Fell the Angels by Joslinne Morgan (best classic literature .TXT) 📖

to go out and have an affair… with that… that… whore…
It didn’t matter what you called them. All women who would sell their virtue even to one man before marriage was marked a whore in Marianne’s mind. And this woman was certainly a whore. She dressed like one, even. With mini skirts and high heels, tank tops and a flirtatious grin that the elderly woman so loathed. She remembered everything about that girl, down to how all her teeth were even, and her hair was dyed flaming red. Color like that just wasn’t God-given.
And the she had the gall to carry his child, when Marianne had not even given birth to one living baby yet herself. And then the woman tried to demand child support. Arthur refused to pay, but Marianne urged him to do it, just to avoid further scandal and court visits.
She had taken her feelings to a confession box months later. She had broken down crying. She wanted to die, she didn’t want Arthur anymore, he clearly didn’t want her. And oh, how terrible it all felt -! The priest comforted her. He said that God had forgiven Arthur already, if Arthur was truly repentant. He urged Marianne to do the same. But Marianne could not, would not, forgive her husband. Not after that. It was too much for her to bear.
Two years after the bastard child had come into the picture, Linda was born…

The string of memories stopped there. Marianne forced them to halt. She could not bear for them to go any further than that joyous day in the hospital when the doctors announced that the baby was happy, healthy, and alive. Marianne always stopped her memories right at that point. It was the last time she remembered being truly happy.
It was also the last time that she remember Arthur saying “I love you” and meaning it. Of course, he said it plenty of times afterwards, but it always sounded so hollow. He said it one last time in his tear-stained pitifully written suicide note. Even then, Marianne did not believe him. If he had really loved her, then why did he placed the mouth of the gun between his teeth and pull the trigger? Did he ever stop to think for one minute of what it must have been like for her to walk upstairs after hearing the gunshot and discovering his mangled body? The blood on the floor, the blood on the desk, the blood on the very walls…
Her entire world had been painted red that very evening. And all she could think for a long time was, “Hell, my husband is in hell. My dear, beloved Arthur who I loved so much is suffering eternal torment in hell. The penalty for taking his own life. My Arthur!”
And it was Linda’s fault. If Linda hadn’t announced her pregnancy, if she hadn’t been stupid enough, sinful enough to get pregnant out of wedlock in the first place- perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.
And Marianne still hadn’t forgiven him.
There were even nights when she thought she could remember seeing someone standing by Arthur’s body at the time of his death. It was impossible, of course, an illusion conjured up by the state of hysteria. But at the time it was so real, so very tangible, that she couldn’t help but be a little afraid.
Evil, pure evil, that was the impression she immediately received. The stranger was the most absolutely beautiful man she had ever seen in her life. He wore flowing white robes, similar to those of fancifully painted Roman attire. It slipped off of one shoulder, and clipped over the other with a gold pin in the shape of a twisting serpent. He had black hair that tumbled over his shoulders in glossy ebony waves. His eyes were this deep, striking azure, that lured her in and held her there. It was amazing what tiny details she could recall even after fifteen years.
And he had just smiled at her. His crimson lips curved in a perfect bow. He did not move, his expression did not change, but it was his eyes that said it all. They spoke so forcefully that she could have sworn she heard a voice whispering close to her ear, “He is dead, now, he is mine. By no one’s fault but his own.”
Marianne bit her lip and jabbed the needle through the delicate bit of muslin. Her embroidery suffered when these memories resurfaced. Everything and everyone around her suffered. Their suffering was nothing, however, in comparison to her own inner turmoil. Everyone else’s suffering was a pittance.
With a shiver, Marianne brushed the chilling memory aside. Memories hurt like the devil. She hated them, she hated with a fiery passion.
Fiery as the color of that teenage whore’s hair.
Furiously, Marianne scrapped the piece of muslin and put a new piece in her embroidery hoop. She would have to start all over again.


