Authors: J Bennett
In the empty motel room I pull off my clothes slowly, though
this will be painful no matter how I do it. Then it’s just me: freestyle blood
art on my face, necklaced in bruises, puffy shoulder, purple-blue amoeba along
my back where I hit the tree branch, red-rimmed eyes and mouth open, panting
strangled notes of misery, because I don’t know how I can possibly handle this.
Any of this.
There’s been no sun today or the day before that. I clutch
the sides of the sink, retching up the dust in my stomach. I’m thinking about
Zac Effron grinning down on an empty bed, and the Jonas Brothers jamming with
no one listening.
The shower takes the blood off my skin, and I stay in longer
just to see if it can get anything else out. Afterwards, I sit on the floor of
the bathroom and tear my muddy clothes in half so I’ll never have to wear them
again; decapitate that smiling teddy bear.
The rabbit is smart enough to hide beneath Gabe’s bed. I lay
on mine, keeping my fingers curled tight over the open slits in my hands while
I wait for my brothers and try not to think about anything. I whisper Grand’s
taunt over and over again, the syllables creased and worn with use.
Everything you ever stood for will be
forgotten. I will bury your body so deep in the ground that no one will ever
dig you up. I’ll rid this world of every single one of your angels of death. I
will soak your dreams in blood and burn them to ash. There won’t be a speck of
you left, and the world will be a better place for it. Goodbye Father.
Grand is still out there in the world. Waiting. Plotting. He
followed the boys once, but he must have lost them after the fight. He hasn’t
found us yet, but he’ll try again. Tarren will train me, and I’ll be ready. I
will kill him. I must.
My brothers return together three hours later. I listen to
their car doors open and close. The faint whispers of energy I know so well.
Slow circles for Gabe, twitching for Tarren.
They stand in front of Tarren’s door, and I try to imagine
what look they must be exchanging.
“Get some rest,” Tarren says.
“Yeah right,” Gabe mutters. Neither moves. “Do you think
she’ll be alright?”
Tarren thinks before answering. “She doesn’t have a choice.”
“I guess.” Gabe walks to our door. He pauses, probably
fishing for his key card.
“She’s strong,” Tarren says. “I’m going to find a way to
make it easier for her. For now…just keep being you.”
“Alright,” Gabe says softly, surprised like me. “Goodnight.”
“Get some rest,” Tarren says again. They open and close
their doors together.
I have taken this time to pull the covers up over my body,
to tuck my hands beneath my pillow and close my eyes. I hitch my breath when
Gabe pauses by my bed.
He moves on, and I let my breath out slow. Gabe stays in the
shower for a long time. I listen to the hiss of water, the sound of him
scrubbing over and over. Lady McBeth sits on the sink and laughs.
After the shower, Gabe keeps on his boxers and white
undershirt and tosses the black clothing in the general proximity of his duffle
bag. Sir Hopsalot cannot be induced to emerge from his hideout despite promises
of a bowl overflowing with salad mix. After a half hour online, Gabe shuts down
his computer, runs a hand through his drying hair and turns off the lamp.
We lay in our separate beds staring at different things.
Gabe picks the ceiling, and I choose his energy, watching it tick in agitation
just like Tarren’s. I try to stay as still as the twitching will allow. An hour
goes by, and his energy is still sparking up and down, his heart thumping fast.
I can still smell the bleach on the clothes he was wearing. Blood too. I’m
twitching harder now. Hands sweating under the pillow. The bulbs are out,
pulsing hot. Thoughts coming undone.
“Why do you do it?” I ask.
A sigh. “Do what?” Gabe turns his head in my direction.
“It. This. Hunting angels. Let’s say you do win. Tarren
creates a cure. Whatever. All the angels are back to normal. The world will
still be a violent and ugly place. There will still be gangs and drugs and war.
Bad things will always happen to good people, angels or not.”
