Love Bites Then it Sucks by Julie Steimle (story books to read txt) đ
- Author: Julie Steimle
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I walked these slums about as far as I could go staring at all the people who were marked for deathâand there were a lot of them. Most of them just had faint marks, like they were simply at risk by virtue of living in that neighborhood. But there were those that had actively glowing white marks, the kind which indicated they had bad habit which would most likely kill them someday. One was this chronic smoker with yellowed teeth. I noticed one woman with saggy skin from drug use with a slightly pink mark on her forehead. And there was a woman with a black eye whom I had the nastiest feeling that her boyfriend was abusive and would probably kill her before the year was over. To be honest, it all freaked me out.
Frankly, I grew up sheltered. I knew this. I knew this when I had gone to college and stepped into the âreal worldâ where my roommates âeducatedâ me about what âreal lifeâ was about. I had witnessed in this âreal worldâ more debauchery than I had known existed outside a Hollywood movie. My hometown of Cliffcoast was a predominantly white neighborhood (mostly Irish and Scottish descent to be specific) full of church-attending folk who were either Catholic or Protestant, with a small âMormonâ congregation on the skirts of town. The biggest dangers of our town was falling off the seashore cliffs, bad driving, drowning in the ocean, and the vampires in the mountains (though I had mostly gotten rid of those vampires my junior year of high school. Long story). So these New York slums were an entirely different world to me.
âHey! You there! Get off my street!â someone shouted in my direction.
I looked up from the street corner where I was standing, thinking mostly to myself. My eyes searched for the source and quickly set on a woman in a pantsuit. She looked like one of those empowered types who worried more about her career than the people around her. She had raven-black wings, which oddly made her look like she was cosplaying for some comic book convention.
Pointing to my chest wordlessly to make sure she was taking to me, I stared back.
âYeah Iâm talking to you, you demon! This is my street!â And she crossed it as if nothing could harm her, counting the speeding cars and butch looking punks standing together smoking while listening to gangster rap. Her scythe appeared from her hand like a tall staff, jeweled as if conceived from a Japanese comic book. She had to be a fan.
I pulled out my scythe to show her I was a reaper and not just a demon. âSorry. No one told me exactly where my territory endeââ
She struck at me with her scythe.
I, surprisingly, blocked in time. Paling, I snapped. âWhatâs your problem?â
Up close, the woman had that Mary Kaye layered make-up look to her face. She must have died with a lot of foundation on or something. Maybe she was at a comic convention when she died. Her mascara was impeccable, and her eyebrows perfectly shaped. And her teeth were perfectâexposed as she snarled at me. âYou are!â
She swiped at me again with her blade. I was amazed how I could block it since she was moving lightning fast. But as I did not want to die just yet, still being alive while she was not, I dodged and fought back.
âHey! Hey! Hey! I was just exploring!â I blocked and ducked. âPoint me the way back and Iâll go! Chill!â
âDonât you tell me to chill!â She slashed at me, making a cut near my wrist.
I stared at it.
I was bleeding. And I could smell it.
She got a wicked excited look on her face as she slashed more at me, aiming for my neck.
âHEY!â I shrieked. I spun my staff as I would one of my color guard flags from high school and whopped her upside the head with it. She stumbled backward with shock. âSTOP IT! I wasnât attacking you, you moron!â
She stared wider-eyed at me. Holding her scythe handle at a different angle, as if she would reap me like grass, she swung at me.
It clanged against a shopping cart.
I stared down at the little ragged bag lady who stood between us. She had messy salt and pepper hair, and on her back were wings made of newspaper. There was even print and photographs in each feather. In her creaky voice she said, âNow, now ladies. No in-fighting.â
I stepped back, retracting my scythe back into my palm, raising my hands to show I meant no harm.
âNow thatâs a good girl,â the bag lady angel said with a nod to me.
But the cosplay pantsuit lady jerked away, raising her scythe for possibly another hit. She bared her teeth at me and swore a series of select words my mother would never have approved of. At the end of them she shouted, ââkeep her out of my area!â
âYou could have just told her where the boundary was nicely, ya know,â the bag lady said.
Scowling at her, the cosplay pantsuit angel stormed off.
Turning toward me, the bag lady reached out a hand with a wrinkly smile and hooked her fingers around my wrist. âCome on, sweetie. Iâll show your way back.â
âCan you show me my boundary?â I asked, breathing hard.
She shook her head creakily. âI donât know it. Sorry. You have to figure that out for yourself.â
Frowning, I hung my shoulders. ââŠYou gotta be kidding me.â
She shook her head more, chuckling.
As we walked back into my stinky neighborhood, she gave me a few words of sage advice. First, never eat out of a garbage can sloshing with liquidâwhich I assumed was what killed her. Second, never date a man who calls himself Joe and has a tattoo on his knuckles that say âLove Slapâ. And third, donât sleep under a statueâever. ââŠAnd lastly, never pick on a cat. It isnât nice. And some cats can see us, especially our shadows.â
âBut I donât have a shadow,â I said, wondering if this bag lady angel was insane.
