Okay, I know that I've posted this before but the other one had something strange happen to the paragraphs so I re-did it myself.

Proud?

Totally.

A MOUNTAIN of thanks to my beta jjwitdaheydiddydiddy.

Read&Review guys

Purple

He had a discipline problem.

No one could really tell him what to do—I witnessed that first-hand.

But obviously someone got annoyed at him and decided to send him… an envelope.

In it was a photograph.

He sighed, then walked over to his window and peered outside carefully and slowly; as if hoping he could catch the mysterious messenger in the act. The street was empty, but then again, he hadn’t expected them to hang around. He looked back down at the photo in his hands, and couldn’t, for the life of himself, figure out what it meant. There was a girl holding out her arms as far as they would go, and beneath, in neat, curly purple handwriting: “‘T’ is for ‘Train.’”

He closed his eyes, and hoped that when he opened them, it would all make
sense. It didn’t. He frowned, and with a flick of his wrist, the photograph was discarded.
’Whoever sent it,’ he mused, shaking his head in anger, ‘mustn’t be all that right in
the head.’

--

The next day passed normally enough—he went to school—seven stops on the train, followed by a brief walk to the building. During the day, he’d only snapped at three people (a personal best), and paid no attention in class (as always). He didn’t need school. His future had already been decided for him, anyway—that’s usually what happens when your family owns one of the biggest oil-mining companies in the country.

It is at this time that one might ask, “If he’s so wealthy, why does he take a train to school?” He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he had actually taken the advice of the photograph. And boy, had he hated it.

Going home by train again, he growled. Why would he be so stupid as to take public transport? It did not agree with him and he had a CAR for God’s sake. ‘Never again,’ he vowed. Never again was he going to be swayed by a mere photograph.

There was another letter when he got home, in the same coloured envelope. There was no address on the front or back (he hadn’t expected one), but all the same, he felt a shiver. Ripping open the flimsy paper, another photo fell out, this time smaller. Picking it up, he frowned and turned his head to the side, trying to make sense of it. This time, it showed a tree trunk with the letter ‘R’ etched into it. “’R’ is for ‘Running.’” He snorted and flicked the photo onto the floor to join the one from the day before.

He wanted to know who was sending him the photos; to straighten them out and yell until he was black and blue in the face. But it left him to wonder…

What did it all mean?

He drove to school the next day, keeping his vow to never ‘indulge’ in public transport ever again. He stopped at a red light, and checked his watch. It read 8:40. He had five minutes to get to school. The lights changed, but the car in front didn’t budge. The horn was blasted. It didn’t help the situation.

After two minutes, the car finally moved and as he cruised past angrily, the woman gave an apologetic smile and embarrassed wave—her car had broken down.

The last few blocks were driven in questionable legality and as soon as he’d parked, he bolted up the hill to the school building. Halfway up said hill, he growled again at his own stupidity. He was actually RUNNING. Those pictures were like…fortune-telling or something.

Are you wondering why he was rushing to school if he doesn't really think school was important?

Well, wonder no more as our –well, not poor; he was rather wealthy– protagonist had been tardy so many times before, that more lateness would result in…wait for it… suspension!

Drum roll, please.

He reached the front office, signed in, and puffed his way to class. He stopped outside of the classroom to allow his breathing to normalize, and burst into the room, making his grand entrance. He shuffled arrogantly to his seat at the back of the classroom, noticing with glee that every eye was on him.

Well, every eye but one.

--

The next three photographs forced him to let go of his fortune-telling theory. They were, all in chronological order, complete gibberish. The first was a hand holding out three fingers, and the same purple writing handwriting announcing “‘E’ is for ‘Elephant.’” He didn’t meet an elephant. The next was a pair of Y-front underwear proudly proclaiming “‘Y’ is for ‘Yellow.’” He was definitely a boxers-person. The third, and most bizarre, depicted a key, of a very old-fashioned persuasion, telling him that “‘I’ is for ‘Infamous.’” They didn’t make any sense to him at all. What elephant? Yellow? And infamous?

He just didn’t get it…

…and neither did I.

Until later.

--

The week after, there was an envelope every day. Under every picture was the same purple, curly handwriting announcing information that made no sense to him at all. It was complete crazy-talk. And he stewed in his own anger for a week.

