Fishnet Angel

Imagine a cold, dim room.  The lights here have been flickering for years.  They buzz when they come on, but even then, they only shed the sickliest of light.  It discolors the skin, makes you nauseous.  When they go out, you feel the ghosts.

You find yourself in this room, wandering.  It is cold, and the shapes of the furniture are hostile, human.  The piano has slumping shoulders, it eyes you in the dark.  The chairs face each other in a sinister way, and you feel that they are conspiring against you.  Maybe they will rearrange themselves and block your exit when you try to leave.  Maybe.

You give up.  You sit down, and put your head in your hands.  You have been here countless times before, and the chills that run up your spine are nothing new.  Someone is watching you, the energy field of the room is surrounding you, pressing in on all sides, the very atoms of the floor, the walls, the framed pictures are staring at you with bright, feverish eyes.  You shiver involuntarily and look up.  And there she is.

She floats in the corner of the room, up near the ceiling by the high, crooked windows.  She is lovely.  She has opulent wings, crimson and heavy, soft like satin or expensive mink.  They flutter just barely, keeping her aloft, and one of her small feet is tucked up near the other knee.  She seems to be looking at something just out of your sight, a small insect on the wall, or perhaps the way the wooden beams meet near the ceiling.  Then she begins to float down.

You watch in awe.  She emanates warmth and peace, and your heart perks up, strains forward, and softens all at once.  It wants to receive her energy, the nearly visible aura of warm yellow light she gives off.  She floats down and one extended toe touches the ground.  Then, like a twirling summer flower dropping from a tree, both her feet touch the ground and she collapses pleasantly, softly, her wings spreading out like colorful petals on the ground.  Up close, you see that they are as soft as baby chicks, downy and rich and deep crimson red.  You want to reach out and touch them, but your reverence is too great, you haven’t been invited yet.  So you lie down beside her and watch.

She still hasn’t turned her face toward you.  But lying beside her on the floor, you can inspect her very carefully, all the while taking deep, relaxing breaths that make your eyelids heavy, and a smile come to your lips.  She has blonde hair, and her roots are dark brown.  She wears black fishnet stockings, and you see that her toenails are painted red.  Her skin is deeply tanned, almost orange, like she has been lying in tanning beds for several months now.  The way her face is turned, you can see part of her profile, though none of her features.  Her skin is rather broken, bumpy, and it is the same color as the skin on her arms and legs- orangey, like a California babe who has gotten too much sun.

You breathe, and you breathe.  Suddenly the room that has been icy cold for years is warm.  You relax.  Warmth makes you relax.  You stretch out a hand and touch her wing.  It pulses with heat and life, and you melt.  You can feel the tendons under your fingers, the downy fur that covers them.  Her wings are so alive, it is mesmerizing and electrifying all at once.  It is as though there is a direct energy channel between your hand and her wing, and you open up and allow that warm, peaceful, vibrant energy to enter your body.  She is salvation, she is a savior, and as long as she is here, you are safe.  As long as you can touch her wings, feel her presence, all is well.  Your body is electrified, but in a very soft, soothing way.  You are extremely alive, but utterly at peace.

She sighs, and tucks one leg up near her chest.  Her wing shifts, just out of your reach.  But the channel has been opened, and with your arm extended, you continue to receive her love.  Her sides rise and fall, and her wings heave gently up and down.  In your warm cocoon, you watch.  Even the furniture relaxes, and the previously angry piano takes on a yellow sheen.  Light.  The mahogany glows with it.  You close your eyes and sleep.

When you wake up, the room looks the same, but it feels different.  Everything is softer.  You stand up and walk out with your shoulders back, your head straight.  No tingle of horror goes up your back as you exit.  The room is contented, leaving you alone.  You sense that the angel is upstairs now, blessing the rooms one by one.  You want to follow her forever, reach out and touch her warm, soft wings, but you know that you cannot, you must live your own life, so you bow to the room, making friends, and then leave, walking out into the blazing sunlight.

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Peter Dickinson profile image

Peter Dickinson 7 years ago from South East Asia

Leonard Cohen would love this one. I did too.

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