Tiny Angel - short story
I took my inspiration for this story from a news item I saw here in the UK, about a baby girl called Angel who was orphaned in a storm, and subsequently passed away from her injuries. This was another part of my creative writing course.
She was perfect when she was born, rosy cheeks and lovely curly hair. David had been protective over her, making sure he could always see her whenever he was home, and calling to check on them when he was at work. I used to tell him we were always fine, but he insisted on checking in with us every so often to be sure.
‘She’s my little angel’ he would say when I protested too much. ‘I have to check she’s still looking after you.’
He started calling her his little angel after we had the scan to find out the sex. It was a name that had stuck; with her pretty little face it was difficult not to call her Angel then.
We got by nicely after that, spending time together as a family, visiting relatives. Me and Angel even made lots of new friends at the baby and toddler groups in town. We got used to the storms, knew what to do when the wind and the rain came. It’s unusual to have so little warning as we did this time around. The storms before have always been known far enough in advance to get to safety, but they just appeared out of nowhere while we were all sleeping.
I don’t remember much about that night. I was woken up by some banging, and the dog barking in next door’s yard. Something didn’t seem right, so I checked out of the window to see what was going on. The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air, then everything went blank. After that, I seemed to wake up in a hospital, but not in a bed like I expected; I was in a chair, next to Angel’s bed. David was stood the other side of the bed, stroking her head, as if he could wipe away the bruising around her bandages. She looked so peaceful, as if she was just asleep. But the machines and tubes surrounding her belied this scene.
My parents were sat on the sofa in the corner of the room, fast asleep. They looked exhausted, and mum looked as though she had been crying. I wondered how long they had been there, and why I couldn’t remember getting here, but then put it down to what had happened in the storm.
‘What is going on, David? She looks so small, I wish I could pick her up.’ I kissed her cheek, so soft and smooth.
‘She is too ill. We can’t hold her, the doctors have said she needs to stay still because of the head injuries.’
‘I don’t remember anything up to now, not the doctors, not speaking to mum and dad.’
David just looked at me with a wry smile, as if he knew something I didn’t. I watched my little girl breathe with the help of a machine, and I could feel my heart breaking inside me. As I watched her, though, she suddenly smiled at me and held out her arms. I picked her up and held her tight, and walked into the white, clinical corridor, unseen by the nurses and doctors running at the sound of the monitors’ alarms.
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