He tried to catch the letter-bearer by hiding in the shrubs near the front gate on Sunday. It seemed like the perfect plan at the time. Even I could see that it was a stupid idea—he had been receiving anonymous letters for almost a fortnight, and whoever sent them hadn’t come this far just to be ousted by such a simple ploy.

But stubborn and self-righteous as he was, he camped out there for almost an hour. Just as his curiosity lost the war against his patience, Nigel, the security guard at the gate, left his post, walked over to the mailbox, and dropped an envelope in, checking for unwanted eyes.

Nigel didn’t notice the blue ones peeking from the shrubs.

He returned back to the guard’s box, and the boy in the shrubs shuddered. ‘Nigel couldn’t be the one behind these letters, he just couldn’t!’ He couldn’t imagine Nigel with curly, purple handwriting and a fetish for letter-writing or photography.

No, it couldn’t be Nigel!

He straightened up, letting the blood to flow back to his leg, as he mentally rehearsed the conversation he would soon be having with Nigel.

Before he knew it, he had stridden over to the box, and was knocking on the window. Nigel opened it, and before any pleasantries were exchanged, a demand was thrown into their barely three-second-long conversation.

“Who sent that letter?”

Nigel feigned stupidity (was it feigned?) “I don’t know what—”

“Listen, the way this works is I talk, and you tell me what I need to know.”

“I really don’t know, I get them from Hank.”

“Who?” “The cook, or chef, or whatever you want to call him.”

“And where is he today?”

“He’s sick, and will be for the next week…” Nigel blinked trustworthily.

An eyebrow was raised to challenge the statement, but it was no use; the battle was lost.

But, as he shuffled dejectedly up the driveway, he grinned nefariously to himself.

You know what they say about battles and wars.

--

He kicked a stray pebble in the courtyard. “And where is mother this week?” “New York. Then onto Tokyo on Wednesday night,” someone informed him. His mother was hopping around the world, visiting all global offices for their annual assessment; running the business and ensuring his son’s every need and want was catered to at the same time. (Honestly though, if I were worth that much, I would learn to multitask, too).

He nodded, faking concern for his mother’s whereabouts.

They (and I) knew that he didn’t give a damn.

He looked over the orchard that was beckoning him, and changed course. He flopped down into the shade of some sort of fruit tree (his personal assistant’s presence only a few metres away), and began to think of the funny pictures.

‘What could they mean?’

It didn’t reflect on him personally (he wasn’t the type to take photographs). Therefore, it puzzled him more.

‘Why photos? Why not a letter?’

He didn’t realise at the time that it was only for dramatic effect. Photographs elicit a different response in us than letters, and even more-so when they are cryptic. Then it hit him, and he couldn’t believe that he had been so damn STUPID. His anger and slight embarrassment had usurped his rationality.

He had left the last letter in the mailbox.

Before he knew it, he was sprinting down the driveway towards said mailbox. He paused, stopping for breath, before he opened the mailbox lid slowly. His hand gripped the metal a little more tightly than necessary. Peering inside, he felt like kicking himself.

It had already been collected.

This time, he didn’t run back up the driveway (he had become quite tired, if one couldn’t tell from the sweat, redness, and fatigue arresting his limbs). He pushed through the heavy front doors, heading straight for the front table, and stopped.

The table was empty, save for a stupid bouquet of flowers (no doubt from one of his mother’s many admirers). No envelopes. No letters. No pictures.

Damn it! (Or, if you like, in German, ver dammt).

--

He didn’t like it at all—not one bit.

He took the thirteen pictures in his hands, and spread them out before him. He’d finally found the last one, sitting on the table in his room where the twelve others had been found.

God, he was such an idiot.

He invested all of his attention in the thirteen photographs (well actually, the last one wasn’t a photo) which made no sense to him. He should have stopped this at the beginning. Now he was in too deep to give up, even if he wanted to. Besides, he didn’t “do” giving up.

--

So he was there.

But the purple-letter-writer wasn’t.

The letter told him to be there, making sure he wasn’t late.

And like a girl, he had obsessed over the meeting.