Gabe rolls onto his stomach, props himself up on his elbows
so that he can turn toward me. “My father was a geneticist. He helped Dr. Cook
with his research, helped him figure out how to do it. Make angels. He didn’t know,
thought it was all theoretical, but he helped create them. It’s our fault
they’re here, so we have to make it right again.”
“What your father did is not your fault Gabe. You didn’t
even know him.”
“It’s our mission.”
“It’s not your job to save the world. To give up your life
for it. That’s not fair at all.”
“If the angels win, it’s all over. They’ll breed humans for
food or hunt us down like animals. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.” His voice
is rising. “Maya, we save people. That’s worth everything, everything that
we’ve suffered. It’s worth dying for. All that other stuff, gangs and war,
well, I figure those are human problems and humans can solve them.”
“Did Krugal talk?”
In the long pause that follows, Gabe’s energy shivers with
wan yellows. I can almost see the memories playing across his mind, pressing
sharp nails against his psyche.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “There are certain pressure points
on the body. It didn’t take long.”
“And then you killed him.”
“It’s the job,” Gabe whispers, and I’m not sure who he’s
trying to convince.
We are silent a long while after this. Gabe shifts to his
back, stares at the ceiling again. I curl my hands into fists, bite my lip,
push my nails into the flesh of my palms. Anything to hook my attention away
from the hunger and this growing panic that the night will never end. Rain
patters against the windows. So much rain.
Finally, in desperation, I ask, “do you really think we’ll
win?”
A long quiet. “I don’t know,” Gabe whispers.
“Oh.”
We wait the night out together, lost in our very different
struggles.
Eventually, the torment loosens its grip on Gabe’s mind. I
watch his aura lose its peaks and eddies as he yields to exhaustion and drifts
into a heavy sleep. Now his energy hums, smooth and quiet. No nightmares for
him. Lucky brother.
As soon as Gabe is asleep, I’m out of bed and across the
room. Sitting at the desk. Tapping, tapping, tapping my fingers. Following
Tarren’s energy, all jittery and exhausted, as he paces next door. Trying to
keep a reign on myself. Thinking of what Amber said about being evil.
But I can’t think, not really. It’s all faux thoughts,
tangled ribbons each leading to the ugly hunger inside of me. The song.
Audio hostem
. How to describe the song. I pull my
notebook, all soggy with apologies, out of my bag. Open to a clean page. Press
my fingers hard against my temples and feel the heat from my hands on each side
of my face. Glowing again. Knees jiggering. Tarren still pacing. Gabe breathing
slow; stupid enough to fall asleep with a monster in the room.
That thing is happening when I lose all my thoughts. Words
slip away. Sentences crack under the weight. I’m forgetting my own name. This
means I have to think of Ryan. Concentrate on him and his vanilla scents. And
gurgely stomach. And maybe Avalon if I can get over these knives sticking in my
heart.
Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Please. Oh, Ryan.
Don’t let me kill my brother. At least not the one I like.
I need to write something. About the hunger? About Ryan? I
haven’t written anything since that night except for imaginary letters asking
for a forgiveness I will never earn. I’ve been too afraid of the things that
will come out of me if I let them. But tonight I need distraction. Even if it
means giving voice to the monster. The pen is shaking on the paper, dropping
loose letters up and down the lines. I’m not sure the words even make sense.
I’m so close to breaking. I can feel it, and there’s nothing I can think to do
except keep unwinding my soul on the page. Keep writing. Keep trying. Keep
holding myself back. This feels useless.
I’m not evil. Not yet. Not until Gabe shifts in his sleep,
and his energy jumps. I’m not evil, even though I’m suddenly standing over his
bed. This is all animal. All instinct. There is no Maya left to be evil. Just
the monster dancing to the song.
Gabe is on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the
other curled in front of his face. That wavy hair is all over his pillow. He
smells like soap and shampoo. His aura is so round and perfect. Blue as blue.
True as true. He should have never trusted me. My gloves are gone.
It will be quick; he won’t even wake up. Ever wake up again.
