Chapter 13: Tribulations Part 9 - Lover of Angels

It seems so long ago, both in life and writing, when I began documenting this story at the very tender age of eight years old. I burned most of my personal journals when I was fifteen, in an attempt to disintegrate all evidence of my past life. Which is why you're not reading the unpuctuated five word sentences one would expect to read from an eight year old. The story of my life, being both tragic and interspersed with hopeful expectations, as most stories are, has been rewritten from the memories I so carefully extracted from among my meticulously crafted madness. And yet here we are at the crossroads of life and living, and somehow I have found it necessary to drudge up things perhaps better left unsaid: but if I didn't write them now, you wouldn't be reading them, and the world would continue on with its wars and crises without me, and that wouldn't be very much of a world at all...such as I see it.

I am dangerously closes to narcisism, I realize, but please humor me.

Nevertheless, in my attempts to destroy my past, I was unable to destroy my mother's. Her journals were too dear to me, as much as the only personal journal I did keep. From the moment my eyes were first blessed by the vision of young Gabriella, I knew she was something special. I knew she deserved a journal of her own, in which to stow away these vivid remembrances.

She was only seven years old the day I observed her through the keyhole for the first time. I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life...her red hair and green eyes, as well as the graceful manner in which she walked (even at such a young age) was too much for my eleven year old mind to comprehend.

My mother seemed happier than normal when Gabriella came to visit. She led the young girl from room to room citing all she could remember from books she had recently read, chatting fiercely in french, and leading poor young Gabriella along with an unphased expression on her bright round face. But the young girl didn't seem to mind. She was more than happy to entertain my mother's unorganized rambling; an oddity of which I was never able to fully understand.

Nevertheless, my mother was not always pleasant when Gabriella came to visit. She never kept the young girl more than armslength from her side and glared at Grandfather Gilbert like a vicious hound whenever he was near, and after only a few visits Gabriella grew to fear the old lush.

During their first visit, I was briefly introduced into their conversation. Gabriella had asked my mother if she had any children. The very words stabbed my heart when my mother confessed she had a son, but she rarely ever saw him because he lived with his father in Mexico. A few times after, Gabriella happened to ask about me. My mother promptly replied that I was incredibly bright and handsome - that she couldn't be more proud of me - that she expected me to visit soon, but wasn't sure when - and that she wished for nothing more in life than to be with her Little Jack.

She kept my presence so secretive that most of Willow Park never knew I existed, and those that did, such as the Doctor who visited us on the rare occasions that I was ill, spoke to no one about me. I haven't any solid proof as to how my mother convinced the doctor to swear secrecy, but a few vague entries in my mother's journals and the odd times the doctor showed up unexpected and was led upstairs by my mother, never once coming to enquire of my health, led me to expect the worse.

I never thought less of her for it, though I can't say that I really understood what was happening at such a young age, but it was frustrating to be left to myself while my mother chose to spend time with someone else.

But enough about my mother's maladies. I realize I think about them too often, and this chapter was to be dedicated to my angel in waiting, Gabriella.

From an early age, I developed a tell-tale sign, a mental visualisation if you will, as to the very nature of everyone I observed within the Land of the Saints. This unatural projection has followed me to the present day. Whenever I meet someone for the first time, my first impressions are quickly solidified as to what kind of person they are, and they are promptly categorized into one of four species; what I call the four Angelic States.

The most common, and also the most threatening, is the False Angel: angels with broken or self-mutilated wings. These are worn by those who are the most dangerous, those that wish to do us harm, whether intentionally or not. They have some deeply rooted, and possibly secretive, manner about them that they desperately try to hide. The false angels are those that harm others for their own pleasure or gain. Mr. Feinstein, my father, and Grandfather Gilbert are just a few to adorn these broken or self-mutilated wings.

The second Angelic State consists of what I call the Cherubim, which are young or naive angels. Their wings are but small underdeveloped stigma, which in no way can support their own weight. The Cherubim try as they might to help those around them, and at times try too hard, falling short of their expected goal. They can at times be of great help, and their wings will grow as a result, but more often than not, they are an encumberance and destined to live confined to their flightless lives. Mr. Goolsby, for all his misplaced southern charm and good intentions,is among this underveloped class.

The third, and perhaps the rarest of the four states, is the Sacrificial Angel. These rare creatures are easily recognizable by the presense of large beautiful wings, which are unfortunately bound in order to prevent them from flying. The tragedy of the very nature of the Sacrificial Angel, is that its wings are bound voluntarily, as a symbol of their undying devotion to those around them. My mother was the only Sacrificial Angel I have ever known in my life, and may yet ever know as long as I live.

The last, and perhaps the most significant among the Angelic States is the Angelaic class. Those who are classed among them are done so quite unexpectedly, not because of something they have done or are capable of doing, but simply because of who they are. They are unmistakable, and nearly as rare as the Sacrificial Angel. Their wings are large, luminescent, and possess a wide variety of colors. But the only color I have had the fortunate opportunity to behold was a bold color of blood red. You see, I must confess, that there has been only one Angelaic I have ever seen, and from the moment I first laid eyes on her, I knew she was a creature of unique remarkability. Though I have tried to see the good in people, I have never been as blindly fascinated with anyone as I am with her. There is absolutely nothing Gabriella could possibly do that would make her wings appear less beautiful in my eyes.

Gabriella came to visit my mother at least once or twice a month, but as the years grew in number, her visits did not. Eventually she only came on holidays and on my mother's birthday as a caring gesture. The day of my mother's funeral, I could swear I observed my mother's troubled spirit wrapped within Gabriella's bright red wings and lifted to heaven.

I observed her quietly from a distance, fearing that she was only a figment of my imagination, one of my fictitious friends; though I cannot recall any book that I had ever read about her. Nevertheless, I lived in fear that she would vanished if I ever dared approach or try to speak to her. And through it all, I knew she was destined to be my guardian Angelaic the moment she first brought blankets to me beneath the bridge. I was sound asleep, but I could feel her presence. I've felt her presence every waking moment she was near me, but it would be extremely difficult to explain this phenomena.

My dear Gabriella was there through much of my life, observing me from a distance as well. She was there in the church, when I approached the collections box without saying a word and dumped the entire fortune left to me by my mother into the small hole. She was there when I was cold and hungry beneath the bridge. She was there on the sleepless cold nights in the library, often finding some excuse to organize books or finish paper work in order to keep me company. I believe she chose this job as a librarian in order to watch over me. And yet, through it all we rarely spoke, and those times when we did it was indirectly, as if to ourselves or some other person that did not exist.

And then there was the unforunate incident with Mr. Jacob Paulson, a man that I am not afraid to admit, was not sorry to see bloody at my feet. This is not a confession, mind you, for I wouldn't confess such an important detail so early in this story. Gabriella was not present at the time of the incident, but she stood beside me nonetheless, and even though she did not once come to visit me in prison (for I believe she knew what harm it would do - to destroy what impractical reasons I chose for keeping my distance) - she did come to my aid, unfurling her fiery wings upon the witness stand, and at brief moments blinding the insidious Fallen Mr. Feinstein. She tried as she could to wrap her wings around me, to protect me, to instill a restful calm upon my thoughts within her presence, but I shun her and let my anger get the best of me.

This was my fault to bear alone, and as I opined in my cell after this foolish outbust, I had no one left to blame for the road that lay before my feet except myself. As much as I wanted her to be my savior, I realized my only hope to escape this inevitable end would be the truth; the truth that only I and one other person knew..not counting my fictitious friends.