I Dream of Angels Pt. 01

I was lying in bed, holding a joint the size of a cigar. I had bought all the weed I could off that Mike guy and told him that he had better have more when I came back. If I was going to blow my savings on pot, I might as well get some customer service. I always had a few hours to myself after every school day, my siblings would be hanging out with friends or be playing sports and my parents would be at work, leaving me with the house.

Lighting up one end of the joint, I took a deep puff and immediately began coughing and hacking. Ok, maybe I should take it slower...

I began getting into more fights at school. Quite simply, I was done with the bullshit. If anyone insulted me, gave me lip, or got on my bad side, I did not hesitate to throw a punch. I was going to die soon so there was no reason to give a fuck about anyone or anything I decided I might as well deal with old business while I still had time. A lot of people had made my life a nightmare and I was paying them back. I received my fair share of injuries, I was often sporting a black eye, busted lip, or bruised face, but as long as I didn't suffer a seizure during a fight, I normally won. I guess that was one advantage of full-body endless pain: your enemies can't do anything to make you hurt anymore than you already are.

The school tried to ignore my actions, or at least punish me lightly. Each altercation earned me a couple days suspension, but they didn't have the nerve to go any farther. The school system and I had bad history, and they certainly had a lot to apologize for. My parents were the same, putting up a false front of condemnation while being unable to gain the courage to punish me. They knew that I was self-destructing, acting out to try and cope with my pain. It was the only thing I could do.

It was the day before Thanksgiving and my relatives were expected to arrive in less than an hour. They all knew that I had cancer and I was not looking forward to some sappy family reunion. I walked to the door and grabbed my coat. "I'm going out for a walk."

"But everyone is going to be here in just a few minutes!" my mom called from the kitchen, working feverishly to make a big dinner.

"Exactly. Could you do me a favor and tell them to act like I don't have cancer?"

Before my mom could reply, I stepped outside and into the bitter cold. There was no wind, but the air was frigid and raw. The air was clear, showing a pale blue sky as the sun slowly drifted towards the horizon. The surrounding area was a mix of thick woods and marshy fields, the brown landscape now painted white. I started walking down the side of the road, not caring where it took me, even though I knew exactly where it led. The sand and gravel on the side of the road was filled with garbage, from beer bottles to empty cigarette cartons. The cars that drove past me hit me with a sudden breeze, like a last dying breath. The raw frigid air, the bleak landscape, the taunting drones of cars driving by, and the trash around my feet was both comforting and depressing. The cold helped ease my chronic pain and the barren scenery made me feel more at home, but with each empty cigarette carton I kicked aside and each car that broke the silence, I was reminded of how alone I wanted to be and how much I couldn't be.

I soon arrived at the wooded park down the road from my house, but I wasn't ready to go home yet and I needed a break from the cars and the road. There was no one else around; even a member of the most bitter and chaotic family would choose to remain home rather than be subjected to this bitter cold and wind. I entered the forest, following the footprints of dogs and their owners, lightly covered by a sprinkle of fresh snow from the night before. As always, my thoughts were on my own mortality, as I tried to figure out how much time I had left. I should probably start making a will for when my body gives out and I at last achieve death, but what did I want?

I came to a stop, my eyes wide, my breathing shallow, staring at the creature before me. Resting against a fallen tree to get out of the wind, a coyote lay on the cold ground. Its chest heaved slowly, causing the dried blood around the bullet wound in its side to crack. Almost every night, the coyotes could be heard yipping and howling in the farthest reaches of the forest, but this was the first time I had seen one up close. From the looks of it, it had probably wandered onto someone's yard and the property owner shot it to make sure no others came by. From the coagulation, it had likely happened the previous night, but from the placement of injury, it was probably still bleeding internally and had organ damage. The fact that it had been able to limp this far into the woods was a miracle.

I approached the wounded animal, slowly, but without fear. Right now, it was at its most dangerous, but what was the worst it could do to me? Bite my hand? I wasn't sure I'd even feel it. The coyote looked up and gave a soft growl, but was too tired and cold to even show its teeth. I crouched down before it and reached out. It tried to bite me, but its fangs missed and I managed to rest my hand on the top of its head. Knowing it could not keep the bluff up any longer, it laid its head back onto the cold ground and waited for death. I brought my hand to its chest, feeling its desperate breaths and its feeble heart beating.