Obsessed over whether he should gel his hair or leave it tousled, obsessed over whether he should wear bright colours or dark, obsessed over whether his teeth were straight enough…

In the end, he had left his hair alone, donned black from head-to-toe, and found his teeth presentable after years of corrective surgery.

It was already ten minutes past the appointed time.

Then it was twenty.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-eight. After thirty minutes, he was just getting ready to leave when a little girl, no older than seven or eight walked shyly up to him.

“Um, someone told me to give you this.” She held out a piece of paper, folded in half. He looked at it and could already see purple handwriting soaking through the fibres. Taking it with his eyebrows raised, he held it for a second –maybe two– and turned to ask the kid who’d given it to her.

But, with a growl, he realized that it was too late, as he saw not but the back of the girl’s head bobbing up and down into the busy street.

He opened the paper, frustration and curiosity washing over him.

”Meet me at Stella’s.”

‘Stella’s?’ But that was on the other side of town—where you were either nobody, or well on you way to becoming nobody; where the streets were filled with despair, and the stench of the underclassmen; where you could buy a companion for two hours with a fifty and still get change!

There was absolutely no way he was going out there.

--

The bright neon lights signaling the shop Stella's was misleading. Old, dusty, and misleading. The shop was, in no way, a “Stella.” Maybe a “Scarlett” or a “Taylor,” but most certainly not a “Stella.”

He pushed open the door to the tattoo parlour, the smell of animals hitting him instantly. Tethered to a nail drummed into the wall was a white, shaking goat. “Got your eyes on Stella, have you?” A stout woman at a desk nodded to the goat, while filing her nails.

“I'm supposed to meet someone here,” he stated with decreasing confidence.

“Yeah, that makes sense. This is a tattoo parlour,” the woman smirked up at him. He just stared blankly back. “Never mind,” she looked back down at her nails. “He got a name?”

“Err, no, I was just told to come here,” he shuddered, and held his nose at the smell.
A goat…indoors. Preposterous.

“Right. Was it a girl?” The woman sniffed, and as she shifted, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo on her upper arm. In neat, black writing was the word “Grace.”

“Yes, do you know her?” He looked down at the goat that was starting to chew on a piece of lettuce noisily.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know girls like that. Came in looking out of place, just like you, asking me for a favour.”

“What favour?”

She placed her nail file neatly on the table, and rummaged under a few stacks of paper. “Let me see…I know it’s here somewhere...where did I…?”

He looked down at the goat again as it moved onto half a carrot. Was that humane? Indoors?

“Got it!” she proclaimed proudly. “She’s got the neatest writing, I swear.” He could feel his heart leaping. Neat handwriting?

He was offered the piece of paper, folded in two, like it was stolen pirate gold. He didn’t need two guesses as to what colour the writing was.

He thanked the lady (who just smiled in return), and as he exited the store, he flipped open the thin sheet of paper.

”George’s café. Ask for Bryant. Tell him you need the jalapenos.”

He frowned at the instruction. Were they serious? Jalapenos?

In the car, he kept asking himself what he was doing. Where was he going? And for what? Later, he would admit that his curiosity was just too strong.

When he pulled into the parking lot of the well-known café, he slammed the car door shut behind him and frowned, still in disbelief of his actions as of late.

All because of some silly pieces of paper.

If only we both knew that it wasn’t so silly.

--

“Err, is there a Bryant here?” he asked nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Sure, I’ll just go grab him for you.” The short Asian waitress smiled kindly at him as she left the desk and exited into a door marked “Staff Only.”

He didn’t wait long before the Asian girl returned. Just behind her was a young-looking guy, close to his own age, who nodded and smiled. “What can I do for you, mate?”

He didn’t know anyone who called him “mate.”

“Umm, I was sent for the… err, jalapenos.” He felt like a fool saying it, even though he had practiced it in the car over and over again.

“So she sent you? Instead of coming down here herself. Lazy bugger.” Bryant laughed, his deep Australian inflection slightly annoying.

“Yeah, right.” He collected the jar of green vegetables and was about to exit the café, when Bryant called to him, “You know, they say if you eat enough jalapenos, it can cure cancer.”

‘What an odd piece of information,’ he thought, but he just nodded curtly. “Thanks.”

He exited the small café and stared at the jar of jalapenos. What was he supposed to do now?

