Angels

Turning into the dark alley, surrounded by the putrid smell of rotting food, waste, and death we saw the door with the watchful eye painted roughly over decades of grime and layers of chipped paint. This was it, the moment of decision. Would we enter and follow through or retreat back and fade into the emptiness that may be our death?

I turned to her, the look on her face told me the answer – onward. Lingering on the face that I knew so well, the single crinkle between the eyes indicating deep focus or concern, her rich hazel eyes, a crown of gold circling the dark pupil like an eclipse, but mostly it was the sadness that stained every pore. Oh she was beautiful, stunning actually, and that’s why we came to this butcher.

Turning the doorknob and pushing the door open, the smell of smoke, sweat, and incense assaulted our senses, filling our noses, blinding our eyes. The heat seeping into our clothes and skin, urging our own sweat to mingle with the scents of others. It was dark, visibility was nearly impossible, but I suppose that was by design, no one should see who was here. Decades-old broken furniture cluttered the outskirts of the cramped room with other visitors seated in masks that obscured their faces. I quickly put a mask on Deeanna’s face so we remained anonymous as well.

The sounds of buzzing reverberated into the waiting area, muffled cries and sobs heard far off in the distance. I looked at my cracking boots, the dirt was holding them together as much as my feet. I gripped tightly the small pouch of gold rocks in my pocket, that represented six months of hard labor in full hazmat gear. Looking over at Deanna, her fidgeting a clear announcement of her nerves. I put my hand on hers, she looks at me with those eyes, so bright and welcoming; she’s scared. She should be. Butchers aren’t known for their delicate touch. I want to touch her soft skin once more, to feel the silkiness of it again, but I know last night was the last time I’d feel that smoothness. If you wanted to survive and escape the slave-trade, you wanted to be average, like all the rest of us – rugged, deformed in one way or another, not the perfect angel that sat beside me. Angels have targets on their back, and it’s a hard life that often ends in suicide.