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Angel of Death
There are places … hidden pockets in the less seen. In these places people live day to day, struggling to cope. Some call these places the ghettos. Others call slums. There are many names for these places. Whatever its title, is still a place called home by people living there. I am an angel of death. I go where they never die, helping them to accept death, and facilitating the struggle with life through death. This is a story that has stayed with me. One thought I could help others to see and feel what it is parallel to connect all people. Regardless of how or where you live are. An angel is, but I'm not blind to the suffering. Angels suffer the same as the human species, and may be touched by that as human beings. When I feel a need, I move toward her. While the need is accelerated to its peak, that intersect with it accordingly. It is a dance of time, eventually moving toward forward and backward, pulling the angel of death and death together from different directions, so that they can be there at the right time. Not always the work of the either way I have described. There are times when it comes before the time is ready. In those days, I see the story unfold. This is just such a moment, and this is how it developed …
The night her blanket had been established for many hours. I arrived near the homes of several squashed. Green houses that were tired patio looking old too little too little. The colors looked bleak and dry out. The street was dark. There was little light of street lamps, like most of them were broken or burned. The dogs were barking at random things unknown. Chances are barking at the rats that moved efficiently to reduce over the sides rats that ate food in the garbage is overfilled garbage cans. This road was little traveled in this time of night, though an intersection that regular traffic moving was visible from here. Sat mainly cars here in the blocks, and missing things like tires or doors. It's easy to see some do not even have engines. The smell of cabbage and puffs of perfumed the air shelter. Mix in the sound of the night was the sound of the voices of people up and down behind walls thin. I looked at the intersection with cars running and people walking. Horns occasionally be heard blaring from that direction. The contrast between this activity and inactivity of this street was very deep. I was in place that is supposed to be. I was in the exact place where needed. But the need that brought me here has not happened yet. So I waited, and looked at me.
Time is difficult to measure when no effect in any linear sense. I may have stood there by only a few moments or hours. Both reflect the same way as me. At some point I saw a woman, turn off the busy intersection and head down the dark street in my direction. He had a child with her. A boy who ran erratically between the front yards or front yards that were there to go, and trash filled road. Despite calling his mother and warnings not to go ahead, and to stay off the road, the boy continued doing what he wanted. Seemed quite young, perhaps in their environment to their thirties. Her skin was dark and wrapped his head with a colored cloth on the head. She wore a dress. A dress that was once bright, vibrant color and design. That the color and design seemed faded and worn, as if he had seen many washings from the time it was new. When I looked closer to the face, I saw that was wrong. This woman was younger then I first thought. Perhaps all of twenty years. He looked worn beyond his years. That sadness sent through my being. He had two bags of food in it. Above all the vegetables by the look of it. She was walking steadily, not hurry, but not dragging their heels well. The child was dressed in jeans and a white shirt that said, 'Little man in training ". His skin was clearer after the woman's skin and hair cut short on the head. When I looked closely at the face, it is obvious that this boy of about eight years was the son of the woman. While his mother was wearing a face tense and tired, the boy's face full of smiles and ran from one place to another. Its unusual form emanated so much energy and life, which was all which gave the animation in his mother's eyes, eyes that never once stopped monitoring the progress of young children. For this mother or the child reached there. There is nothing sad about the death. It is the same as living. Suffice to say, 'it is sad to have lived to put into perspective. It's never sad to live, is wonderful. But Sorrow is not left to those who survive death. In particular, when death comes without warning. Both mother and son were healthy and well. My heart sunk by one of these two. Death came without warning.
