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Charles Rowland died cold.
He was thrown into a lake in the middle of a forest nearly frozen in winter, beaten to a pulp until the water infused through his skin. He was burned with dry ice and blue fire, destined to tear through his skin but never leave marks.
He was stoned by those he thought he could trust, by those he thought maybe loved him, like his life was some sort of Greek tragedy. Did he make himself fall? Did he jump into the lake? Leave his arms open to the rocks thrown at him? Was it his fault like everything always was?
He was baptized in a bath of sinful water, by those who thought that, maybe, they would be able to soak the color from his skin and the life from his eyes and the disorder from his brain. Maybe they could leave him there for long enough, throw enough stones that he would be molded into the shape they wanted, beaten into one of them.
As he tried to thrash and shiver his way out of the cold, he thought distantly, what if he was just different? What if he just washed off the eyeliner when his father told him to? What if he just hurt the young Pakistani boy who didn’t deserve it when his friends told him to? What if he just did what he was told?
But that’s it, isn’t it? He can’t do as he’s told. That’s why he deserves this.
He deserves the water and the beating, he deserves to wear the noose as a necklace and the crucifix as an earring without knowing that, if he had just taken them off when he was told to, if he had just done as he was fucking told, none of this would happen.
He wouldn’t have been nailed to the cross he built or hung by the rope he tied. He would have lived.
He killed himself, didn’t he?
He managed to find his way to shore, far away from his saviors and start running to Hell. And they chased him, like angels trying to spread their word to those who deserve it. He whimpered and shivered and tripped all the way to the mouth of the devil, seeking refuge behind His eyes, in the old attic where no one could find him.
He never knew, or even thought, that, truly, no one--no one alive, at least--would find him. He didn’t think that, eventually, he would have to bury himself so he wouldn’t rot with the bones of another, locked away where Lucifer hides His drafts.
He sheds layers, distantly remembering survival ideas that he heard years before and thought he would never have to use. He searches through chests and boxes, movements still choked and cut with frost locking into his joints.
He finds an old blanket that’s probably infested with fleas and sex but he can’t care at this point. He wraps himself up and holds himself in a dark corner, praying to every god he can think of to be able to go back in time or survive because I’m not ready and this isn’t fair, even if I deserve it.
His prayers are interrupted when he’s blinded by a shining light, yellow and almost heavenly. He thinks brokenly for a second that this is it, he’s gone, he’s going to Hell like he always deserved.
Then, he locks eyes with an angel, and knows that it’s a lie.
Charles Rowland died with a friend.
He really thought the boy was an angel at first, even if not biblically accurate (he had some of those verses engraved in his head), but realized, after a few moments, that he was nothing more than another boy around his age.
And he was almost mad at that. The boy provided a lantern and beauty but Charles was all too familiar with the pain innocence can bring. Any cherub on the outside is nothing but seraphim on the inside, something to run from once you see it, no matter how much refuge they speak of.
The only way he found himself able to express his madness was through a glare and a cold comment of mistrust. And the seraph turns, confused at how a living creature could see him and not run, or see him at all.
He offers the lantern and crouches to be at Charles’ level, revoking the power he had standing above Charles. And he makes a promise, assuring rest and safety for Charles that he hasn’t felt in years.
Something warm flickers in the spirit’s eyes, and, suddenly, Charles feels safe in a way he thought he would never be able to again. The godsend has managed to break down a barrier that they almost seem to share, like he’s been in Charles’ position before, just without the savior.
Charles silences the alarm going off in his head and thanks the angel, inviting the warmth that both the lantern and the boy bring. God, he’s so warm, it almost burns.
Charles starts talking, like he always does because that’s the only way people will stay and he can’t have the angel leave, and the boy talks back, despite seeming awkward and almost unprepared for an interaction.
They talk and talk, and he’s fascinating, an enigma that belongs in holy scriptures and poems. He makes comments that have no real sense, talking about when I was alive and a long time ago.
Then, he says he’s dead. Charles laughs. He stares. Charles realizes.
