Definitely one of my favorite themes is father/son-relationships, I could probably write a million one-shots about them. This is my newest one, which I really like and probably spent about four to five hours on in total.

The ending feels a bit rushed to me; please tell me what you think.

---

An Angel’s Eyes

---

He has an angel’s eyes, my son.

His irises a warm brown, they dominate his features, no one can look into his small face without sinking into them, losing themselves in them. In the semi-darkness they seem almost black, black pools of darkness that gaze into the universe without judgement, without prejudice. Distant light reflects in them, creating tiny specs of brightness – an untouched soul alight in this tainted world.

I could lose myself in those eyes forever.

I believe the angels traded them to him in exchange for his voice, because my son doesn’t speak. He watches readily and pays attention better than a boy his age should; but then, he is not like other boys in many respects. He learns quickly and can concentrate for hours on end – when he wants to. He isn’t stupid, he just doesn’t speak. The doctors don’t know why. They leave a lot of questions in his life unanswered.

He doesn’t care for doctors much. A lot of his short life he has spent being examined by doctors searching for the answers they are unable to provide. His unwillingness to speak is the least of their worries where my son is concerned.

The same can be said for me. That my son doesn’t use words to communicate is of no importance to me. He speaks through his eyes.

When he sees me, when those eyes focus on me, I lose my momentum. His smile bans all thoughts of harsh business into the back of my mind, and when he reaches up his thin arms, silently requesting to be held, that is all that matters to me.

My little boy with the eyes of an angel.

He doesn’t speak, he never speaks. He never makes a sound. His body is as thin and light as a feather, the way it has always been. He is often ill and spends a lot of time confined to his bed, but no matter how translucent his skin appears or how matted his hair is, his eyes are still bright and alive, as captivating as an endless sea. Beautiful as the midnight sky.

Dark hair falls into his forehead, wispy and fine like the rest of him. Some pair we make – his small body, looking so fragile, so destined to break, his white, smooth skin, his worn out face on which angry red blotches appear whenever he exhausts himself. Old ladies and friendly mothers adore him, they like to slip him sweets and candies, as if he needs sugar to poison his body when he can’t even finish his meals. He smiles when handed a lollypop, but I can see the attention wears him out, how he sways on his feet from exhaustion. I hold him in my arms and he curls up against my chest, tries to rest while the attention shifts to me. He must take after his mother, they say, and I can’t blame them. With my light eyes, my blond hair, my height we hardly appear to be from the same family. He certainly doesn’t take after me, but that doesn’t mean my late wife has bequeathed her appearance. He looks little like his mother and nothing like me. Is he even mine? I don’t care.

We spend little time together. I leave for work when the sun is still climbing the horizon. He sleeps in, needs all the rest he can get. He visits doctors during the day or rests. Sometimes he plays, but that is rare. Often, he spends the afternoon in bed as well before he is sent off to sleep several hours before I return. But sometimes, in the early hours, after I’ve sent the housekeeper home, when I’m sitting in my office, trying to get some more work done, I can hear his soft footsteps on the stairs. He appears in the doorway, his bare toes curling around the treshold, his book in his arms.

It was given to him on one of his few birthdays, I don’t remember which or by whom. It’s not even a children’s book. A poem, a poem to the angels, is written on the pages, two lines on each of them. Behind the letters, covering the paper are illustrations of angels. Beautiful, tall, heavenly angels, their faces serene and just. His fingers, thin and worn, are always curled around this book. It rests on his bedside table when someone has pried it from his hands as he slept. It’s the first thing he reaches for in the morning; he takes it to the doctors, to dinner, to his play group when he is well enough to go. When we go into town on Saturdays if I have time, it is inevitably stored in the back of the car, on his lap or in my bag. The edges are bent, the cover battered and torn, but he doesn’t mind. Every night, the book has to read to him. Without it, his eyes, his angel eyes, refuse to close. They stay open, stay bright and sleepless, regardless of other stories, of songs sung to him.

His dark eyes, contrasting his skin, search for me over the monitor of the computer. A thin smile forms on his face as his eyes meet mine, as he extends his arms to offer the book to me.

And then he is curled up in my lap, wrapped in a blanket I fetched for him. We sit on the couch together and as I read, his finger trails over the angels‘ faces, following the curve of their wings. His eyes are wide and alight with wonderment and adoration but, sure enough, when we reach the last page and I read the last lines, they droop shut and his breathing becomes more regular. As I hold the frail, light body in my arms, I stare at the last page that I leave untouched so as not to wake him. The words fill my thoughts as I look at them.

Angels, come and carry me
Carry me away

He grows even less communicative when he is admitted into the hospital. He sits upright in his bed when he hasn’t fallen asleep from exhaustion, his little head bowed. Around him, machines beep and flash, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Whenever I enter the room, he looks up. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t react to what I say, merely picks up the book and offers it to me with his outstretched arms. His eyes remain open, still the windows to a darkness I lose myself in. But they don’t focus anymore, the sparkle of his soul appears to grow dimmer every day. The iris is barely visible as he sits with the shades drawn, sits and waits for the moment I enter the room, open the book. Still his eyes won’t close. They only ever close when he is fast asleep, looking as peaceful as the lines etched into his face allow.

When he doesn’t have the strength to sit anymore, his eyes capture mine before they travel to the book on his bedside table. There are flowers, sweets, toys, but he doesn’t care for them. He doesn’t eat anymore, he doesn’t play. His eyes grow weaker every day until they find me by the sound of my voice, travel to the door merely because he knows where it is. Still, he only relaxes when I read the verses to him, only shuts his angel eyes when he hears the lines. He falls asleep when I say it, his breathing growing deeper, less frantic. As I shut the book, bury my face in my hands, the last lines echo on my head.

Angels, come and carry me
Carry me away

As the days pass, become a mere memory of happier times, he fades away. I can see his ribs when the doctors examine him, but he chokes on even the softest food. He withers, faster and faster. I hardly ever leave his side anymore, only when the doctors inform me of his newest development. Even then, I stand outside his room, watching him, watching his eyes that do not close. I do not need the words they tell me. I know. I can see it in his eyes.

I sleep with my head resting on his mattress, his hand lying next to mine. His lips slightly parted, his breathing comes in choked, painful gasps even when he sleeps. His eyes flicker under his eyelids as he dreams. Sometimes they snap open abruptly, and then I know it is time to reach for the book again.

His angel eyes are glazed, their light is slowly fading. Yet I can tell by his face he wants to hear it again. His breathing is shallow now, his heart beats only faintly. He can’t smile anymore. Motionless he lies, his eyes open but a gap, but they remain open as I read. My voice shakes no matter how hard I try to control it. Turning the pages, my fingers tremble as I read my son to sleep one more time.

I place an angel’s statue on his grave, a kneeling angel, his arms open in a welcoming embrace. I stand before it as they talk around me, pass meaningless phrases as comfort. I can’t bring myself to join in, I can only think that my son never spoke. I’m dazed; I stand without tears, without reaction. Time moves around me, without me. They offer their condolences, watch me, pity me with their empty words. I stand for hours, looking down at the statue and the earth underneath it as though I can see my son resting in the soil. His eyes are closed, I know that, as if he is asleep. Because they are only ever closed when he is asleep.

I manage a smile as the tears finally roll down my cheeks.

Sleep tight, my son. The angels will carry you home.