“Oi! Hold up, I almost forgot to give you this!” Bryant came chasing after him, waving a piece of paper. “She said it was important.”

He smiled at took it from the guy. “Thanks.”

“No problem—any friend of hers is a friend of mine.”

‘But I'm not her friend,’ he wanted to say. Instead, he just nodded and got into his car. He unfurled the sheet of plain white paper, a twin to the others in his pocket, and read its contents.

”Got the jalapenos? Good. My favourite place in the world is the fountain near Hudson Park, near the old courthouse.”

He groaned. “Not another one,” he mumbled to himself. He put the car into drive, and programmed Hudson Park into his GPS. It was almost four in the afternoon when he reached Hudson Park . The grey clouds were starting to roll in and children with their mothers were starting to leave. Being winter, it was getting dark at the worst hours.

The fountain wasn’t hard to find. He stood in front if it, listening intently to the water’s cascade.

So where was he supposed to find his next note?

A flash of white caught his eye, but it was only a chip packet being carried along in the wind. Frustrated, he sat down on the rim of the fountain and didn’t even care that spots of water were splashing out and hitting the back of his black jacket. What was he supposed to do? There was no lady-at-Stella’s or Bryant’s this time to help him, or hand his clues to him on a silver platter.

So he sat at the fountain and waited for something–anything, or anyone, to pay him any attention. It was nearing four-thirty when he finally gave up. Don’t take it the wrong way, he had tried many times to, but he was just too curious.

Honestly, if it had been me, I would have left as soon as I had arrived and realised that I was sitting at a dead-end.

Actually, after the Stella clue, I would have just ignored it and gone home.

Having given up on his twisted quest, he trudged dejectedly back to his car. Only to beam in happiness as he noticed one of the infamous notes clamped between the wipers of his car. Picking it up, he hoped it wasn’t a parking ticket, though he wasn’t doing anything illegal to his knowledge. Flipping open the note, he saw the purple scrawl, and groaned.

“Not something mysterious again, please, I beg of you!”

”Hospital visiting hours end at five. You’d better hurry.”

’Hospital?? Who was in the hospital?’ There were about ten hospitals in the city, both private and public, how was he supposed to find the right one? Getting into the car, he slammed the door shut and searched on his GPS for the nearest hospitals. There were two that were ten minutes away, one in the direction of the city, and one in the opposite direction. He thought for a couple of seconds, then put the car into drive and sped off towards the city. Halfway there, he made a pact to himself that if both hospitals proved to be unsuccessful, he would give up, go home and watch TV. The game was on, anyway.

--

He pulled the car into a parking space, and secretly hoped that whoever was sending him the funny instructions was here. He rose slowly out of his car, and it suddenly hit him like that proverbial tonne of bricks. Only it wasn’t only is own stupidity that had become obvious—it had also started raining.

’Perfect,’ he thought to himself, and ran under cover. But he wasn’t as angry as he could’ve been. He had figured it out. He knew who was in the hospital. Or, a hospital. He wondered why he hadn’t figured it out before. I suppose the self-absorbed types are all like that.

Waltzing into the hospital like he owned the place, he marched confidently up
to the receptionist’s desk. “What time do visiting hours end?” He flashed a dazzling smile, and I cringed at the insincerity.

“Eight thirty, darl.”

He swore under his breath and smiled to cover it up. “No worries, then.”

He turned around on the spot and held his head high, exiting the hospital. He chewed on the side of his lip, as he got back into his car and drove to the other hospital. By the time he arrived, his lip was bruised and was starting to ache.

This time, he walked into the hospital with a little less confidence. “When do visiting hours end?” he asked with feigned politeness and threw a smile at the girl.

“Five,” the receptionist sugarcoated back, smiling widely.

“Great, thanks,” he walked away and stood in front of the elevators.

Even when the elevator pinged!, he could feel the eyes of the receptionist on his back. ‘Girls,’ I thought. All bloody checking him out. I don’t know how he knew which floor to get off at, he just did. He sighed a bit, and walked down the almost empty, too-clean hallway.

He soon reached a door marked “Oncology,” and pushed it open. The room full of children, ranging from age 6 to 20, all looked up at him. He didn’t realise it, but every single one of them was hoping that he was there to tell them that he had miraculously found a cure for cancer, every single one.