So, he really is an angel, then? Charles can’t imagine him dying in any other way than maybe God deeming him no longer fit to sin and turning him into a savior, or maybe light or flowers sprouting from his chest, making his blood seep into the dirt and grow another garden of Eden.
He shows and tells Charles his abilities, like walking through walls and not being able to taste or smell or feel. And Charles lets his impulsive thoughts take over, talks about feeling without thinking, silently praying that, maybe, the angel is willing to sin for Charles.
No, he isn’t.
Charles asks dumb questions and the boy answers with sass and concealed fondness, and they laugh and he smiles for the first time that night and Charles wants to make that happen over and over again, no matter the cost.
The boy searches through the boxes in the attic upon Charles’ request of curiosity (and maybe just wanting to see more of his ghost powers) and finds volumes of books that make his eyes light up with something like maybe joy or wonder but Charles doesn’t care because the boy looks happy.
He asks the boy to read it to him, fumbling for a viable excuse that isn’t because they seem to make you happy and I want you to be happy. And he thinks that the boy might not want to, that the joy in his eyes was just a trick of the light, or maybe that he wouldn’t do such a childish thing, or anything, childish or not, for Charles.
Then, he locks eyes with the angel and knows that it’s a lie.
Charles Rowland died on a Sunday.
The last thing he saw was the windows across from him in the dusty attic of which he sought refuge. The last thing he heard was the impossibly soothing voice of a young ghost reading to him. The last thing he felt was a scratchy blanket that barely provided warmth. The last thing he felt was peace.
He was asleep, or trying to be, with a lullaby of his savior’s voice playing to the beat of a heaven’s choir in the background. He opened his eyes and looked across the room, into the green light of the outside. Was it always that green? That bright? He always thought that the outside of his grave was dark.
He stood upon hearing a bell and a church choir. Who have they got to pray to? He thought brokenly, tired of the cold that still settled deep in his flesh, freezing him from the inside out.
He was so tired.
He turned, barely registering what the boy had said but knowing that he had to respond. He always has to respond. And he almost did, if it weren’t for his body rotting under the scratchy blanket that barely provided any warmth.
And he realized, in that moment, that nothing would ever provide him warmth again. It made something twist in his dead stomach and lurch in his dead lungs and burn in his dead brain.
He looks back up and sees the angel, and he looks scared too. He puts down the book and speaks more hymns of safety and care that sound infinitely more heavenly than the choir beneath them.
Charles tries his best to stay as positive as he can, still making comments that this doesn’t feel like I imagined and feels okay, doesn’t it? Because he doesn’t want the angel to be any more broken than he already seems.
But then the angel stands and turns to leave and Charles has to stop himself from immediately chasing after him. He reels himself back, holds back his begging, and instead makes an offer, praying that it’s sensible to the angel who definitely knows more than him.
But, of course, the angel thinks of Charles’ situation, saying that he would always be running from his fate (he would run forever if it meant he would run with the boy) and that he shouldn’t go with the angel because he isn’t good with other people (he would start every conversation and initiate every act if it meant he would stay with the boy) and that he only came here after escaping Hell (he would go to Hell and back, argue with Death, do anything if it meant he would stay by the boy’s side).
The image of the boy being in Hell feels unfathomably wrong, that he would have sinned so much to be tortured infinitely or that maybe he was a demon that chose to be there. It feels impossible. Charles would still commune with Lucifer if it meant the boy would be free.
Instead of saying what he’s thinking, he says that he’s good with other people and that it’s impressive the boy managed to escape Hell (when he never should have been put there).
The boy argues, saying that that’s not how you make decisions, that you can’t live like that. And Charles bites back with it’s how I lived my life, fully aware that it didn’t end well. But he doesn’t care, can’t care about irrationality, not when he has the opportunity to spend eternity with the godsend.
The boy gasps an unneeded breath and stares at the blue light that shines behind Charles. He’s scared for a moment, and maybe this wasn’t a good idea, and the boy doesn’t care as much as he acts like he does because no one can care that much about Charles.
Then, he locks eyes with his angel and knows that it’s a lie.