The Angels Above

The Angels Above
Walking outside I felt the warm august breeze, blowing gently in from the east fresh and cool on my skin, it was early in the morning, but the world was all ready bustling about, as everybody on my street looked to be going on vacation at the same time.

There were fathers carefully packing pastel and paisley suitcases in the back of rented minivans, to the chagrin of the mothers standing over their shoulders, telling them why a particular one shouldn’t go where he was trying to put it, the kids running around, spending inexhaustible amounts of nervous energy, in anticipation of the trip to come.

As I stood motionless on my front porch, gripping my stained and weary coffee cup, I watched the scene play out as it had year after year, not the same faces as people moved in and out of the neighborhood, but always the same
routine.

Now as I was nearing my eightieth birthday, my vacation days were long behind me, my wife and both my children having been dead for over twenty years now, and in the ensuing yeas I haven’t had the will to travel further then my mailbox, the only thing I knew of the world was from the newspaper which I studied every morning, seeing how each day we were growing closer to blowing ourselves all to hell.

All I cared to do was pass the time by doing crossword puzzles, and writing, my brother had bought me a computer a couple years back, and ever since then I had been putting in between eight and ten hours a day in front of it pecking away.

Once my memory started failing, I had consumed myself to getting everything I could remember, from my first memories when I was a baby, to surviving three wars, written down for posterity.

Now I was on the last couple of years, which were the hardest to put down, in my lifetime I had seen thousands of people who were cut down before they had the chance to make their mark in this world.

But now I was trying to tell the story of three of them, as I started working I had to keep shutting the computer off, until I could regain control of the racking sobs, breaking my soul into pieces.

The deeper I kept digging into those memories, the more depressed I became, so now instead of spending my time writing, I was in the bathroom staring wistfully at all the bottles of prescription pills, or I would wander into the study, and find myself loading the revolver I had kept from the last war.

I knew I needed to talk to somebody, but I couldn’t bring myself to show how weak I was, everybody I knew always looked to me to be their rock to get them through their hardest times, but now when I needed one of them, there was nobody whom I could look to, nobody I could trust.

Last night for the first time in fifteen years, I had gotten drunk.
Today with the hangover still pounding in my head, once I finished my coffee, I was going to tuck my revolver into the light spring coat I was wearing, and then I was going to take a walk down to the park.

Walking back inside my house, I heard the phone in the kitchen ringing, but knowing it was only going to be my brother, he was the only one who called me, I decided to ignore it.

Walking into the study, I pulled the revolver down off the shelf it resided on, and sitting down on the leather couch I kept in there, carefully took the revolver apart, cleaning it, oiling it, making sure it was in perfect firing condition.

Having taken an hour to complete the task; my hands weren’t as nimble as they were last time I had to clean it, once I was satisfied with it, I placed it on the desk, and sat down at my computer to write one last story.
Still listening to the phone ringing incessantly, my brother knew I was home, and I’m sure I was scaring him by not answering, and he had every right to be scared.

I felt better now then I had in a very long time, the thought of death had always used to scare me, but now since I knew it was less then an hour away, I was overcome with a calm peace which had descended over me.

Once I had myself convinced all my business had been taken care of, I loaded one bullet into the chamber of the revolver, tucked it into my jacket pocket, and locked the front door behind me, heading east, into the new sun rising.
The park as I remembered it was two miles down, one of your small local parks, two sets of swings, a rusting hulk of monkey bars, and a small pool for the kids to swim in, and not much else.

When I reached it though, I found out how long I’ve been out of this world, the monkey bars were gone, there was a new Olympic sized pool, complete with diving platforms, a whole section devoted to bright multi-colored swing sets, a monstrous sandbox, picnic areas, it had the works.

Letting out a low whistle as I stood at the head of the street and looked around, where was all this when I was a younger man, I thought.

Taking my time traversing the park, savoring my last minutes on this earth, I debated going for a swim, the pool with its sparkling clear water looked inviting, as I thought about it swimming used to be one of my favorite things to do.

But now I was too old and too feeble, caused by too many years of nothingness, readying myself for the task at hand, I glanced around, finding the spot I needed to set my soul free, looking at a wooded knoll to the west of the park, which seemed like it would be perfect.