He nodded uncomfortably, and I wondered how he knew where he was going. That made me realise that I didn’t know him at all.

So I guess this is the part of the story where I explain about myself and what I do.

I'm a guardian angel.

Go on, have a laugh, but I'm serious.

And the guy walking towards a curtained off bed is my responsibility.

First off, to dispel some common myths, not everyone gets to be a guardian angel. You either go to heaven, hell, or become one of us. But I’ve never been told what's ‘up there’ or ‘down there’; (they keep it a real good secret upstairs), but I do know that I can't die.

Ever.

It’s not like I didn’t get a choice though, I did. Just before the pearly gates or whatever, I was asked by a very polite short woman, who was probably only as tall as my shoulder, if I wanted to become one. And I agreed, after reading the fine print. I mean, the perks are that I get these cool powers such as invisibility, and the ability to get anywhere within a few seconds.

But there are some…disadvantages.

For example, there is no taste. Think chocolate, think coke, think iced tea. And I don’t
get to taste any of that stuff for the rest of…well I’d say my life, but...

It’s not like I need to eat or anything, but it would be nice to retain some semblance of humanity.

Secondly, I don’t stay with one person for all of his or her life. I move on when they have learned a valuable life lesson, or they have accomplished something terrific in their life.

And thirdly, to finally set the record straight, I don’t support a head of blonde cherubic curls and bright blue eyes. I was born in the poorest corner of Hong Kong to Chinese parents who decided that they had enough, thank-you-very-much, and emigrated to Australia. Smart move, I have to say. That also meant that I was brown eyes and black hair all around. I have asked the good Lord upstairs to at least let me change my hair colour, but at the moment he’s not returning my calls.

I’ve been on Earth with my assignment for only a month, therefore I shouldn’t be expected to really know him all that well… but I could sense that whatever was behind that curtain wasn’t good.

Nearing the pale blue curtains, he stopped, and I noticed that he was breathing slightly hard, like he had been holding his breath. Where was that letter writer?

He gripped the edge of the curtains and paused again.

Was he sure?

Probably not, but with a flourish, he pulled open the curtains to reveal a skinny girl swathed in the white sheets with three tubes protruding from her nose, mouth and chest. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled weakly. “Trey, you made it,” she croaked softly.
“Lilly?” he gulped. He had no idea she was here. No wonder she stopped turning up to class. “Are you the..?” he let the question hang in mid air.

She shook her head slightly. “No,” she laughed slightly. “But she told me not to tell you.”

He frowned, getting tired of this pursuit. “Lilly, who is it?”

She smiled mischievously. “Not telling, Trey. Visiting hours are over.”

“Lilly,” he started, but he knew she was right.

“I'm so tired, Trey—” she gasped slightly. “You don’t mind just pulling the curtain shut behind you, do you?”

“No, not at all,” he mumbled, disappointed. “Sleep tight, Lil.”

“Trey?”

He turned around, hope fluttering in his eyes for just a second. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for visiting me today. Here.” Slowly, she pulled out a piece of white paper. “It’s the last one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I suppose you’ve been on a wild goose chase today, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He sighed.

“Yeah, well, drive safely.” She closed her eyes to give him a hint.

“Thanks.” He pulled the curtain shut, again wondering who it could be sending him the letters.

“Okay, last one. Herbert building, Elisabeth St. Rooftop.”

And suddenly it hit him. The building, the pictures, the writing and the girl.

How could he have not realised it sooner?

He ran out into the car park, fumbling with his keys. He was in such a hurry that he didn’t put his seatbelt on, no matter how much I willed him to—but it was in the rule book that I wasn’t to do things for them. He reversed so quickly that I was almost thrown out of the window and I cast him a scathing look.

“Slow down, you lunatic.” I muttered, fully aware that he couldn’t hear me. He just put his foot down on the accelerator and concentrated on the road.

“God, how could I have been so stupid?” he cursed at himself.

“Calm down, then.” I mumbled; the complete silence aggravating.

“It was so obvious! So damn obvious!”

“Really? Care to share?”

He didn’t care to share, just cared about breaking as many road laws available.

