The first time I heard it, I made the mistake of looking out the bedroom window.
The second time, I wished I'd never heard it at all.
And after the third, I learned the consequence of pretending I hadn't.
The sound rips through the dark again, louder and angrier, hitting me in the back like a freight train. Even after all these years, it still has a way of jolting me forward. When the brush thickens and scrapes over old scars, I turn my eyes skyward and find the orange glow again.
It's growing closer, but so is my father.
He possessed a dangerous combination: a heavyset man with a light tread. I'd know the sound of his gait anywhere. In The Middle, it followed me into these woods every night for eight years.
Eight fucking years of torture, games, lessons.
Eight years, until he followed me up a gravel path, shoved me through iron gates, and left me to fight for my life.
The Middle was dictated by a new set of rules. And like the birthday candles, there were ten, just for me.
His whiskey-tainted breath grazes past my ear.
*Rule one: You must become The Villain for your brothers to call you a hero.*
I walk faster to get away from The Middle. To get away from him. The next few steps send a molten heat radiating to my groin and buckle my knees, but I grind the pain between my teeth and keep moving.
Finally, the orange glow stretches out its hand. Space expands, branches retract, and soil turns to asphalt.
Though I slow to a stop under the streetlamp to catch what little breath I have left, my gaze wanders. It sweeps over the road, and I wonder when it got so fucking wide. Then it climbs the stones of my father's church on the other side.
That bastard building hurts to look at on my best days, but on my worst, just a glance in its direction burns. I skim over broken windows and the crumbling spire, looking for relief where the Pacific meets the black sky behind it.
And then I realize what I'm doing, and sour amusement floods my chest.
A dying man always turns his eyes to the sky.
When I was young and invincible, I vowed I'd be the exception. That when Death finally stepped out of my shadow and tapped me on the shoulder, I wouldn't tilt my chin and look for the God I've cursed for a lifetime.
Yet here I am, gazing in the opposite direction to where my soul is headed, wondering if He's really up there and if He's taking good care of my mama.
My next inhale rattles around my chest; my next exhale paints a white streak across the night. When the wind rises over the cliffs and sweeps it sideways, I see Him.
He glances down at me and breathes a sigh of relief.
No laughing this time.
Lungs too weak now.
Legs too weak. Arms too weak.
*Don't close your eyes.*
*Don't. Close. Your. Eyes.*
I step forward and the world tilts, trying to shake me off. I push onward against the wind; it drives me back even harder. Its roar is deafening and cold, but when I cock my head, I hear something softer within it.
"Hello?"
Tension leaves my lips in a short breath.
The voice is like cashmere and chocolate. Like a gentle kiss on the cheek, a warm bath on an icy night.
"Hello? Are you okay?"
It's a ray of sunshine through an open window, a cool breeze on a hot day.
I want to die to its soundtrack.
I want to hear it again.
I scan the horizon for its source, and when I find it, my vision jolts.
Under the next streetlamp stands a girl.
No—an angel. Not one of those biblically accurate monsters they'd draw on the whiteboard to scare the shit out of us in Sunday school, but one from the movies.
The human-shaped, heaven-sent kind with outstretched wings and a halo hovering over flowing blonde hair.
She's also wearing a fuzzy pink jacket and matching earmuffs, but fuck, who am I to question what angels wear these days?
There's no time for side quests, but getting to the church suddenly feels secondary, and curiosity steers my path.
I take a step toward her; she takes one back, glances at my stomach, throws her hands in the air, and says, "Um, that's a Halloween costume, right?"
What?
The cogs in my brain whir at half speed, but when they groan into place, I realize I'm a fucking idiot.
It's October thirty-first. Halloween.
Of course I'd die on Halloween.
I'm still too weak to laugh, but the irony is all-consuming, so I do it anyway. It takes the last shred of energy from me, and I fall to my knees.
She's not an angel; she's just a girl dressed like one. Looks like one, sounds like one, even now that she's shouting. She floats toward me like an angel too, out from underneath her lamp and into the light of mine.
Sparkly pink boots and frilly socks pulsate in and out of focus beneath my eye line.
Christ. So much pink.
"Oh my God. What happened?"
Ha.
I blinked, that's what fucking happened.
*Rule two: Near enemy, family, or friend, The Villain never blinks.*
He'd plucked that one straight out of his ass in a panic after the first time he shot me. He swore he'd done it just to show me what it feels like, but even at eleven, I knew the cunt just had shit aim.