She glanced down at the ground under us then laughed. âSorry. Thatâs a figure of speech. We donât have shadows either. What I meant was they can sense us.â
âOh.â Then I glanced back where we had just been. Thumbing that way, I asked, âWhat was her problem?â
âSheâs a witch,â the bag lady replied.
My eyebrows raised. I half expected the bag lady to then call out to burn her, Monty Python accents in the back of my brain. But I also knew witches were real. So I asked, âFrom any particular coven?â
Eying me, the bag lady smirked. âOh, so you know a few witches?â
I painfully nodded. âI was kidnapped by a coven back when I was in high school.â
âIs that how you became like that?â She gestured at me with a broken umbrella which I assumed was her weapon of choice. It could be put into a scythe form, I guessed. âCursed?â
I shook my head, then I shrugged. âKinda. I was born this way, but I am the result of a witch curse.â
Leaning back her face, her chin and wrinkles bunching up around it with a degree of shock, she said, âNo kiddin? I donât know much about witch curses. Only that witches are a nasty bunch of folk, and they rarely end up as reapers.â
âBecauseâŠ?â I looked back that way once more.
âBecause people entrenched in witchcraft are irredeemable,â the bag lady with the newspaper wings said. âNobody, not even the demons, believe she is gonna make it. People like her always turn back to their wickedness. A witch never really leaves her coven.â
I paled. Not just because of what she had said, but because I knew she was wrong. And I said so. âI know two witches who have left their coven andââ
âFakes,â she said.
I shook my head. âNo. Not fakes. One of them died for it. I know her son. And the other, she has been dodging her coven andââ
âLies,â the bag lady said, pushing her cart along with a sniff.
Shaking my head more, I followed her. âNo. Not lies. I can tell when people lie.â
She snorted. âOh ho? What? Like the CIA? A walking polygraph?â
I shook my head. âNo. I can hear their hearts speed up. I also can see and hear their imps, especially when the imps are telling them to lie.â
âImps?â The bag lady angel angled up her head at me curiously.
I nodded, then snatched the nearest flying imp to show her. I could still grab them, which gave me intense relief. And it materialized in front of the bag ladyâs eyes, though no one else could see itânot the living world anyway.
The bag lady yipped, covering one hand over her mouth. She pointed one finger at it. âWhatâs that?â
Sighing, letting the imp go, I said, âAn imp. Theyâre everywhere, but invisible. Honestly, I am shocked you canât see them.â
But she was shaking, watching the imp flutter off and cursing at me. Slowly, the bag lady shifted her cart around so that it was between me and her. I realized then that the cart was actually a shield. She was a guardian angel. She was the oddest guardian angel I had ever seen, but she was one of them. She said, âWhat are you?â
I shook my head, shrugging. âYesterday I was working class woman engaged to be married. Oh, and I am a vimp.â
Confused, she shifted more behind her junk-filled shopping cart. âAnd what is that?â
Sighing once more, I replied, âA very rare kind of demon.â
She pulled away from me.
âI wonât hurt you,â I said.
The bag lady shook her head at me. âNo. You canât. Iâm already dead.â
I nodded. âAnd Iâm not.â
She nodded. Then she gestured back to the witchâs territory. âStay away from her. Sheâs a killer. And I might not be here the next time she takes a swing at youâdemon.â
And that was it. She left in a zing and a zip on newspaper wings. I realized by then that there was a definite prejudice against demon angels. This new life was not going to be fun.
Then it started to rain.
And I got wet.
It was weird. Rain should have fallen through me.
Immediately I flew to a building overhang for cover.
Regardless of what George had said, I didnât actually get hungry. I barely felt the cold, but that wasnât much of a change from before. However, I did feel a certain degree of being not here while being here. It was an alternative version of being immaterial, I realized. It was why the imps ignored me, though they could see me a little. I was the equivalent to a ghost to them. I could affect their world and move in it, but I was no longer one of them. And yet, while walking the streets in the rain, looking at all the people struggling to get by, I did talk to the imps, testing to see if they would still obey me if I gave them a trouble-making suggestion.
My first suggestion to an imp was for him to tie together the shoe laces of a bunch of punks who were standing together smoking with their pants hanging down so that their underwear was on display for the world. I always thought that fashion was ridiculously stupid, and I had always wanted to punish somebody for dressing like that. It was a naughty thought, but this was the first time I gave into it.
The imp I told it to blinked at me, glanced at his fellows and then went and did it.
Watching the success of that impâespecially the hilarious tumbling down of those punksâmade me gleefully happy. Yes, it as naughty. No, they werenât hurt except for their pride and perhaps a small scrape from falling down. But I was thrilled that I was not entirely out of the loop in
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