The Fall(40)

The small card was typical of what you’d get in a church, maybe on a saint’s feast day or another type of religious occasion.

On the front was an artist’s impression of Saint Michael the Archangel. His wings outstretched and his sword drawn with his foot stamping on the head of Satan. His body powerful and strong—that of a soldier, while his face remained beautiful and fearless. It was an image I’d seen repeated hundreds if not thousands of times through art and the history of the church. He was seen as the protector, the leader of God’s army against evil. So significant and fierce was his legend, that he is mentioned in other ancient religions such as Judaism and Islam. Evil, by whatever name it was known, was trampled under his feet just as he had done with Satan.

On the backside of the picture, the plain white card had a notation so faint I had to bring it right to my eyes to see. And there, in faded pencil, was the word “rose.”

Nothing else. No indication if it was the flower, a name, or even a street. The word was written without a capital letter or anything else after it, and seemed so insignificant. Yet instinct told me it was important.

“What the f*ck are you doing?”

He came at me like a freight train, his arm pushing me back against the exposed brick as he held a knife at my throat. The blade just piercing my skin enough for me to feel a tiny drop of blood ease out.

I had been so engrossed in what I was doing I hadn’t heard a thing.

Hadn’t heard a car approach.

Hadn’t heard a door open.

Hadn’t heard the echo of boots on the floor.

And like the ghost he was on paper, he appeared before me, his teeth bared like a rapid dog, his eyes—terrifying.

“I-I.” Words refused to come out as my heart beat wildly in my chest and I struggled to breathe. I never thought he would hurt me, but looking at him now, I didn’t know anymore.

“I’ll ask you again.” His arm pushed harder against my chest, my lungs struggling to expand under his weight. “What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?”

Each word was like a punch to my gut, as the fear bubbled up inside of me, another drop of my blood spilled onto my shirt.

“I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

It had leaped out of my mouth before I had a proper chance to consider what I was saying. What I should have said was I was sorry for invading his privacy, for breaking into his special meter box and for reading his file. But I couldn’t make myself say things I didn’t mean. Even when I knew my life depended on it, I couldn’t say I regretted what I did.

He knew almost everything about me, and I knew nothing about him. It hadn’t been fair that he had held all the cards, that I didn’t know who the man was that laid beside me last night. I deserved to know, so for that, I wasn’t and would never be sorry. But even though he loomed before me, literally a hair between his knife and my jugular, my heart hurt for the little boy inside of him. The one who had never been shown love or compassion. For that, for that I was genuinely sorry.

“What did you say to me?” His brows bunched in confusion obviously not expecting the words as much as I hadn’t.

“You were just a baby, the way they treated you—you aren’t what they said, I know you aren’t.”

I had no proof of it, but it was something inside of me I just knew. Gut instinct told me that underneath all of this, he wasn’t rotten.

He wasn’t evil.

He wasn’t broken.

“You think I give a shit about my past?” he sneered, like the words disgusted him. “That it means anything to me now?”

“I think you like to pretend it doesn’t, but I don’t see how anyone could survive all of that and not be changed. I read what they said about you.” I figured I’d come this far, I might as well finish the job and jump off the cliff. “You weren’t just abandoned, you were deserted by everyone who was supposed to care for you. You aren’t the monster they expected you to become.”

“You don’t know me.” His eyes bored into mine, reinforcing the anger that was spilling from his lips.

“No, I don’t.”

Essentially he was right. I didn’t know him. Not in the way I knew my neighbors, friends or family, and yet, I saw him more clearly than he probably saw himself. “But you still have that knife at my throat and haven’t killed me yet. Deep down, there is humanity.”

“I haven’t killed you because you are my pay check.” His words dripped with venom and I knew he’d said them to hurt me. But I refused to believe them. Maybe I was the biggest idiot of all mankind or maybe, I still saw that little boy in those photos.

“The Michael on those pages,” my eyes flicked across to the table where my evidence had been strewn, “would have chosen himself over the money.”

Slowly the knife’s edge moved from my throat, the sting immediate as the air hit the scratch it had left as his hand lowered.

“Careful, Sofia. This isn’t some game you want to play with me.” His face moved closer, his hot breath taunting me while he continued to hold me still.

“I’m not trying to play a game.” My hand rubbed against my neck. “But I know what I know.”

“You know nothing.” His voice barely a whisper, and in some way it was more terrifying than if he had screamed it at me.