My calm peace shattered, since now the hour had come, it was with a heavy heart I walked my final sixty steps. Painfully I put my back to a tree, and slowly slid down until I was sitting on the dewy grass.
Feeling the revolver weighing heavily on my hip, my hands shakily pulled it from its concealment, as I glanced nervously around; making sure nobody had come into the park behind me.

My eyes transfixed on the dull nickel of the revolver, I began praying, praying for my soul to go to heaven, to rejoin my wife and kids watching above me, I prayed to end the suffering I had been feeling, and I prayed for god to forgive me.

Dropping it once when it suddenly became heavy, I picked it up from the grass, the barrel having now grown larger as the cold acidic taste of the metal permeated my mouth.

Closing my eyes I prayed to be saved, as I begun applying pressure to the trigger, feeling it closer and closer and the metal now hot burning my lips, as the tears streamed wickedly down my cheeks.
Still pulling on the trigger, in my mind I saw my wife and children, smiling down upon me, completely in peace I fully depressed the trigger.
Blinded by an explosion of light I felt my head rock back as it slammed into the tree, the pain excruciating.

Lying there waiting for death to overtake me, there was no tunnel, nobody waving to me telling me to come into the light, only pain.

To the world I looked dead, and for most accounts I was, but I could still hear everything going on around me, the birds silenced by the gunshot, were once again beginning to call out to each other, I could hear traffic on the distant highway, and overshadowing it all was where I could feel where the bullet had decimated the back of my skull.

My eyes open, but unseeing couldn’t catch a glimpse of the sun nearing its zenith, it’s light playing off the nickel of the gun lying on my chest, they wouldn’t be able to see another sunset, as the light within slowly fades.
Even though I was willing to die, I was trying to hold onto life for as long as I could, now that it was done, I found myself filled with regret; I had so much more which needed to be done, but I couldn’t see it until now.

As I was laying there the blood turning cold as it ran down the back of my neck, nourishing the life which thrived below me, I thought about my life and how I had always perceived it to be.

Now though as I watched it from the perspective of a stranger, I saw how many opportunities I had been given, which I never saw in life. The path I had chosen for myself dominated my life, even though it meant I shunned my friends and family, until nobody would even speak to me anymore.

Longing now for just one wish, to be able to go back and make amends, for so many wrongs in my life, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to, my book has been written.

But the one I’ve wanted to take back for twenty years would be to go back to the day when I came home early from work, tired and in a foul mood, looking to start a fight, when my wife started in on me about when I was going to fix the garage, mow the lawn, and on and on.

I tore into her with voracity never before seen, and when she ran from the house, the tears streaming down her cheeks, I laughed at her.
But an hour later when the sheriff called, and told me there had been an accident, she had run a red light and was broadsided by another car, she was in the hospital in a coma.

Two weeks later when it was clear she would never again open her beautiful clear green eyes, the doctor told me he would recommend letting her go, that night we both died.

For twenty years I carried the guilt of causing her death, a crime for which there could be no penance.
Until today, an eye for an eye, a life for a life, my sentence has been served.

Feeling the tickling sensation as the bugs began taking root in the gaping wound of my skull, I understood this was fitting punishment, but I still prayed that god had heard my desperate calls, and would open the gates before me, allowing me to ascend to the angels above.

Feeling my energy fading, my brain slowly dying, I wondered what awaited me, was there a heaven or a hell? Was there anything after this life? I always believed there was, but now as I lied there I was beginning to doubt his very existence. If he really was there how could he let me put a gun in my mouth
and pull the trigger?

How could he let me force my wife to kill herself, when she was the one thing I loved and cherished on this earth?

Reviled now at this creature who called himself god, who supposedly loved all of his children unconditionally, how could he turn a blind eye to the evils of man, without intervening, without coming down and teaching us the error of our ways?

Lying there, hating myself, hating my life, and the god who granted it, I realized why he acts the way he does, he lets us have a free hand in life to make our own decisions, and we are so much better for it, the more he would intervene, we would be weak, but this way we have the concept of good and evil, the ability to make our own decisions means the pleasure of enjoying them weather or not they turn out right.

Realizing now as I drew close to death, there was nobody to blame but myself, I only hoped for his forgiveness’, when I kneeled before him.