“And is it right, butterfly,
They like you better framed and dried?”

Butterfly, Tori Amos

Nine months. It may not seem like a long time to you, but when you’re carrying a baby and just want it out, it is. I was carrying a baby whose father I’d never met. Who I didn’t intend to love or care for. I was a surrogate mother. A very nice old couple wanted a baby, but neither could conceive. I was their salvation. Salvation. What an important word. A word of power. To be someone’s salvation is to be their angel. But how could their be angels in this world of drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll? The angels would be just as affected as we are. People say angels are pure, full of light and holiness. But we change them. We change them into twisted and gruesome shadows of their former self.

I see angels all the time. On street corners, in alleyways, and on the news. These angels have conformed to our ways. They are prostitutes. They are drug addicts. They are hit men and murders. But they are angels. If you look at them, you can tell. They have wisdom hidden behind their eyes, wisdom that no one else could possibly know. It is the wisdom of survivors. They have survived in our cruel society. They are angels.

Do I really want to bring a baby into this world, where even angels are no longer pure? No, I don’t. But I had no choice. It wanted out as much as I wanted it out. And so it came. She was tiny, and pink, and had better lungs than any lead singer of a rock band. She was ugly and beautiful, fragile and strong. Her hair was a shining halo around her little head. Nothing like my own gutter-brown. Perhaps she would be an angel some day. But I’ll never know.

She was too perfect for this world. Our world full of toxins and hate. Their was no longer a place for her. Her parents had died that morning. The circle of life, I suppose. I certainly couldn’t keep her. I did the only thing I could do. I ignored her when she cried, I didn’t feed her. And that night, when the competent members of the hospital staff had gone home to families and warm beds, I snuck out. I searched until I found tranquilizers, the kind they give to crazy people. I took as many as I could carry, and went back to her. She didn’t have a name. If I had named her she would be real and solid. But without a name, she simply drifted. I gave her a large dose, enough for two full grown men. I watched as her face relaxed, and her chest stopped moving.

I had saved her. I was her salvation. She wouldn’t have to grow up in this world where their wasn’t enough love to go around. I lay her gently in a bag, and checked myself out. A close friend of mine was a taxidermist. The next morning I took her to him, and he stuffed her for me. I bought her a small glass box, like Snow White’s. I lined it with satin, velvet, and silk, and put her down to sleep. People would always ask me as they walked into my house, where had I gotten that beautiful doll? I would simply smile and say, “She’s my baby.”

They never understood what I meant. But I knew. I knew I had saved her. Now I could name her. Her name is Angel, and she immortalized forever in her case. People will admire her beauty, but never be able to touch. To defile and ridicule. To hate and discriminate against. She is my angel, and she looks wonderful framed and dried.