Too tired to move its head, the coyote shifted its gaze upwards, looking past me. I followed its eyes to the barren tree branches above, contrasting against the evening's pink sky. For all I knew, this creature and I were thinking the same thing. Would I ever see green leaves on those branches again? Or would this be my last winter? Would I die, miserable and in pain, or was there even a glimmer of a chance for me to live my life without hiding from the world? Would the day ever come when I too can bask in the sun?

Solemnly, I reached in my pocket and pulled out my Swiss Army knife. I couldn't leave this animal here to suffer. I had to put it out of its misery. I folded out the knife and put the tip to the back of the coyote's spine. I hesitated, spending another minute looking into its eyes and feeling its body tremble. I had never killed an animal before, not counting the one or two mice I had run over when I was learning to drive, but this thing was much bigger than they were.

"You and I are exactly the same. The only differences are that you probably want to keep living... and I wish someone would be merciful enough to do this to me."

Taking a deep breath, I forced the blade into its neck, severing the nerves as best as I could. Its body gave the smallest twitch and then everything became still and its eyes closed. I stayed there a little while longer, feeling the heat slowly leak from its body. I reached behind it into the crater of dirt of the uprooted tree and grasped a small handful of icy soil. I rubbed it between my hands, letting it thaw so that the smell of the nutrients could slip free. I stared at the dirt, moving it around to separate the minerals from the decaying matter, and then sprinkled it on the slain animal. Soon, I would die, just like this coyote, and I would return to the earth, just like everything else. For the first time in a long while, I actually smiled, knowing what I wanted. I wanted to be buried, but without a coffin, and certainly without being embalmed. I wanted to embrace my death, not hide from it in a pine box while noxious chemicals keep me from rotting. I wanted to feel the soil on my face, to be enveloped by the earth, and maybe have a tree planted over my grave. At least then, the worms and the plants would get more use out of my body than I ever did.

I wiped my hands off on the coyote's fur and then stood up. It was time to go home.

I stepped through the front door of my home and was instantly bombarded by hugs and greetings from my relatives: cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and everyone else. I could sense the awkwardness underneath their words as they asked how tall I was and all of the other cliché inquisitions.

"Dinner is ready!" I heard my mom call from the kitchen.

I had no appetite.

"I'm just going to go to bed."

Before anyone could even try to stop me, I went upstairs and into my room. I moved to my bed, wincing as my muscles became more and more sore. I lied down and let my aching body settle.

"Please, just let me sleep and not wake up."

"Why can't I hear your name?" I asked, speaking to the girl while the hallucination would let me.

Having already gone through the recorded movements and actions, the girl opened her eyes and gazed at me with her usual warm smile, while almost laughing in a gentle hum.

"Are you even real?"

"Does it matter if I am real or not?"

Hearing her speak warmed my heart with the possibility that maybe she wasn't just a figment of my imagination. "Yes, no... I'm not sure."

The girl then moved closer to me, closing the gap between us and reducing it to a few unbearable inches. "If I don't exist, if I am just a creation of your own mind, then you should be happy. If it is you who created me, then I am always with you. I am wherever you want me to be and you just have to wish it."

I put my hand over my face and rolled onto my back, having suddenly felt my eyes watering up. Every word that passed from between her beautiful lips was a shock to my very soul, like the ending of a beautiful book.

"No, that's not good enough. I need you with me. I need you to be real. I don't know why, I just need—"

I was silenced, my whole body brought to a complete stop by the sensation of the girl leaning over and pressing her lips against my own. I moved my hand away from my eyes, in complete and utter disbelief. This was the first time I had ever been able to touch her, and that first touch was expressed through my first kiss. Her face, so close to mine, I could see every single detail of her visage and saturate myself with her rosy aroma. The sensation of her lips against mine, it went beyond just canceling out my pain, it made me feel... good. I felt happy, euphoric, like I had just been working for three days straight and was settling into a hot tub. Her lips were so soft and warm, but also carrying a gentle flavor. It was like I was kissing a wisp of steam from a cup of tea.

