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"For whoever touches you touches the apple of His eye."
You always hated summer. The scorching sun, screaming children who, instead of being contained within school walls away from normal people, now idled at home and yelled here and there, loudly bouncing balls off the blazing asphalt and fragile walls of the restless suburb.
The past few years, August had brought abnormal heat, which only fueled (ironically) your hatred, since you couldn’t afford an air conditioner. You’d barely scraped together enough for a small fan, and even that soon died from continuous use.
Of course, those weren’t the main reasons. The main ones you couldn’t even explain yourself. You couldn’t justify that strange, cloyingly sweet decay somewhere deep inside. Deeper than ribs or a heart. It corrodes, rots, festers. So much that soon, there’s more rot left than you.
Some believe the soul resides in the stomach. As a child, hearing this, you laughed loudly, but now it was no laughing matter.
Yes, you always hated summer.
But autumn brought no long-awaited relief.
Golden leaves covered the ground, rustling across the asphalt like ghostly footsteps. Some had already fallen in August, as often happens when the heat exceeds a hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
Here and there, decorations from the past Halloween still stood, reminders of the coming cold. Soon they’d be replaced by Christmas attire, but you wouldn’t see that. Nor would you celebrate Thanksgiving. Nor would you have children of your own to irritate some other grump just as other people’s children irritated you.
A scattering of stars in the blackening abyss of the midnight sky blurred and pulsed before your eyes. If the soul truly is somewhere in the stomach—it ached unbearably, seeping out in thick, sticky sludge onto your old jeans and the cooled asphalt.
Fleeting happy moments flash before your eyes, and you try to grasp them. There you are, trying to ice skate for the first time, but you fall: it hurt, but you didn’t cry; the neighbor boy had such a funny hat you couldn’t stop laughing, forgetting the growing bump on your head. There you are, climbing onto the roof of an abandoned farm on the very edge of town. The view was beautiful, but for some reason, you felt sad then. Now you understand it was a pleasant sadness. Sweet cereal flakes, first hair bows, an adult magazine accidentally found at your grandfather’s... why hadn’t you ever considered that your life wasn’t all bad? Or was the bad so overwhelming it eclipsed everything good? But why then, now, couldn’t you remember any of what just days ago had made you desperately wish to die?
Involuntarily, you recall the face of the young man from your dreams. Maybe somewhere “there” you’ll get to meet him? Though... probably, where you’re going, they don’t let in ones like him. Too pure. Too kind.
You blink. Once, again. You don’t immediately notice the human figure before you. Or is this all pre-death hallucinations?
You blink again, slowly raising your eyes to the stranger’s face. A familiar, so kind face. With difficulty, you move your lips. Him. This is definitely a hallucination.
Sunday looked at the crumpled figure by the dirty wall of the local rundown bar, and his chest constricted painfully. A sigh escaped his lips, a pitiful parody of breath.
He had failed. His girl... His poor, sweet girl...
The angel slowly knelt, not shying away from the dirty ground nor from how recklessly and irresponsibly he was now breaking heavenly laws.
To hell with laws?! A person is dying here. His charge is dying!
So what? It happens every day. People die every day.
Sunday tried to convince himself, but couldn’t.
If people die every day, then what is he even needed for?
“You...,” he hears, and he swallows. Don’t speak. Please don’t speak. Otherwise, his heart won’t take it, “...are you real?”
He flinches. You’ve seen him in your dreams before, but never has he allowed you to see him in person. Because it’s punishable. But probably not so severely if the mortal already has one foot in the grave, right?
Keep making excuses.
“It’s true,” Sunday answers, frightened by how much his voice trembles.
More than yours.
Of course. Because he’s a coward. An empathetic, pitiful coward who doesn’t deserve you, his brave, desperate girl.
“I’m with you. I’ll be with you. Don’t be afraid of anything,” he says quietly, reaching out a hand but not touching.
You don’t know what exactly he’s doing, but the pain in your body is replaced by sudden lightness.
You don’t know that the punishment for this will be even harsher for him.
“I’m dying,” you smile. You try to hold on, but a desperate sob escapes your lips, and that’s it. The smile melts, and your eyes burn with bitterness, “I don’t want to die.”
Of course you don’t. Because now everything was just starting to get better. Just a little, but it was only the beginning. You had so much you wanted to do. So much you could have done.
Sunday feels a sting in his eyes too. If he could, if he knew how to save you. If he could trade places with you—he’d do it in an instant. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how.
And this helplessness was driving him insane.
“I know...” he replies quietly. It feels like hellhounds are tearing his soul apart right now, “I know, sweetheart.”
“Are you an angel?” you ask, and Sunday flinches.
Of course you figured it out. You’re smart. So clever.
“Yes,” he smiles, and his lips tremble, “I’m your guardian angel, sweetheart. And I failed.”
You sigh, though the sigh sounds more like a pitiful rasp.
“I’m sure without you I would’ve lived much less,” you whisper. You want to laugh at the absurdity, but you can’t. You’re not even sure if you’re delirious, and it doesn’t matter anymore, “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” the angel nods, looking into your eyes with sincere care.
“Can I... hug you?” you ask cautiously, and look at the angel with such hope that he feels the abyss breathing down his neck.
He’s already broken so many rules. If he touches you now... so openly... Then he’ll burn with you in the neighboring pit, without wings and without a halo. With you...
Sunday swallows. His lips tremble. What’s the point? What’s the point of being a guardian angel if he can’t even comfort you one last time? And after? What will happen after? A new person? Like a new hamster... Sunday couldn’t do that. He knew he should, but he couldn’t.
“Of course...” the young man whispered.
Tears were already streaming freely down his cheeks.
With trembling hands, he gently encircled your shoulders before tenderly pulling you close.
His fingers slid through your hair, his lips slowly brushing your temple. Fragile. So light.
“I feel... really good now...” you whisper quietly, and Sunday feels you tremble.
He knows what it means, and he can’t hold back a sob.
“Shh, I know...” he says softly, gently stroking your tangled hair, “rest, my little lady. Sleep peacefully.”
He realizes that giving his life for the right to hold you for the first and last time... was definitely worth it.
The lifeless body was found early in the morning by student Claude Martin, out for his daily run.
A young girl in a pool of blood with a frighteningly serene expression on her face.
And around her, like the first snow, lay a blanket of snow-white feathers.
"The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy."