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His eyes traced over the stone.
Adam has seen plenty of statues before. Some exactly like this one. At church, in a garden and about every square foot on this plot of land.
But this one. This one felt different.
His eyes traced over the folds of fabric that were so lovingly carved. Over the hands that clasp uselessly. Wandered up to the curve of the lips and its downcast blank stare. The half opened wings fixed to the back, hiding the body from the moonlight.
Chilled night air clung tight to his face. Adam stuffed his fists in his jacket pockets, rubbing his thumb over the third knuckle of each finger. He let out a shaky breath.
It was near enough for Adam to find safety in the enclosed space of his car. He could treat himself to the heater, press his numb hands to the tiny, slanted vents until it dried out his skin and left it feeling burnt. He could drive twelve minutes north and go home but the ground under his feet consumed the only home he’d ever known.
This part of the graveyard was old, a few centuries old. The type of old that’s abandoned apart from the groundskeepers. Not a soul on the earth had seen the bones that lay underneath this soil, animated and alive. No one can truly know them and their lives. None ever will again.
No because they were dead and gone and nothing was going to bring them back.
Just like his mom.
Tears welled up and he choked on them. The feeling of doubling over and vomiting was unbearably strong.
He can't do this.
A weak and fragile little boy that wanted so badly to call out for his mom. Wanted to feel her arms around him and tell him everything will be alright. Hear her sing to him til he fell asleep.
How he’ll miss her hands in his hair, combing it through and her voice telling him that he ‘can't go out lookin like he just rolled out of bed.’ Missed telling her that he wanted it to ‘look like he just rolled out of bed’ and missed the way she would stare at him with an unamused expression.
He can’t do this. He told himself he wouldn’t. He still had to return the rented suit that he was wearing.
Adam rubbed his eye sockets with his palms, the pain was dull but welcoming. His vision blurred and when it came back he was on his knees, level with the base of the statue.
On the simple box slab of concrete read:
‘Michael
September Twenty Ninth'
And that was it.
No last name.
No year of birth or at that death.
Was he also a beloved son? Was he a brother? Was he a father? An uncle? A friend?
Adam didn't know if the carving was never finished or if the person had lived only a few minutes, a still born or medical malpractice.
The mud softened under his knees. Too tired and pained to think what his mother would say about the stain.
Adam needed help. He can't go on. What was the point? He was nobody and he had nothing.
How was he supposed to be normal if the normal he knew was ripped away. He could get up in the morning, start picking up the pieces and call a real-estate agent to sell the house. Pack the few things he owned; clothes, his bedding and the picture he took with his mom when they went to the beach. She looked so happy with the sun shining on her face and the blonde of her hair.
The world was open for him to go anywhere, do anything.
He had never thought about not having her. Moms are supposed to take care of their kids forever and look after them. Now he had no one to look after him. Except for…
An angel.
He laughs, sharp, jolting his chest.
With both hands on the ground, disturbing the receding grass, Adam pushed up onto unsteady feet. Knees buckled and his ankles rolled. He felt drunk, clumsy, unequip in his own body. Cumbersome and heavy.
Looking for stability, he reached his arms out towards the pedestal.
He sniffled. It was so cold; the ground, the statue, the world. Him.
Adam climbed. Hooked his fingers around the angel’s forearm, stepped one foot onto the platform and lifted off the ground.
What a wonderful work of art that he's stepping all over. A grave that he was defiling.
The pads of his fingers skidded across the porous rock as he roamed. Running his index across the bunched up sculpted clothing and over to the flat plans were they rested on the angel's right knee.
His hands inched their way up until they found the base of the wings, one for each shoulder blade. Holding all his weight with no weak groan from the rock shocked him. Adam thought maybe he would feel the wings start to crack or become brittle from age. Finding that the angel was just as strong as the day he was put to work gave him more confidence to trek forward.
Swinging his body into the cradle of the statue, Adam fit perfectly. It's not only life-like but life-sized.
The stone sucked the warmth from his palms and limbs. Every inch of the angel pried it from him. Wanted to fix him against the stone, to suck him in fully. Meld them together.
Slipping his head between the statues arms, Adam was face to beautiful crafted face. When the back of his head bumped the intertwined hands, he relaxed. Puffs from his lungs broke against the lifeless figure.
The angel's face was unscathed. Like this was the first time anyone was perverse enough to get this personal. The nose was cut strongly just like his cheeks, represented more like a sword than a man. From a distance he’d perceived his stare to be stern but now that he was looking at him, really looking, the angel was somber.
Adam wanted to know what made the creator wish to burden this angel with misery for all eternity.
Adam dreamed to wipe the sorrow from his angel.
The demand was incredible. What did he have to lose?
Like a lover, Adam cupped his hands around the angel's jaw and drew himself in. Soft and slow, their lips met. Testing the waters almost. He pulled back wishing that maybe he had breathed life into the body. Pupils still hollow, face still concerned and skin still dense. Nothing had changed.
Adam plunged once more, heavy and with no remorse. Eyes shut.
Arms wrapped tightly around the angel's head. Fingers brushed along the curls that fell on the nape, committing the curves to his memory. They flowed and twirled and if the locks were human they'd bounce when Adam carded through them. Each strand would be silky smooth and Adam could see himself never getting tired of touching.
At that point, he thought he’d finally lost his sanity and felt the heat of the lips push back.
When he parted from his angel, breathing came out ragged and wet. The steam from his breath flared back into his face, feeling warmer than when it left. Everything felt warmer. He was too scared to open his eyes.
Like a home movie, moments flashed behind his eyelids. Ones he’d never lived but ones he will. A life he could see himself happy in, smiling and warm. This was everything he’d ever wanted.
Lovely, heartfelt and addicting.
“Michael.”
Adam