A painless death for my sweet brother. Maybe even a sort of kindness. No more
worries, no more fear, no more aching loneliness. I’m going to have to kill Tarren
too. It would be too cruel to take away the only person he has left.
Monster Maya. Pixie Girl. Fallen Angel. All swirled together
into muddy brown. My hand reaches toward him, glowing bright.
Gabe blocking Tarren’s gun with his own
too-big heart.
“Maya, take my hand.” “I’m trusting you
with my life right now.”
Putting on deodorant just for me.
“You’re my sister, and I’m going to
protect you. I won’t let you slip. I won’t let you fall.”
The way he glances at me sometimes and
streaks of loving purple spread through his aura.
He never flinches when I touch him.
This is how Gabe rescues me again, like he always does. I
look down at my sleeping brother, and I need someone to believe in me. I need
to know that someone thinks I’m strong enough to save myself, even if I don’t.
I’m on the roof of the motel, though I can’t remember
leaving the room. The hunger is still tearing me to pieces, so that means I
didn’t kill Gabe. Tears of relief drip down my face, or maybe it’s terror, or
some strange, sad mixture.
I’m laughing, but it’s all hiccups and retches. I have the
notebook in my hands, and now I remember. There is one letter I haven’t
written. One person’s forgiveness I have not yet begged. Because to ask
forgiveness is to acknowledge that he is dead. It is to lay flowers upon his
grave and wish him well in whatever comes after this, though I suspect there
isn’t anything at all.
I open the notebook and flip past the other pages. My hands
are shivering and twitchy, but I feel more in control now that the worst has
passed and I am alone on the roof. The words don’t come, but they will. I can
wait.
I take a deep breath, all wet and wonderful. Amber said I
had an aura, small and ugly though it was, which means there is still a part of
me that is human. I dig my nails into my palms as I finallSy digest her words
and realize what they mean.
“I
am
a hybrid,” I say the
words out loud.
This means there’s hope. Hope that I can control the hunger.
Didn’t I just pass the most crucial test of all? Wasn’t the song drowning me
and still I held my breath? The hiccups are dying down, but my heart takes
over, kicking hard in my chest, testing the integrity of my ribs. Little snaps
go off in my stomach, like butterflies exploding.
“I’m in control,” I whisper, awed. And I believe it. I
really do.
I look down at the crazy, terrible paragraphs scrawled on
the pages of my notebook. I will start again. I will tell Ryan’s story, and
Gabe’s story and Tarren’s story. And the story of a girl with broken wings.
Something glitters on the horizon. The first lip of sun
edges up from the darkness. The clouds hover close, ready to eclipse, but in
this moment the sun is free of their reach.
A girl with broken wings, done falling.
I take up my pen and turn to the next empty page. It’s time
to say goodbye to Ryan.
And finally, the words come.
If you enjoyed
Falling,
please consider writing a
review and letting your friends know about the
Girl With Broken Wings
series.
About J Bennett
J Bennett is a professional copywriter, as well as a
novelist. She lives and writes in Southern California.
She also writes the blog
www.ShyWriter.com
Find J Bennett online at
www.jbennettwrites.com
or on Facebook
at
www.facebook.com/jbennettwrites
.
Works by J Bennett
Girl
With Broken Wings Series
Falling
(Book One)
Coping
(Novella, 1.5)
Landing
(Book Two)
Rising
(Book Three, to be released in 2014)
The
Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles
Employment
Interview With A Vampire
(Short Story, # 1)
The
Vampire Hunter Comes To Call
(Short Story, # 2)
Duel
With The Werefrog
(Short Story, #3)
Next in the
Girl With Broken Wings series
:
Coping
A novella
We make it to Poughkeepsie, NY in late morning of the third
day on the road. Turns out that Poughkeepsie is a quaint, pretty town right
next to a thick vein of dark water, the Hudson River. We’re all tired and achy,
and Gabe finds us a room at a rundown inn.