The girl eventually broke the connection and we stared into each other's eyes. She then sat up and moved on top of me, her hands pushing down on my shoulders and her long crimson hair hanging down around our faces like a curtain, seceding the space between us from the outside world and making it all our own. Staring at her full breasts and feeling the smooth lips of her pussy rub up against the shaft of my hardening penis (with only the fabric of my boxers separating them) was driving me wild with hormonal lust.

In all honesty, I hadn't been this aroused in months, I could literally feel the blood pumping furiously through my body and firing up the long-dormant parts of my brain that I had ignored for so long. But beyond her beauty, beyond her naked body resting on mine and making me hornier than ever in my life, the greatest feeling was her weight on me. It was real. I could feel her pushing down on my shoulders, sitting on my lap. I could even hear the springs of my mattress creak beneath us. This weight was real, it had to be, and that meant she was real.

"You need me to be real because you need to believe that there is some aspect of this world that can make you happy, that there is at least one person who can take away your pain. But if I am just a creation of your own mind, then you should be overjoyed. It means that you hold the key to your own happiness, and wherever you live, no matter how you live, you can make it paradise."

The words were whispered and her face was lit with tender care and love. The girl then leaned down and settled herself on top of me like a cat, her chest pressed against mine and her face buried in the side of my neck. Her body, it was so warm and soft, I was completely at a loss for words on how to describe it. All I could do was wrap my arms around her womanly frame, hold her tight, and cry tears of joy. I didn't care, real or not, she was here with me, and that was all that mattered. Whether she was some sort of angel from heaven or just a figment of my imagination, as long as she was with me, I'd be happy.

"Marcus, come on, it's time to wake up. You've been in bed for too long," my mom said, knocking on the door.

At the sound of the doorknob shaking, I turned with fear in my eyes. "No, don't. Please, not yet."

The handle was fully turned, and just as the door began to move, the girl disappeared, leaving me alone once again. My mom just stood in the doorway, looking at me and wondering why I was crying.

Even if my dreams had now reached new levels of depth and I could interact with the girl more than I had ever hoped, that didn't help my daily routine. In fact, it made it worse. Spending every second longing to go back home and go to bed so that I could wake up beside that girl, my life became even more miserable. Everything that made my day difficult became horrible, and everything that had never bothered me before was now a curse, as it required time and stood in my way. Add that to my continuous pain and my multiple daily seizures, and each day went from being an endless hell to a taunting deprivation of the one light in my hellish life.

Such lively contact like that special night before was rare and not often repeated. The girl still appeared every morning for a few minutes, but I could rarely do anything more than touch her gently with my hand. Going further would cause her to disappear. She never spoke much, only when I said something to her or asked her questions, and even then, her answers were simple and often repeated. Regardless, just waking up next to her each morning was enough to get me through the day, but barely.

While my visions of the girl seemed to mature, every night, I dreamt about that star, the star being devoured by the black hole in its core, the star sitting in a nebula looking like the eye of God. I could feel myself drawing closer and closer to the black hole in the center, being pulled in towards my death. The closer I got, the larger the celestial mass became, surpassing my human comprehension. Yet strangely, after that night, while my increasing proximity continue to expand my view of the star around it, the black hole was actually shrinking like a contracting pupil. It was as if the black hole was sizing itself to correspond with my distance from it.

December was exceptionally rough, quite simply because I had decided to try chemo and radiation treatment for my cancer. Well, to be honest, my parents basically coerced me into doing it and making me feel guilty if I refused. They wanted me to live no matter what, so the only way to throw off their suspicions that I was eagerly awaiting death was to feint hopelessness and fear towards the treatment. I eventually agreed to treatment under one condition: if I didn't see any results before New Year's or I started losing my hair, I was going to quit. I didn't have high expectations, but I would do it to get my parents off my back.

