Angel

I am always brought somewhere, but I don’t always know when or where. The only thing I do know is that I am called to help.

Silently, I walked down the narrow sidewalks of the quiet Chicago suburb. Leaves fell with the cold air, promising winter was on its way. Smoke assaulted my nose as I rounded a corner and saw the horrific scene unfold before me. Fire man and parents were already at the school, pushing ladders up into windows to help save their children. But the fire was escalating quickly, and not all of them would make it out alive.

Slowly I made my way over to the school. By now it was engulfed in a black shadow. The blackness was only broken by the grey smoke and the hungry orange flames, ready to catch and destroy. The sky had turned a brunt red-orange, telling me to get to work. I weaved my way through the parents and past the police, none of them blinking an eye as I walked past. Walking through the air, I made my way up to the third floor, where fear reeked through the stench of smoke. Screams echoed around me, screams too young to be the last one uttered by its owner. They sat in their desks, hands clasped in prayer as they screamed for mercy. Others sat silently, charred and empty. The souls themselves hovered next to their bodies, silent and watchful as they understood what happened. I saw a young girl with blonde braids, no older than eight years old. She saw me and understood, reaching for my hand to help her on her way. I took it, and with a smile she saw her short life one last time pass before her. With a laugh, she vanished into the air. Others had started to form too, reaching for my hand. They were not afraid, only in their life were they afraid. It was time for them to move on.

I watched every one of their lives with them as they passed. They were only seven to eight years old in this classroom, lives too young to even learn how to live. After everyone in the room had moved on, it was clear and white instead of black. With one last glance, I moved onto the next room.

Room after room, I checked for the dead. The ones that needed the most help moving on. Three nuns, all of them too unwilling to leave their lives behind.

“No, no please! I can’t end like this!” one screamed, refusing to accept her fate. She was grey, grey and black. I took her hand, and she silently watched her life pass before her. She saw her childhood with her loving parents and sister, determined to follow the light of God. She saw her life achievements, such as getting a degree in theology and becoming a nun. At the end, she saw the man she had always loved but never could, waving at her from a tree years ago. Smiling, blue instead of grey, she went on her way as well.

Soon, the classrooms on the third floor were white, not dark and grey. I moved up to the fourth, smelling the reek of death. Child after child reached for my hand, the younger ones much more willing than the older. A boy, thirteen years old, ran away from me at first glance. He knew who I was, but he wasn’t ready. I gave him some time, letting him figure it out on his own as I tended to the other children. Memories of candy and family camping trips and loving parents filled my head, past lovers and accomplishments sinking into my minds’ eye, refusing to let me forget that there was so much missing from them too.

I remembered the boy, who tried to jump out of the window, yelling to his parents. But his parents couldn’t see him. No one did. He was invisible, a ghost. If he didn’t move on soon, he would be doomed.

I reached for his hand again, but he fell farther back against a wall. “This isn’t happening!” he yelled. He crumpled into a heap against the wall, refusing to meet my gaze. I looked different to other people. Some I looked like a friend, but to others I looked like a grotesque spirit, here to take them to hell. He believed the later, but I was none of those things. I kneeled down in front of him, grasping his hand. His head snapped up and he tried to pull away, but his story began. We watched him ride his first bike, throw his first baseball, and get an A on his first exam. We watched as him and his father watched the night sky through a telescope, where he fell in love with the stars. He would travel there soon, as he had always wanted. As it ended, he looked at me again and saw someone else. His light turned blue, tinged with red, and then he vanished as well.

He was the last, out of 92 children and 3 nuns. The school was white again, as it should have remained. I made my way out to the ground below and saw the true damage. Families clung to each other, crying over a fragment of clothing or other memories that were scavenged from the fire. Heartless reporters tried to get the first statement of a family member, but were soon pushed away. Sirens wailed, charting children off to hospitals to be saved. Others were covered with black sheets, cold and empty. The sky showed its bright blue, offering little comfort to the distraught families. Indirectly, I heard them yell at me, saying that I was a cold and heartless thing, taking children so young. My heart broke, still seeing the children’s lives before my eyes and watched their futures turn to ash.

I have been helping lives move on since the beginning. One would think I would be used to this by now, but nothing prepares you for the death of a child. Helping carry 78 million people over was not easy either, especially those who didn’t even know they had been blasted to bits. But 92 children, in one foul swoop, seemed too much to bear.

That is my burden though. If I don’t carry it, no one will.