Remembering Hell

It all started on the day she was born—or, in this case—found.

The skies were blanketing themselves in rows of purple velvet, and the wind was striking through the old, New York’s Finest Albany Pecan Orchard, with a vengeance that promised a heck of a beat-down on the rows of defenseless tree limbs.

Mother Nature, as beautiful as she can be, was not on good terms with the Man of the Moon tonight, mused David Smithens, a happily married man of twelve years, just a little over age thirty-five who already had a bit of a beer belly and a declining hairline.

Not that it bothered him, no it certainly didn’t.

The man took it in stride that his age was catching up with him. He wore the lines on his face with pride; just as he did with the scars and calluses on his hands. It showed that, to all of the people around him, he knew what it was like to work hard in order to achieve dreams.

Hell, his motto was, “A little hard work can take a man a long way.”

And he had lived by that motto every day, every hour, minute, and second of his life, just as his wife has.

That is, up until Gracelyn, the woman and key to his heart, wanted something that couldn’t be built with some wood and nails.

What she wanted was a family—and no matter how many methods, doctor’s appointments, supplements, and old-wives tales they had tried—nothing would work. Oh, and people sure did love to put their jabs in, acting as if they knew a thing or two about getting a woman pregnant.

“Maybe you just ain’t doin’ it right—”

“Well, when Walter got me all knocked up—”

“Her ovaries just ain’t right, David. Maybe I can prescribe some natural remedies to see if that’ll give’em a kick-start.”

David could just taste his anger when that loose-screwed, penny-snatchin’ doctor blamed the problem on his poor, heartbroken Grace. She tried everything, and for that big-nosed fool to tear her spirits down… Oh, now that made him mad.

The wind spun through his hair as if it were trying to cool his rising temper, and it worked; for a little while at least. That pleasant feeling soon faded and only pissed him off when that damned wind blew just a little bit harder.

“Son-of-a,” his boot covered heel stomped into the dirt.

He shook his head in frustration as the bucket of saplings he’d been collecting tipped over, spilled all its contents, and rolled away from him like it was a criminal trying to escape the grasps of ten officers in a dead-end alleyway.

David, in all his six-foot-one, belly-growing glory, stood there with a glare on his face that could kill any living being in its range; looking at that damned bucket, cursing it to Hell and back.

It took him most of the day, sorting through dying seeds, from little sprouts ready to take on the world, just to watch em’ make their way in the overgrown grass to play a little game of hide-n-seek. Only, the seeking part would be a grown man cursing at flowers in frustration when they wouldn’t sell out their new little buddies.

A rough hand flipped through his thinning hair and his copper brown eyes, looked up at that damned Man in the Moon that seemed to be grinning down at him in amusement.

Tough luck, Buttercup.

With a grin, he flipped the bird to the sky, turned on his toes, leaving the bucket and hard-work that had gone wasted, and made his way to the trail back home, where his beautiful wife promised his favorite dinner.

Not once did he slow down, either. Not even when he noticed a feeling of not being alone. No, he was a man on a mission. He was on his way to the best apple-pie known in human existence, so that crawling feeling that tickled at his nape didn’t matter either.

But the strange blue light that was flying in the sky? Directly towards him at breakneck speed? That—that freaking—mattered a lot.

Just when he thought there was no chance that the glowing light of blue doom would miss him—that he’d never get to tell his wife how much he loved her, or tell her how sorry he was that he couldn’t bear her a child and make her life happy—the object swerved around his shaken form, and cracked into a few of the orchard’s trees behind him with a loud bang.

And then there was silence. It wasn’t the normal nature-filled silence either. There were no crickets, or nightly critters exploring around in the leaves. Even the wind seemed to settle down. The lack of noise made the air sticky, like it wanted to cling to something—anything—in order to be heard.

David couldn’t find it in himself to move, not even to run from his near-death experience. His limbs stayed cemented to the dirt beneath his feet, and his heart fought with his ribcage. It wanted to jump out of his chest and leave him to deal with the situation on his own.

Not dealing with the situation sounded good to him, too.

Sure, it’s not every day a weird, blue lighted object almost clobbers someone to death, but it’s no biggie.

Next problem, please! The coward inside of him pleaded. That’s when he shook himself and put his head on straight. He could just see it now.

His momma pointing at him with a foot tapping impatiently, “I didn’t raise no coward, boy. Go see what that was, or you’re getting an ass-whoopin' till you can’t walk for a week!”

Sometimes he hated being raised by such a courageous woman. He really started to hate it when he was walking towards the acrid smell of burnt wood and an unfamiliar odor of sulfur. The silence was ebbed at some; the crackling of a fading fire helped with that. But what really cut through unnatural quiet was the soft, frightened mewling of what sounded like an infant.

It was a sound that pierced through his heart.

To Hell with being cautious.

David half-lumbered, half-sprinted the rest of the way, holding in a string of curses when his left knee threatened to give out. When he got to what he assumed was the thing that flew past him, it was as if his life changed within a matter of seconds.

Right there, swaddled in pink clothes with a pink baby cap pulled over tiny ears, rosy cheeks, and small fingers clutched in a miniature ball of frustration, was a baby. That little girl wasn’t alone either.

No, she was perched in the arms of what seemed to be an angel with black wings.

“This isn’t real,” he heard himself breathe.

The creature with black wings raised its head, revealing a very human, feminine cheekbone structure, lashes, and pale heart-shaped lips. Her sleek, black hair was knotted with twigs and leaves. Hope sparked beneath her unnatural violet eyes. She held out her arms to David, a pleading gaze painting its way over her pain.

“Please, I beg of you,” she reached out further, causing David to open his arms to the tiny being before him, “keep her safe, for my life that I give you, is now yours.”

David noted two sharp-like fangs peeking out behind the creature’s lips, as if treating him to a hostile welcoming.

Once the baby was completely in his grasp, the dark-winged angel stroked a burnt finger over the child’s eyelashes and tried to contain a sob, “Grow up big and strong for me okay, princess?”

She pulled away from the two, looked to the sky in alarm, and then flicked her gaze back to David, “You raise her like your own. Love her, and keep her safe. Promise me you’ll keep my daughter safe, human. Promise me!”

“I promise,” he said without hesitation.

Tension eased, but only a little. The angel whispered one word before spreading her wings and disappearing.

“Run.”

And so, he ran.

***