On my first day of chemotherapy, I found myself in a room with other cancer patients, all sitting in chairs lining the walls. Each one was hooked up to an IV, and their stages of treatment were all visible on their emaciating bodies. Considering the time it took for each session, everyone had methods of keeping boredom at bay. There were laptops, handheld game consoles, books, and one of the kids was even playing with a Rubik's Cube. I sat by the window, letting the poison run through my veins. I was also receiving a heavy dose of morphine, helping to numb some of my pain. Hopefully I wouldn't have a seizure in the hospital. The last thing I needed was some intern right out of med school sticking a tube down my throat.

Drowsy from the drugs running through me, I let my mind wander. My thoughts drifted back to the girl and what she had told me. She said that if she wasn't real, if she was just a figment of my imagination, then I could call on her whenever I needed. Maybe it was something I should try. I closed my eyes, forcing aside all distractions and sensations. I focused my mind on the girl, but was unsure of what would actually bring her forth. If I just thought about her, would she appear in this room with me? Should I try and fall asleep and dream about her?

Slowly the sounds of the other patients faded, the world falling silent around me. But I was not alone. I felt someone gently grasp my hand and opened my eyes, staring into the beautiful blues of the girl. She was kneeling at my feet, naked as always. Behind her, the chemotherapy room had blurred into an unrecognizable collage, as if I was falling out of sync with reality.

"Marcus, my dear sweet Marcus..." she whispered, resting her head on my lap.

I slowly reached out and placed my hand on the top of her head, stroking her hair. "You're really here," I gasped in amazement.

"Of course I'm here; I'm always with you. Marcus, I'm so proud of you, for everything you've endured. Your patience will be rewarded, I promise you. Just hold on and I will bring you happiness."

"What am I supposed to wait for?"

"The day when our souls can finally achieve convergence."

I then jerked in my chair, having been awoken by the nurse. I had slept through the treatment.

Christmas and New Year's came and went, and I was happy to see them go. I hated the holidays; all of the cheer and happiness made my organs fail. With the start of the New Year, I had the doctors check my condition and see if any progress had been made on my tumors. After a month of radiation and chemo, I had figured at least a slight change would be found. No. There was nothing. They had resisted the treatment and I was stuck where I was.

Each day, my pain was getting worse, and I found myself taking more and more pills than I was supposed to, both painkillers and anti-convulsion meds in an attempt to curb my seizures. Originally, I would take two painkillers every four hours and one anti-convulsion med every six, but now I was downing them like tic tacs. My body was weakening, but in a way, that was a good thing. I was close, so close. Soon I could rest in peace.

"Twenty bucks for a dose, and I'll give you an extra ten for a clean needle and to help me set up. My hands are too shaky for something like this," I said, standing in an alley in town.

The sky above was gray with a gentle snowfall pouring down on the dealer and I. Luckily, the café to our right kept us out of the wind. The man before me looked to be in his late twenties, unshaven with deep distrust in his eyes. I was a new customer to him, and normally he would have turned me away on instinct, but luckily I looked sick enough to pass for a hardened user.

"Let me see your hands."

I held them up, letting him see them tremble. With every nerve ending in my fingers firing, my hands were shaking so badly that it looked like I had MS.

"All right, fine. You're in luck, kid. I just got some brand new syringes yesterday and I've got one left."

He looked around to make sure we wouldn't be seen and then took out his merchandise. Filling up a spoon with heroin, he clenched the handle with his teeth and used his hands to hold a lighter and protect the flame from the wind. Slowly the powder melted into its liquid form, and before it could cool, he unwrapped an unused syringe and filled it with the drug, finishing by handing it to me in exchange for the cash.

"Tch, luck. If luck were on my side today, this needle would end up killing me."

With the dealer leaving, I sat down on the cold wet ground, pulling up my sleeve and looking for a vein. It certainly wasn't hard; my skin was as thin as paper and my arteries were all swollen from malnutrition and the strain of my disease. I pushed the needle into my arm, not even feeling it amongst the billions of other painful pricks tormenting my body. I hesitated with my thumb on the plunger, wondering if this was really the route to take. My life was already cut short and the chances of there being a cure for my pain were slim, but did I really want to further burden myself with even a single injection of this toxin and risk developing an addiction? After all, the pot had been a dismal failure. What chance did heroin have of helping me? I concluded my hesitation with a laugh, deciding I didn't have much to lose.