The Angel

Nora looked up and into his eyes—gray eyes the color of a rising storm.

When he brought his hand back she saw the small curved blade shining in his hand.

Michael paced his room while trying to decide exactly how to tell his mom he planned to leave town for the summer. He hated to lie to her. But he couldn’t just come out and tell her that he was running off with Nora Sutherlin. He knew his mom knew what he was. Or at least she knew that he wasn’t like other kids. The boys at his school got in trouble for Playboy magazines stashed under their mattresses or for knocking up the cheerleaders. But when Michael got in trouble it was for burning and cutting himself, for downloading pictures of men being tied up and beaten by women and even other men. And when in trouble, he didn’t get grounded. He got slapped and thrown against the wall by his dad with enough force to leave bruises—the bad kind—all over him.

Sicko … pervert … freak … His father had said them all. When his mother tried to defend him against his father, saying Michael was just young and confused, his father had hit her too. The fighting had become an everyday thing, until his dad finally just up and moved out. Michael’s mom had gone into shell shock and still hadn’t completely recovered from it. The night Michael slashed his wrists it was with one thought in mind: maybe if he died his parents wouldn’t have anything to fight about anymore.

Michael took a deep breath and left his bedroom. He found his mom in the kitchen putting away groceries.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his arms as if he was cold. He wasn’t, but he had goose bumps anyway.

“Hey, you,” she answered as she balled up a plastic bag and threw it under the kitchen sink. His mom was still pretty even after two kids and a marriage that had fallen apart around her. From her, Michael had inherited his straight dark hair, thin frame and pale complexion. From his dad he’d gotten nothing as far as he could tell. Sometimes he wondered if his father wasn’t his real dad. No one on either side of the family had his color eyes. But he knew it was wishful thinking. He looked a lot like his father’s youngest sister, so he knew there was no loving, forgiving real father out there waiting to be found.

“Can I help?” Michael had learned to ask before he helped with anything involving the kitchen. No matter where he put things away, his mom always came back and moved them to their mythical “right” place.

“Almost done. How was your day?” His mom opened the cabinet over the stove and rearranged the pitchers and jars on the shelf to make more room.

“Good. Glad to be out of school. I took your books back to the library. You were done, right?”

“I was. Thank you.”

Michael shifted from one foot to the other. His mother’s stiff posture and her refusal to make eye contact with him did not portend anything good. He wasn’t sure what he’d done this time, but he decided now might not be the best time to tell her he was leaving for the summer.

“Okay, I’m going to go read, I guess.”

“Michael, are you missing something?” his mother asked before he could leave the kitchen.

“What? No, I don’t think so.”

His mother gave him a long, searching look, a familiar look, a look he’d been getting from her for the past three years. He’d even named the look—he called it the Who are you and what have you done with my son? look. The long hair, the incident over the websites and the burns, the night he’d tried to kill himself … Michael knew his mother was convinced he’d lost his mind a few years ago and she’d given up all hope he’d ever get it back.

She shook her head and walked to the back door. She pulled his skateboard out from behind the open door and handed it to him.

“Thanks. I left this somewhere.”

“You left it in the backseat of Nora Sutherlin’s car.”

Shit. Michael took a breath, decided to try a little deflection on his mom, a survival strategy Father S had taught him during their counseling sessions.

“It’s a BMW Z4 Roadster. It doesn’t have a backseat.”

Her eyes flashed with anger.

“What were you doing in Nora Sutherlin’s BMW Z4 Roadster that doesn’t have a backseat, Michael?”

“Nothing. She gave me a ride home from church.”

Michael’s mother continued to stare at him.

“You know she’s old enough to be your mother, right? I know she doesn’t look like it and God knows she doesn’t act like it, but she is.”

“It was just a ride home, Mom. She’s nice. She’s not like you think she is.”

“I think she’s a very dangerous woman. And I think you could get hurt if you spend any more time with her.”

Michael thought about Nora, how she lived so brazenly. Would he ever be as fearless as her? Michael remembered a few months ago he’d been lurking around the hallways after church, eavesdropping on Nora’s conversations. One of the resident old bats had been going on about the abomination of sodomy. Nora had patted the woman on the back and said, “If it’s an abomination, it’s because you’re doing it wrong. Bear down hard, then relax. It’ll fit better.” Then she’d breezed off, leaving the old ladies blushing and huffing. Michael had run into the bathroom and laughed his ass off in one of the stalls.

Fearless. He could do that.

“I like getting hurt,” he said.

His mother shook her head. “Don’t remind me.”

Michael started to turn and walk away. He felt as though he’d spent most of the past two years turning and walking away from his mom. He’d much rather run up to her and hug her than walk away from her yet again. But that didn’t seem to be an option anymore.

“I’m going to be gone this summer. I leave on Thursday. That’s okay, right?”

“Fine,” his mom said. He thought he heard a note of relief in her voice. “If that’s what you need to do. You’re going to be a camp counselor again?”

“Something like that,” he said. “I’m good on money and stuff. So you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’ve been worried about you since the day you were born. Won’t stop now.”

Michael tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out quite right. He started to leave.

“Michael?”

Slowly Michael turned around and faced his mother.

“You aren’t really going to camp, are you?”

“Mom, I—” Michael said and stopped.

“I don’t think I want to know what you’re doing this summer, do I?”

Michael weighed his words.

“No, probably not.”

Søren placed the first cut on her hip.

A shallow cut only an inch long, it bled out slowly. Nora’s blood welled up and slid in a thin line over her hip, drying on her skin before it reached the black sheets.

Second, Søren cut her stomach right at the edge of her rib cage.

“Talk to me, Eleanor,” Søren ordered as he made a third cut, only a half inch long, on her chest.

“Ow.” Nora laughed a little. Søren looked down at her, love and desire burned in his eyes.