hand instantly shot up to inspect the flawless skin that covered his adam's apple.

“Fear not.  It is only your earthly form.”

The killer tore into another box.  Then emptied the bookcase by Rick’s night stand.  He completely ignored the dead body.

Rick studied his corpse.  “So you‘re an angel?”

“I’ve been called that.  But I am not important.”

“Why me?”

“You know the answer to that question, Richard.  Because you know Him.”  The angel presented two prefect hands, palms up.  "You've known Him all your life."  The angel reached out to him and said sweetly, "Take my hands.  It is time."

The killer kicked the last box and cursed as he overturned the small bookcase.  He scanned the ransacked room.  The closet.  The dresser.  The boxes.  The body.  Appearing agitated, frustrated, he spat another string of curses and reached into his pocket again, pulling out his blade.  He chopped at the wood of Rick's dresser with the ugly edge.  The killer groaned with each sharp hack.

Rick watched and looked back to the set of flawless hands.  How soft they looked.  So warm.  He felt the urgent pull of another home.

"Richard, why do you hesitate?" the angel asked without a hint of frustration.  It asked in a way that was hardly a question at all, as if it already knew the answer.

The killer continued to chop at the dresser.  Occasionally, bits of painted wood shot into the air. Hack, hack, hack.

“Angel, am I the only one leaving tonight?”

The killer eyed the ceiling as he drove his blade into the dresser surface.  His hands shook as he pulled it out then stabbed it in a second time harder, sinking deeper into the wood.  His breathing accelerated into heavy huffs now, exhaling through his nostrils. 

The faceless one said, “No.”

The madman reached for the door and violently yanked it open, disappearing through the doorway into the washroom.  Rick dove forward and clumsily bounced off the threshold.  The man's boots thundered up the steps to the main floor.  Rick clawed his way forward.  The killer’s feet were more and more out of reach with each stride.

Rick stopped climbing halfway up the stairwell.  The angel looked up at him from the bottom.  Same peaceful gaze.  Two white hands extended.  Exhausted, Rick knelt on the steps, feeling the urge to cry less and less.  With his links to this world slowly fading away, he asked,  “Angel, does she know Him?”

The faceless one responded, “You don’t know?”

Two seconds later, his mother screamed, but Rick wasn’t there to hear it.



THE END