After I sneak out to bury the mess, I stop in the laundry room to look at myself in the mirror. My left cheek, or what remains of it, is a riot of tattered flesh and open wounds. You can see my Grace-fang and pale, receding gums. Even with my mouth shut, my tongue pulses in the gaps between my teeth. Saliva glitters in the dim light. I test my vowels, my consonants, my syllables to make sure I still sound all right. A bit garbled, but nothing I can’t keep hiding.
When I can’t stand looking anymore, I put my mask back on, a thick fabric one that hides everything from the eyes down. With this, I just look tired. Hungry. Distant. Not like I’m falling apart.
I fall asleep early and wake up while the moon is high in the sky, so I can go back to Reformation Faith Evangelical Church. I sneak out the courtyard gate and into the city, where the stars still shine, the clouds still move across the sky, and nothing cares that I might as well be dying. It’s a beautiful night. I could watch it forever.
I can’t, though. I need Theo, the way I’ve always needed him.
Halfway through the walk, I pull off my mask. There’s nobody to hide from anymore. It’s like changing out of the dress I ran in, like watching snips of dark auburn hair gather around my feet. Not quite sure what to do with myself, desperately trying to understand this new body. Trying to figure it out: What does it mean? What does this flesh want? What does the world want from it?
What kind of monster do I want to be?
At least a face like this will make people think twice before making snap judgments about what I am. It’s harder for someone to pin you down as a girl when they need a moment to pin you down as human.
* * *
Theo is in the sanctuary, praying. In the front pew, hands clasped, head hung and eyes closed. He’s so perfectly still, he could be a statue or a corpse.
The sight doesn’t sit well with me. All I can think of is him whimpering for forgiveness at the foot of the altar in New Nazareth, the wounds on his back weeping blood, so lost he wouldn’t answer even when I laid my hands on him and said his name.
Here, now, I stop in the threshold and gently call, “Theo?”
He doesn’t open his eyes, but he says, “Back already? My supplies will last me another few days at least.”
I shuffle my feet. No, they won’t. I hate that he thinks I’d only come back to keep him from going hungry.
“Bad day,” I explain. “I just wanted to see you.”
He pats the spot next to him. Still not looking. Every eye of the nest turns to me instead, mouths opening and closing as if beckoning. I do as they ask, sitting beside Theo on the pew, and Theo settles a hand on my leg and goes right back to praying.
I managed to find solace in prayer. I found respite in it, even if I had to force it. It’s a chance to step away from everything for a little bit, in a way I couldn’t get even when I was with Theo. I could follow along with the reverend’s chant, my own silent words, or the prayers I memorized down to their bones, and forget everything else. It was just me, the words, and the air in my lungs.
The problem is, I always felt like I was talking to myself.
All the other Angels talked about their personal relationship with God and Jesus. How prayer was a conversation with their savior. How they took the spirit inside themselves and knew the Lord was listening. Even when I was little, before New Nazareth and the Angels, Mom would take me to church and say, Can you feel it, baby girl? Isn’t it glorious?
I tried to feel it. I did, I swear. I reached for it, squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could and begged for it. I pretended I was stretching my hands out into the darkness behind my eyelids, fingers splayed wide, trying to find even the barest touch of something out there in the abyss. To feel the warmth Mom always assured me was waiting once I accepted God into my heart.
There was nothing. Always nothing.