A Guardian Angel Read Free

water drifted through the trees as the children
squeezed past them. A deep and luscious pond swirled at the heart of
the clearing. A thin stream ran to the opposite side of the water
from a source high behind the hill. While foaming bubbles churned in
the young current, the light blues mixed with the darker ones. Wind
played like dancing hummingbirds through the leaves of the trees. The
rustle was low, the trickle was high.
    The children
beamed. Their faces pointed outward as they tried to absorb the
scene. “This is really beautiful, isn't it, guy?” Max
said.
    “It is,”
Andy replied.
    “Are you
still scared?”
    “I don't
know.”
    “Kinda?”
Max asked.
    “Yeah.
Kinda.”
    The memory faded
there.
    He dipped down low
into a bow before resting the tulips where the stone met the grass.
He stayed down there for a moment, almost wishing he could sink down
into the ground and be reunited with the most important person in his
life. This didn't last long before he snapped back up and looked at
the grave. It looked nice now with the yellow tulips detracting from
the overabundance of gray. It looked like something Max could sigh
to, a final sigh before he was truly at peace.
    Max may be at
peace, Andy thought, but I am not. For that, he took one
of the tulips for himself.
    Softly did his feet
tread as he walked away from the sight, the tulip held in between his
loose fingertips. The cab driver waited for him and for that Andy
handed him a crisp new fifty-dollar bill when he climbed in the back.
He directed the taxi home, a good hour away. He wrote the check for
fifty dollars over the fare and took himself and his luggage up to
his apartment.
    Andy's apartment
sported style, sacrificing space for class at the same price of both.
A spacious loft above a boutique on the corner of the block, it had
already been furnished before he ever set eyes on the brass door
handles. The entire interior seared whiteness, as if to point out
every speck of grime or layer of dust that accumulated in his
frequent absences. A decorative waterfall trickled from its spot in
the hallway wall. It made him anxious, but he cared too little to
remove it. The lamps were very decorative; the tall metal ones bended
in strange angles so they seemed more unique. The shorter ones were
made of stained glass. The type of stuff that ruins your day when it
breaks.
    Andy threw the
tulip into a vase on his nightstand and rested his luggage at the
foot of his bed. From it he retrieved his deep purple bathrobe and
slipped out of his clothes. He had received a large gash along his
upper left arm that he didn't notice until now as it screamed pain at
him when he deftly tossed his shirt off. Not too deep, Andy
observed. No stitches.
    Water rolled off of
him as if it preferred not to be on him for too long. However, it
still soothed as he showered. He needed to wash off every bit of St.
Petersburg that made the trip with him. How he loathed that city. And
how he just wanted to weep. No one would be able to hear him. He
might as well have just done it and gotten over with it, but he felt
unable to cry. His eyes felt dried and his heart just felt cold. Try
though he might, he couldn't shed a tear. He was a killer. Not a
philosopher.
    He clicked on the
television before seeing the news channel and turning it off again.
Escape was impossible within reality. His fingers danced over his
collection of movies until he found a favorable Mel Brooks film, to
which he fell asleep in the late morning.

    Andy was dreaming.
He felt that fact nagging at him in the back of his head, but he
dismissed it and continued his walk down the dark, snowy streets. The
night sent pleasant shudders down his spine, warm but hollow, like a
crystalline dream scape. He needed the burgundy suit he wore so well,
but it didn't warm him up too much either so there was little
sacrifice in looking this good. He carried with him a box of
chocolates, the really good kind that you can't even find in a
department