An Angelic Tale
by Brigitta Larson '21
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
I have heard those words too much from too many people. They look at me with sympathy in their eyes and condolences on their lips. They think it helps. They think their softly whispered words somehow dissolve the images in my head, the gunfire in my brain.
It does not help.
The lights of the tree glimmer, far too bright, far too cheerful. They flash and change and shift, the colors dancing across my hands. Orange, blue, green.
Red.
I close my eyes and try not to think of the color. I focus on the rough couch cushions, the crackle of the fire, anything.
Bring my hands to my face. The monsters fight to come back, they battle across my vision. They battle with angels, they battle with devils, they battle with anything they can get their hands on. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t.
It had been my fault. It had been my bullet, shot from my gun, which was in my hands. I remember the slow spread of blood on concrete, the fallen, camouflage-clad woman.
‘It was an accident, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself! Accidents can happen during wars.’
But I do blame myself. I blame myself for not paying attention, I blame myself for trying to show off. It wasn’t just the accident that had killed her. It had been my own actions, everything that I’d done.
The demons are winning.
But the angels take hold of my lashes, and lift them towards the heavens.
“This one's for you!”
There’s a little girl standing in front of me, thrusting a glitter covered envelope into my vision. It takes me a second to register who exactly she is.
Of course. My niece. I have a niece.
She smiles a toothy grin and hauls herself up onto the couch next to me. “Go on, open it!”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I’m as careful as possible, tearing along the adhesive and gingerly pulling out the card inside. It’s a folded piece of green construction paper, with the words Merry Christmas scrawled across the top in diluted red marker. I open it, and am greeted by a crude drawing of a stick figure woman in army greens who’s holding hands with a little girl who possesses the same brown tresses and blue eyes as my niece. The woman in uniform has my hair, my eyes. Two words are written across the top, so simple yet more meaningful to me than thousands of condolences.
Thank you.
I feel the heat of a tear slipping down my face, which lingers on my chin before dropping into my lap.
She stops her babbling about how she made the card in school a little while ago, and how her teacher had complimented her for her writing, and stares at me with big blue eyes.
“Auntie? Are you okay?”
I’m not. I haven’t been since it happened.
And for the first time since, I answer truthfully.
I try to hold back the flood, but a dam breaks. I have stopped my tears so many times, but I’ve finally broken. “I’m… I’m sorry. I…” I struggle to find the words.
I hear her move on the couch next to me, and suddenly she wraps her little arms around me. “It’s gonna be ok.”
I’m not sure if her words are true, but in this moment, I let my mind empty. I let the demons and monsters dissolve, evaporate from my head.
The world may be in anarchy, but for now, it is a utopia.
I have heard those words too much from too many people. They look at me with sympathy in their eyes and condolences on their lips. They think it helps. They think their softly whispered words somehow dissolve the images in my head, the gunfire in my brain.
It does not help.
The lights of the tree glimmer, far too bright, far too cheerful. They flash and change and shift, the colors dancing across my hands. Orange, blue, green.
Red.
I close my eyes and try not to think of the color. I focus on the rough couch cushions, the crackle of the fire, anything.
Bring my hands to my face. The monsters fight to come back, they battle across my vision. They battle with angels, they battle with devils, they battle with anything they can get their hands on. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t.
It had been my fault. It had been my bullet, shot from my gun, which was in my hands. I remember the slow spread of blood on concrete, the fallen, camouflage-clad woman.
‘It was an accident, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself! Accidents can happen during wars.’
But I do blame myself. I blame myself for not paying attention, I blame myself for trying to show off. It wasn’t just the accident that had killed her. It had been my own actions, everything that I’d done.
The demons are winning.
But the angels take hold of my lashes, and lift them towards the heavens.
“This one's for you!”
There’s a little girl standing in front of me, thrusting a glitter covered envelope into my vision. It takes me a second to register who exactly she is.
Of course. My niece. I have a niece.
She smiles a toothy grin and hauls herself up onto the couch next to me. “Go on, open it!”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I’m as careful as possible, tearing along the adhesive and gingerly pulling out the card inside. It’s a folded piece of green construction paper, with the words Merry Christmas scrawled across the top in diluted red marker. I open it, and am greeted by a crude drawing of a stick figure woman in army greens who’s holding hands with a little girl who possesses the same brown tresses and blue eyes as my niece. The woman in uniform has my hair, my eyes. Two words are written across the top, so simple yet more meaningful to me than thousands of condolences.
Thank you.
I feel the heat of a tear slipping down my face, which lingers on my chin before dropping into my lap.
She stops her babbling about how she made the card in school a little while ago, and how her teacher had complimented her for her writing, and stares at me with big blue eyes.
“Auntie? Are you okay?”
I’m not. I haven’t been since it happened.
And for the first time since, I answer truthfully.
I try to hold back the flood, but a dam breaks. I have stopped my tears so many times, but I’ve finally broken. “I’m… I’m sorry. I…” I struggle to find the words.
I hear her move on the couch next to me, and suddenly she wraps her little arms around me. “It’s gonna be ok.”
I’m not sure if her words are true, but in this moment, I let my mind empty. I let the demons and monsters dissolve, evaporate from my head.
The world may be in anarchy, but for now, it is a utopia.