*Rule three* came just nine hours later as I was waking up under the harsh strip lights of a makeshift operating theater: *The most powerful villains are as unlovable as they are untouchable.*
I'm as unlovable as I am untouchable.
So why the fuck is she now touching me?
Delicate fingers sear my shoulder. Violence is a deep-rooted reflex, and I jerk my arm out to shake her off.
"Fuck. Off," I snarl.
But more fool me, because now the sky is slipping. I'm falling forward, down into the Devil's arms.
The ground catches me, because not yet.
With her sweet voice, she calls out to God again. My cheek scrapes gravel, then suddenly I'm on my back, and there she is.
Fuck. Maybe she is an angel. Because I swear, the streetlamp above wasn't as bright until she dropped to her knees beneath it.
Now it bends to accommodate the curves of her heart-shaped face and reflects in her wide blue eyes, like sunlight dancing on water.
It skates over her golden bangs, sparkles on her eyelids, and carves a straight line from the top of her nose down to the deep groove of her cupid's bow.
No. This isn't how death is supposed to go. I'm meant to die in the dark, not under her light, and the last thing I need is to be seen like this. Remembered like this. Weak and pathetic, lying in the fucking dirt bleeding out.
But the ground is too comfortable and my jaw too heavy to tell her to fuck off again. The best I can do is fight to keep my eyes open and track her every move.
Her gaze fixes on my stomach, wide-eyed and disbelieving. "Is that blood?"
"No, it's ketchup," I grit out.
"It looks painful."
"No shit."
She nods solemnly, ignoring my sarcasm. With a hand at her mouth, she bites down on the tip of her middle finger and tugs off her pink glove. "Don't panic, I'm going to call for help."
Trying to call anyone is useless, but so is my voice box, so I only watch as she stuffs her hand in her coat pocket and pulls out her cell.
Like the rest of her, it's ridiculously pink, as are the half a dozen charms attached to it.
They clink and rattle like my mama's wind chimes on the back porch as she furiously taps in her passcode.
"No signal," I manage to huff out after several attempts. "Just go."
She glances at her screen, down to me, and back again. The tiniest crease lines her forehead. "Dammit. Well, there's a phone booth just there. You got any quarters?"
"It. Doesn't. Work."
"What?"
Fuck this, I'm wasting too much time. Must cross the road. I feel for the ground beside me and push down on it in an attempt to sit up. A sharp stabbing pain shoots through my core, and I collapse back against the asphalt.
"Hey, you need to stay still—"
I bark at her to leave again, but it comes out in a gurgle so guttural it jolts her to her feet.
"Crap, crap, crap," she whimpers, her composure cracking for a moment. Then she rolls her shoulders back and takes a deep breath. "Okay, wait right here."
As if I can go anywhere else. The light follows her to the middle of the road. My eyes tag along too, watching as she paces from left to right and back again, holding her bag on her shoulder with one hand and her cell to the sky with the other.
Pausing for breath, I try to make sense of her.
Maybe God sent her as a cruel joke. A final taunt of what could have been had I been born Angelo or Rafe. But then I dismiss the idea immediately, because He's not stupid enough to send her to a man like me. He wouldn't take the risk.
So if she's not from another world, what the fuck is she doing in this one, walking along a dark road alone in the middle of the night?
Curiosity and a sliver of annoyance entwine with my pain, but I ignore it. I don't have the time or energy to dig deeper. She needs to leave, and I need to get moving.
With a hard puff, I roll myself onto my side. I ball my hands into fists and press into the earth, trying to drag myself forward on my knuckles. If I can't walk, then I'll crawl to the church. And if I can't crawl, I'll fucking roll—whatever it takes to warn my brothers.
She jogs over and gives my chest a little kick with the tip of her toe. "Christ—stop moving! You'll make it worse!"
I glance up to see if she's joking, because how can this get any worse? But I'm distracted by the cell phone pressed flat against her forehead.
What the fuck is she doing?
I guess my glare asked the question for me because she launches into a rambling explanation.
"If you have no signal, you can put your phone to your head and you'll magically get service. Don't ask me how it works, I just saw it on Instagram—oh, God."
There she goes, calling out to God again. But I've collapsed flat onto my back and can see that the sky beyond the lamp is empty.