Chapter Seven: Ghost

It was like being sixteen all over again. Linda clutched the neck of the bottle in her hands as she recalled with a hint of disgust the good old days. It was hard being a preacher’s kid. Everyone expected you to be perfect. Everyone expected you to always have the answer, to always be on time, to make straight A’s – to turn your nose up to the offer of drugs, cigarettes, or liquor. Everyone always expected you to be on tops of things. Good and holy, an example to all of those around you. Deep down inside, Linda knew that it was all crap. Her parents held on to each other with an iron grip, even though they loathed every minute basking in each other’s presence. There was nothing good or holy about their marriage. She had noticed that her father kept a small tin flask in his suit jacket pocket that he would lift to his lips every now and again, mostly after a brief exchange with his loving wife. Marianne always told her daughter that it was his medication. It wasn’t until a similar flask had been presented to her when she was fifteen by her best friend Laurie did she have some idea of its contents.
And then of course, it was nothing like the day when Marianne had found the cigarettes that her daughter kept hidden in a drawer. She had shown them to Arthur immediately, and the two had gotten into a screaming match, which ended up with them simultaneously screaming at Linda. Her father had taken his belt and thrown her over his knee. Never mind she was sixteen. He began thwacking her well – screaming at her, her mother echoing his words.
“Sinner! Wretch!”
Linda tilted her head back and allowed the sweet almond flavored liquid to burn its way down her throat. It warmed her insides and tickled her throat, but it did little to dull the pain. She had driven her car all the way to the liquor store and now sat in the driveway of her old trailer, where she stared at the house with a strange sort of detachment. It didn’t even look like her home anymore. It was empty, dead. Devoid of anything that had ever given it life. After all, Heather wasn’t there anymore. And the absence of Heather was just the absence of … any reason for living.
That was the only reason she hadn’t killed herself when Keith left her, wasn’t it? The idea of a child – his child – to raise as her own and love. To create the family that she never had but always longed for. Every prospect of that gone now - vanished. She would never marry, and she was not going to risk having anymore children. Besides, Marianne would have a fit and Linda would be out of a place to live. They were going to haul the trailer away in a few weeks, and even if they didn’t, she couldn’t move back in. Even if the entire interior had been ripped away and restored she could still not live in the place where her daughter had taken her own life.
She sat in the driveway for an hour or two more, never quite draining the last bit of liquor from the bottle.


The linoleum was sticky underneath her hands. The whole trailer was different from what Heather remembered it. It seemed smaller, more cramped. Sadder, too, sagging as if deflated .It leaned in heavily against its foundation as if any moment it could crumble in on itself just break into pieces. She wondered if angels saw it differently, but she wouldn’t dare ask such a stupid question allowed. Amy’s nostrils flared and her perfect features twisted into something like disgust, but Heather ignored the look. She stood up, wiping the blood off on her clothes. The Pilot angel had completely disappeared. It was just her and Amy now. Joy of joys, she thought sarcastically. It is me and the stupidest guardian angel to ever exist.
The woman hadn’t even known her target (victim, whatever they called the people they guarded) was pregnant at the time of death. How bad of an angel did you have to be? There was a good reason for Mephistopheles dragging her to hell. Heather wished scornfully that Amy had just stayed there in the first place. Once this entire ordeal was over she hoped she wouldn’t have to see feather or hair of the blonde creature again.
She couldn’t stand to be in the bathroom for more than a few minutes. They had cleared the body away, but there the stench of death still hung heavily in the air, thick enough to choke on. Heather slipped through the wood of the closed door – an odd sensation – and into the hall. Amy followed quietly, respectfully allowing Heather to explore one her own time. If Heather wanted conversation, she would initiate it. Right now this was her time. She had been given what she wanted and she only had so long to remain.
Turning sharply, she walked a brisk few feet to the door to her old room. She touched the wood gently, but her hand went right through it. She sighed. The key was kept under the corner of the old hall rug, but her mother hadn’t known that. Her mom didn’t know much of anything. Heather closed her eyes and plunged through the wood of the door. It was much more unpleasant to do the second time around.
Her room had been left entirely in disarray. She blushed at the very idea that anyone might have seen what a state she left it in, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. There was only one thing she was searching for.
She hunted for a while, and finally remembered that she had placed the object of her desire inside a pillowcase. She grinned in triumph and turned around to search and find. Her hands went through not only the pillow but the bed as well. Heather gritted her teeth and tried again, with the same results. Now she was just getting frustrated.
She even tried to imitate Patrick Swayze off of Ghost, but that had about as much affect as the first two attempts. Frustrated, she let out a little scream, but she couldn’t do a thing to relieve her anger. She buried her face in her hands and tried not to burst into tears.
Gently, Amy reached into the pillowcase. Her fingers searched for a moment and then finally closed around the cracked spine of a notebook. Withdrawing it from the pillowcase, she held it up in the air and looked at Heather. “Heather,” she said gently. “Is this what you’re