Fallen Angel

Fallen Angel

The cricket bat cracks first at the base of your neck, then across your chest. Another smashes into your back, and that’s the one that sends you hurling to the ground.


You cannot believe that they continue to mock you, this gang of boys, as if bashing you to pieces were not enough to prove their cruelty.


Now, you are spat upon and, though you cannot see what’s happening behind you, you feel a hot wet stream splattering you, drenching your hair. This is your final degradation.


“Dead girl head! Dead girl head!” They scream, push each other, and laugh, kicking at what’s left of you.


You take it all in, but give nothing back.


“Hey there! Stop that!” Adult voices, rushing towards you now, scattering your attackers like gnats in a wind gust.


“Those monsters! Look what they’ve done to her!” You know that voice. She is kind, and favors you, yet she does not lean down to lift you up.


“Well, darling, she was getting old … ” His voice, deep and calm. You stop listening, understanding that he has already cast you aside.


Then, oblivion.


The next thing you know, the youngest of the family members is standing by you, caressing your face and speaking in that sing-song voice of four-year-old girls.


“Our poor angel … our poor angel.” She brushes your face with a tenderness that would make you cry if you were something more than concrete.


You know, at last, what a cheap relic you are, how disposable – stained with damp, every inch of you covered in lichen, bits of dirt, and bird droppings.


“You will come home to my room to live, angel.” She lifts your remains in her arms, and your silence – once a sublime repose – is now an immense regret, a knife cutting clean through a heart you do not have. 





Photo by Sandra Peterson Ramirez.
Text by td Whittle.