Like an angel, I saw. Not that I'm invisible Rather, it is only nature that are not seen because of you. If you want to see us simply. Mother and son came to where I was. In the distance, they heard the sound of engine revs and tires dry. She nodded in the direction of the sound. At the same time, instinctively calls his son with one arm extended towards him. His tone was calm the first time that beckoned to him. He kept running and playing, not to hear the change in her mother's voice. The sounds drew nearer. There was a noise of a fire engine that. It was moving toward the three of us very quickly. He hurried his steps toward the child, dropping the bags to free his hands. More sharply called him, and This time the boy heard his mother's fear in his voice. He stood only a few feet from me on the road near the sidewalk. He turned back toward me, arms hanging freely in the body slightly, and looked at his mother's confusion. The young woman's face was taut with fear. It closed in the child to pull him away from danger she felt was so close. The blast moving car in sight, screaming and sliding on the rubber protesting in a corner behind me. The sound of the cries of the occupants was mixed with motor audible protest, because the speed towards us. He bent to pick the child, his eyes passing over me. A cloud of confusion passed over his face, he saw me briefly. In their urgency, they rejected what he thought he saw. The panic was etched in the lines of wrinkles on the forehead. The car was almost upon us. The child loose in her mother's arms. Return traffic, which made efforts to find safety outside the car recklessly approaching. There was the sound of gunfire and the acceleration and screaming, both from the car and the young mother. She fell backward, his arms tightly around her little one. The car outside the busy intersection at speed and disappeared. The dogs up and down the street were barking and barking loudly. Then the sound of the moans of the young drowned them all. His son was beaten by one of the bullets.
I watched. Vi climb to a standing position and a half. Not once put aside his dominance over his son. His body moved like a rag doll in her arms. His head fell down to search him, was repeating his name over and over again. Her voice breaking and dawn load understanding of what just happened. The blood was already covered his forearms from the bullet hole in the back of the child. His head rocked back, mouth slightly open, wild eyes starring nothing yet. She began to gulp in air. His own eyes had grown so much. His skin became pale and wax. Shook his son and called his name again. He shook harder and called his name louder. His little body bounced but empty of life. He saw the blood had leaked all over my arms, and that was their color dress. That's when she started screaming. Their cries were loud and laced with so much pain. Her lips are retired, baring his teeth, his eyes closed so tightly as to block what he saw, his head fell back, the veins standing on her neck, her screams sounds were average, half-words. She was crying against what had happened to her son. He rocked his body back and forth, swaying and shouting and filled with much pain. They opened the doors of nearby houses, and other mothers began to run without your help. Their faces reflect the horror that had spotted the young mothers face. His cries and shouts of denial merge with it.
The soul of the child and had floated away, safe from further harm. It is for the mother was there. It was from her that would give some comfort. That's what I do. To me I fell down at his side. I put my arms around his body and small while rolled. My own face was wet, his eyes filled with tears. I shook her, and kissed her head softly. She turned her face in the direction she felt my kiss of origin. Her eyes opened slowly, the cries grew weaker. He saw my face, sad face and family. He shook his head from left to right in proposed short jerks. No! No! "she pleaded. "Do not take him!" "Do not take my little man!" 'He's … all .. I.. have .. Slowly he leaned over and kissed her forehead. His body was hard, but only for a second. Then his head fell on my chest and began to mourn a cry in earnest. As when a child cries. The kind of cry that built pain free. My arms still wrapped tightly around her, I gave what comfort he could. And I cried the same cry with her.
So is the story that stays with me. Part of what my soul. This young woman's son was torn from his life, and I think always. Is in this story that I convey to you my wisdom. No matter who, no matter where one lives, no matter how one lives, the pain is always the same. Rich or poor, when death comes without warning, that captivates the minds of those who survive her. The young mother is the history we now share, is changed forever by their loss. A void in the place of his son … your little man. Is everyone's responsibility to help fill that void with her own love and empathy. To feel with it and suffer with her and comfort her. Even if you never meet face to face. Close your eyes now, and feel what you feel. Feel what you feel now. And get to it, and others like her. Give them your love. Give them comfort. They will receive it. I am the angel of death, I do not cheat on this. Your comfort will make a world of difference.
About the Author
I like to write things down. What more can be said. The stories speak for themselves, or so I think. Ultimately, I am only a road of thought. It is the vehicles of story that deserve the greatest attention…and the passengers they carry.