There’s no time for rest. Gabe and Tarren hash out a quick
plan, deciding to case the targeted house in the morning and then return for
the kill at night if Hendricks proves to be present. We each take a turn in the
shower, throw on a new change of clothes and then it’s back to the SUV, which stinks
of our bodies and the food the brothers have eaten on the road.
At least the sky is clear, and the sun is streaming down,
soaking into my skin and soothing my raw hunger.
We push out of Poughkeepsie, turning onto increasingly
smaller, older roads, until we are bumping over potholes, and spindly branches
tap against our windows. Individual houses crop up every couple of miles or so.
I focus on the energy of my brothers, amazed at how tight and locked each are.
Ready for action. The opposite of the jittery nervousness and uncertainty that
is the clay of Maya.
When we hit a dirt track, Tarren carefully pulls off the
road.
“How far out?” he asks Gabe.
“Bout three quarters of a mile.”
“We walk from here. Our cover is that we’re hikers.”
I get out and shade my eyes. Summer isn’t leaving New York
without a fight. The air is hot and heavy enough to mix with a wooden spoon. A
high chorus of insects thrums through the thick woods on either side. I feel
hemmed in by these large trunks. It’s definitely giving me a B-horror movie
vibe.
“You might want to go hang with Tarren for a bit,” Gabe says
as he jumps out of the passenger seat. “I’ve got ta’ shake a leg if you know
what I mean.”
“It was only a twenty minute drive,” I tell him.
“Yeah, well, I gotta go again. So sue me.” He turns and
unzips. I beat feet to the other side of the car and cover my ears. Tarren
pulls open the hatch and leans in to collect gear. He sees me, peers over to
Gabe’s side of the car and shrugs.
When I deem it safe and uncover my ears, Tarren says, “The
downside of enhanced hearing, huh?” His mouth quirks up in a short smile.
“Yeah, I guess,” I reply. This is weird, us bonding, and I
think Tarren recognizes it to, because the smile comes off his face, and it’s
almost like it was never there at all. He goes extra solider, his back cranking
a little straighter.
“I want to go do the recon with you,” I tell him and try to
sound self-assured. “This enhanced hearing,” I tap my ear, “could come in
handy.”
Tarren doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I know his
mind is churning over all the possibilities, weighing the benefits of my
enhanced senses with the negatives of him thinking that I’m a total screw up.
“Okay,” he says softly, though there’s still a hint of
mistrust in his features.
“Really?” I can’t squelch my surprise.
“We have a deal,” Tarren reminds me. Oh yeah. Tarren trains
me to fight, and I don’t tell Gabe that Tarren’s the reason Grand found out
about my existence.
Still zipping up, Gabe comes around.
“We camouflage the car and go in quiet, just close enough
for a view,” Tarren says. “We confirm if Hendricks is on the premise and if
he’s alone, and then we pull back.”
Gabe nods. I nod too, cross my arms over my chest and try to
look like this spy stuff is totally standard. My brothers arm up. Tarren
prefers a 32C Glock on each hip. Gabe slips on two shoulder holsters and sticks
a loaded Barreta PX4 into each one. They both sling a pair of military grade
binoculars around their necks.
While my brothers get ready, I snap off some heavy branches
from nearby tress and stack them up in front of the Murano. It’s a pretty
crappy camo job, but I’ll trust in Gabe’s philosophy that people don’t notice
jack shit.
“Ready?” Tarren asks Gabe.
“Yeah.”
“And you?” Tarren looks over at me. I could never have
envisioned my life heading down this twisted path where monsters lurk on the
other end. But I nod anyway. Gabe throws me a pair of sad eyes but doesn’t say
anything. He hates that I’m doing the mission thing with them now. Too fucking
bad for him.
“We’ll close in on 300 yards,” Tarren says.
“Check,” I reply as gruffly as I can, even though I don’t
know how far away 300 yards is.
