Guardian Angel

Everything has ranges; there is nothing that is absolutely singular and unique. This was something I hadn’t ever really given much thought to. I never took the time to evaluate the differences between an heirloom and a Roma tomato, I just saw them as tomatoes; in hindsight, I should have paid attention to the details.

The day wasn’t different from any other, its name on the calendar was the only proof that the year was marching onward. I woke slowly, eyelids reluctant to open and out of habit I reached out to my left and found – nothing. I turned my head, tousled hair making soft noises against the smooth cotton of my pillowcase, and in the soft morning light that diffused through the blinds and curtains I stared at the empty space beside me.

Alex had been gone for almost seven months, and I had only recently finished donating his things to charity: his clothes, sporting equipment and video games had been delivered to the Salvation Army Thrift Store to be scattered into new homes.

His books were harder to let go of, the books he’d read to me with a different voice for each character as though reading to a child. I would listen intently, his voice like ermine across my cheek, and I found it easy to fall into the story when he helped me feel like I was part of it. It had taken months for me to sort through them, whittling and purging the volumes until I was left with a handful I just couldn’t part with.

Rolling onto my side I buried my face in his pillow, inhaling deeply, trying to breathe in the last trace of his scent hiding deep inside the fibers. I curled myself into a tight ball, unsurprised when tears silently leaked from my eyes and dampened the sheets.

Alex had been on his way home from a business trip, and none of the cliché hazards had fallen in his path: it wasn’t dark and it wasn’t rainy, it was a perfectly bright, warm, sunshiny morning when he’d stopped for gas and was shot dead by a car-jacker. That isn’t a call I’d ever expected to receive, let alone a month before my wedding.

The police had shown me a still photo captured by the gas station surveillance camera of the man who had shattered my life, the black and white image grainy. I didn’t know him, and could make out only that he was tall, thin and was missing his left thumb, and even with such a distinctive feature the police hadn’t been able to match him to anyone in their records. The case went cold and died, just as its victim had.

With a deep breath I pulled myself together, wiped the moisture from my face and climbed out of bed, shuffling my way into the bathroom and under the spray of a hot shower. I let the water run over me, hoping, as I did every morning, it would carry away the overwhelming sense of anger and loss that I had been mired in, and taking comfort in the knowledge that with the passing of each day I sloughed off another layer of pain.

I dressed with little thought, jeans and a non-descript T-shirt that might have been blue, and was thankful I worked in such a casual environment. After a quick brushing of my hair I bound it into a ponytail and called it good, I couldn’t be bothered to apply even a minimum of make-up.

I scooped up my purse as I grabbed my keys and made my way out to my car, starting the motor and pulling into traffic. The drive to the office went by unnoticed, as did the cubicles, meeting rooms and people that filled the five story building. I made my way to my desk and dropped into my chair with a sigh, closing my eyes while I focused on caring about my work.

The hours slipped by in painfully slow ticks of the clock, and it wasn’t until the sound of arguing voices emanating from the reception area filtered through the glass wall into the rear of the office that I realized I hadn’t even gone to lunch yet. I stood slowly, reinforcing the office term “ground-hogging” along with the 50 other people who were all standing up to peer over the cubicle walls.

The man in the lobby was very adamant in his demand to be let in, pounding one fist on the receptionist’s desk and leaning well into her personal space, which she was incrementally losing to him. He suddenly swung his gaze and his eyes locked on me like a missile, the intensity of his gaze actually compelling me to take a step backward.

The receptionist was forgotten as he moved to the locked door, gripping the steel handle and pulling it open. Bits from the lock mechanisms fell to the floor along with part of the doorframe and people scattered like ants. At first I was frozen, his green gaze unwavering as he strode through the aisles, making his way toward me.

My senses finally returned to me and I ran, barreling out a side door and into the hallway, making a quick right and running full out for the stairwell at the far end. I could hear him behind me, his curses audible as the screaming of my co-workers faded away, and our feet pounded against the carpet in almost perfect synchronization.

With a loud curse he seemed to find a supplemental supply of energy and with a burst of speed he hit me from behind, wrapping his arms around me and the force of the blow carried us to the floor. He turned his body as we fell and absorbed the majority of the impact with a grunt, sliding on his back until the stairwell door stopped us.

I struggled within the iron bands of his arms, thrashing and kicking and cursing, but his hold didn’t slip. Bracing his back against the door he pushed with his feet and leveraged us off the floor so we were upright again.

“Damn it, woman,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m not going to hurt you!”

I wasn’t convinced so my thrashing continued until he spoke again, his words freezing me like a puddle.

“Alex sent me, you’re in danger.”

When my body went still he released his hold on me only to grip my shoulders and turn me to face him. A scar lanced across his face from the center of his forehead down to his left earlobe, but it was the green of his eyes and the earnest look in those eyes that drew my attention.

He opened his mouth to speak until the sound of renewed screams filled the air and drew his attention to the opposite end of the hall. I turned my head and stared at the man who erupted into the hallway, his dark eyes locking on us. He smiled a sinister smile at us and waved, the lack of a thumb catching my attention and I gasped.

“Trust me,” said the man who still held my shoulders and before I could answer he had pulled me into the stairwell. I turned and tried to head down, hoping to escape into the street outside, but he grabbed my hand and headed up to the roof.

Our feet carried us toward the edge of the building, the nine-fingered man gaining as he ran after us and without missing a beat my rescuer lifted me into his arms and leapt off the edge. I hadn’t had time to argue, so I simply clung to him, my eyes going wide as huge wings materialized from his back and carried us away, leaving the nine-fingered man scowling on the rooftop.

The man landed in an alley several miles away, the wings fading from sight and I stepped away from him until my back connected with the wall behind me.

“So what are you, some kind of guardian angel?” I asked, eyes wide. He didn’t look like I’d imagined an angel would look, he was rugged and imperfect; I hadn’t thought there would be a variety of angels as there was a variety of tomatoes.

“Something like that,” he said, holding one hand out toward me. There was a promise of safety and information in his bright green eyes, so I slipped my fingers across his palm and followed as he led us out of the alley to get lost in the sea of humanity that filled the city.