To Turn a Young Mind

A mini story by Silvan A Elendal

I walk along the road in a daze, not looking where I’m going. No one notices me, this small boy all alone on a weekend day. They think I am alone. I am not alone. The Angel walks beside me, his long golden hair that should drag on the pavement floats around his knees, buoyed up by some holy wind. I can’t tell what colour his eyes are. They are iridescent and glowing, shimmering and beautiful, something like the aurora borealis seen through smoky crystal and clear moonlit water.

I’m going to take you to meet someone.

I can still hear the voices and the thoughts of all the humans around me, the shit and hatred and betrayal. But they are dimmed down, almost silenced by a calm sort of static, like the white noise off the end of the radio dial playing with hymns. I know it must be the Angel. A woman walks past and her head and heart are full of thoughts of love. Not lust. Love. The power of it almost knocks me down.

It is like this everywhere we go. All the horror is dull, there most certainly, but I can’t focus on it for all the good that’s happening. A man with a paper is dreaming of the morning sunrise, a couple kiss and all they can think of is each other. I’ve never concentrated on the good things before, only the bad.

I can’t walk with you forever.

I know.

I want to help you, but I can’t. Not without help. Come and see.

We pass down a street and turn into a dead end. There is a black door, scratched and charred set into the brick at the end. As we draw near I can hear the screams in my head, a whorl of stress and pain and torment. But in a strange way it’s a quiet pleasant sound, mixing with the squeals of tyres and the crying. It seems to pain the Angel who stops.

You must go on alone. I will watch you.

Thank you. I go to him and hug him, my arms round his waist. Thank you, thank you.

Then I go, I walk to the door and it opens for me. The interior is dark and bloody looking but beautiful with rich cloths thrown everywhere. It all looks haphazard but forms rooms, doors and a throne. Seated on the throne is a figure of black and blood and flames, his wings splayed out behind him. He holds out his arms to me, the Angel smiles encouragement and I run forward, enfolded in this embrace.

I’m home, I’m home.

Never again do I hear thoughts. Only words.