With Tarren in the lead, and Gabe behind me, we slip into
the woods and slowly make our way toward Hendricks’s house. We don’t pass any
other residences on the way.
Fear is a fascinating thing. How it can crawl into your
stomach, small as a gooey larvae and then grow and grow until it fills up your
entire body. Both Tarren and Gabe’s auras are calm. They have a technique for this
that I have not yet learned, but I wonder at the thoughts that cross their
minds. If they can possibly be pushing through the same mental quicksand that
pulls me down further with each step.
“Here,” Tarren says softly. A bead of sweat trickles down
his face, and there are growing patches of wetness beneath each arm. Sure
enough, up ahead, the dirt road leads to a handsome colonial. Three floors at
least, with a heavy façade of bricks and white siding.
“Lotta cars out there,” Gabe whispers behind me.
Three SUVs and a jeep are lined up behind each other at the
end of the road. Next to the house is a large metal barn. Inside the barn is…oh
no.
“We may be dealing with more than just Hendricks,” Tarren
says. “We’ll spread out, link up by Bluetooth and find out how many angels are
in that house. Gabe, you take point. Maya and I will…”
“The barn,” I whisper.
Gabe is already climbing up a tree behind me. Tarren lowers
his binoculars. “What?”
“Humans. In the barn.” I feel the whisper of their auras,
even from this distance.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes, and try to hone my
sense—that new and terrifying predator part of me that automatically locks onto
the pulse of human auras. “There’s something wrong with their energy. They’re
weak. Confused.”
Tarren looks up at Gabe. They don’t say anything, but I know
those identical expressions. They’re sharing something, and it isn’t good.
“Shit,” Gabe whispers.
Tarren turns back to the house and raises his binoculars.
“Four different vehicles…”
A side door opens from the house, and two men emerge into
the daylight. One is tall and brawny, wearing a torn muscle shirt and a pair of
skinny jeans that suck against his powerful legs. The second is short, slighter
than his companion and blanketed with thick dark hair on each arm. He’s rocking
a heavy gold watch on his wrist that glitters under the sun.
“Maya?” Gabe asks grimly.
No auras around the two men. “Angels,” I confirm. “Both of
them.”
“That’s Hendricks,” Tarren says. “The shorter one.”
The two men stroll toward the barn. Hendricks has something
clutched in his right fist. It can’t be…leashes? My skin breaks out in goose
bumps.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Gabe whispers. His aura starts to jump,
but he takes a deep breath and it soothes back down.
The bigger of the two angles pulls open the door of the
barn. Hendricks saunters into the doorway and barks out a laugh. Even from this
distance, his loud, arrogant voice carries to my sensitive ears.
“How are we all doing today? No, don’t get up. It’s fine.”
“Tarren…” my voice trembles.
“Quiet,” he hisses.
“Who wants to join us for brunch?” Hendricks says. “No
volunteers? Again?” He laughs. “How ‘bout you hero boy? You wanna save your new
friends? Step on up.”
There are scuffling noises. A weak scream. The angels emerge
from the barn, dragging two young men behind them on leashes. The humans have
their hands bound in front of them and collars around their necks. The angels
tug on the leashes. The tall, lanky boy in my field of vision manages to keep
his feet, but the other one stumbles and falls. Hendricks laughs and kicks the
fallen human. He then starts walking again, dragging the whimpering boy across
the ground. The other human, the one who managed to keep his feet, bends down
and pulls his companion up.
He supports the boy’s weight, and his face is set with grim
determination. He is filthy, brown hair matted to his head, deep cuts and
gouges marring his pale face. He limps with abuse unseen beneath a stained
t-shirt and jeans. But it isn’t just their bodies. Their auras are battered,
leeched of color, hugging close to their bodies. Weak as the wavering flames of
a dying candle.
“What is this?” I can hardly get the words out of my mouth.
Tarren’s face is grim, set in steel, but I can tell that
he’s angry. Furious.
“A farm,” he says. “It’s a human farm.”
* * *