I was shocked. “You know, people usually do as I say—that’s what I'm here for,” I said with no reaction.

Suddenly, the whole car was flooded with white light and he slammed on the brakes. “What the..?” His eyes were on me.

I felt fear and fear seemed to cancel out all the heavenly abilities I was bestowed with. He could see me, hear me and feel me. For a split second, I saw the fear flash in his eyes, followed by anger, and finally regret.

I knew he should have secured his seat belt, because the next second, he went flying through the windshield.

--

If there was ever a time to follow the rules, then that wasn’t it. I moved quickly, and knelt down near him. His breathing was ragged, and blood –sticky and thick– was gushing from wounds that I couldn’t see under the flow.

Gingerly, I lifted his head and I knew he could fully see me now; people close to death usually can. I felt extreme disappointment—it was my duty to keep him safe; he was my responsibility and I had failed.

“Aren't you hurt?” he groaned, eyes closing slowly.

“I can't die again.” Around me I could hear the siren of an ambulance, and the panic. But I knew they were all too late. He could see me.

“Am I going to die?”

The innocent question filled me with dread. And I lied. “Of course not.”

“What’s death like?”

“It’s a little itchy and uncomfortable, but it’s all okay in the end,”

I stroked his hair, something girls all over town only dreamt of doing.

“Just relax,” I tried calming him.

His bright blue eyes looked back up at me, and I smiled at him. “You’ll be okay.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. “You lie.” And he closed his eyes for the last time.

With one last shuddering breath, every single ounce of life left his body, and I was left there, holding onto the shell of a boy once so full of life and determination.

It was a general rule not to get too attached to the subject, because after all, they can die, and you can't, but this one…

I looked over at his car, the metal twisted into shambles, the hood slightly smoking, and a truck wedged into the side. I felt my eyes tearing up, and I willed my self not to cry. I closed my eyes, but alas, no tears came forth.

Thank God.

I lowered his head softly onto the ground, though it was littered with glass. I knew I was going to be summoned back to the “office” in less than two minutes to receive my next assignment, but I wanted to see the building for myself; to see what he was rushing towards so urgently.

It took me about four seconds to get there, onto the roof of the Herbert building.

At first, I didn’t see anything or anyone, until I spotted a small figure hunched against the side of the roof, huddled against the cold and rain.

“Come on Trey, come on.” She muttered to herself.

I felt sorry for the poor girl, not knowing that he was—that he was…

“He’s dead.” I said, the words weighing heavier than they should.

“He’s not coming.”

“I lied—I lied when I said that I hated you.”

“It’s too late,” I said gently, my heart sinking.

“Is it too late? Are you even coming?” her voice cracked and angrily, she wiped at her cheek.

“He couldn’t make it.”

A bright yellow light appeared suddenly next to me, but thankfully the girl couldn’t see it.

“Take care,” I told her sadly.

And I walked into the light, enveloping the warm fuzzy feeling. With a tug, I was pulled into unknown space and what felt like a second later, there was a ping! and I was pushed out of the warm, yellow light, and thrust into a brighter, harsher, white light.

I stumbled and almost tripped.

“Watch out,” a familiar voice laughed at me.

“Tony!” I embraced my supervisor warmly and tightly. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too, darl’. We have a surprise for you.”

He led me into a room where, sitting at a desk with his arms crossed arrogantly over his chest, and a bright smile on his face, was—

“Trey!” I yelled, astonished. “When did you get here?”

“About two minutes ago, actually.”

“It’s not every day someone gets chosen to become a guardian, what-?” I turned back to Tony.

“He’s going to be your new assistant.” He filled in the blanks.

“I don’t need an assis—” I stopped at the look on his face. “Okay.”

“Your first assignment…” Tony motioned toward a screen that was built into the wall. In an extreme close-up, there was the girl huddled on the roof that I had visited not three seconds earlier.

Trey stood up, shock evident on his face. “Diana.”

I turned to Tony. “Why her?”

He pointed to Trey. “He’ll fill you in on that.”

I looked over at Trey, and wondered what else I didn’t know about him.

“Alright, you leave now.” Tony gave me a meaningful look. “Don’t fail.”

I knew what he meant, and with an intent look at Trey, I nodded. “Right.”