Name: Divine Intervention.
Summary: There was no way the girl in front of Quinn was his guardian angel, no matter how much she insisted she was.
Notes: WOAH GUYS SPEWING WRITING EVERYWHERE. This is going to be about 6 chapters long, I think.
Listening to: Disregard from 24 EFFECTS - I recommend you open YouTube and listen to that album, most bitching instrumental trip ever.
"It'd be nothing short of a miracle for someone to survive that."
"Don't talk to me about miracles; the only miracle that ever lived is dead."
Quinn gripped the railing, leaning out into the cold air breeze. Far below the water waited to accept him.
There are so many things John Quinn had wanted to do when he moved out into the city four years ago, but jumping off an abandoned suspension bridge to his death certainly wasn't one of them. Four years was enough time to change a lot of things, though.
His tie wafted out in front of him as he leant further against the breeze, it was a muddy, loose and poor excuse for a tie. It matched his suit perfectly.
You may now kiss the bride.
Quinn stood in silence, as he had for the last twenty minutes, as he had for the last six months. But finally he was ready to accept his fate and move on, move on right into hell. He calmly began to unclasp his fingers from the railing. One, two, three-
"Hey, you!"
Four- what? Quinn was shocked by the intruding voice. He felt his grasp loosen and he quickly gripped back on, pulling himself in to look around. The girl stalked over to him, her dress flattening against her thighs as she walked, and places her cool hands on top of his clammy ones. She wore a white dress, ripped and snagged in places along with a black coat to her ankles; it didn't match too well. But, she wore nothing else, as far as she could tell, besides her underwear, which was painfully visible through the thin material. Her thin calves and knobbly knees were scabby and purple due to the cold.
"What're you doing?" she asked. Her breath smelt of peppermint and whatever it was trying to conceal; a coppery nice taste, like angle spit, "get off of there, you idiot!"
Angels didn't look that angry, though.
"Or what?" Quinn challenged, "you'll kill me?"
He didn't need this, even if she was cute, the scowl detracted from it.
"Or I can't do my job."
Play along, Quinn; no one comes along this path, anyway. It's your brain's last ditch attempt at saving itself.
A very attractive last attempt, you've got to admit.
No, stop that, shut up. He was pulled from his mind by her nails, patterned with neat little white stars on a black base, digging into the skin of his hand.
"And what might that be?"
"To sort your life out."
Quinn raised an eyebrow as if to say 'go on?'
"I'm your guardian angel."
He couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling out of his lips, and her frown only deepened. There was no way the girl in front of him was his guardian angel, but she begged to differ.
"I'm not kidding!"
"I'm sure you're not."
"I've been sent from heaven to sort your life out, divine intervention if you want. I could just leave you to die, you idiot, if you wish, but I actually like being in heaven. We get decent food and cable television."
Quinn didn't feel much like dying anymore, his body felt heavy and the girl was intriguing. With every second he was beginning to think she wasn't a figure of his imagination and that he should take her for coffee and then call the police.
"Her name was Dove."
Quinn's body went cold.
"You woke her up every morning with a cup of tea for three years."
Shut up.
"Every Thursday you had dinner at her family's house and they loved you."
"If I don't jump, will you shut up?"
"Her brother worshipped y- okay."
Quinn shakily began to make his way over the railing, slipping once and gripping back on quickly, his heart racing in a way it hadn't earlier. Everything was numb and drunken. When you had insomnia, everything felt really far off. To quote Fight Club, you were never really asleep, but you were never really awake, either.
Quinn hadn't slept in months.
His feet touched on cool, hard ground, and he looked up. Another thing he noticed as his eyes trailed up her body was her lack of shoes.
"You're not wearing any shoes...?"
"I'm not wearing any tights either, and there isn't a fedora on my head. Now, let's get moving." She grabbed his arm and began gently towing him off the suspension bridge.
"How do you know where I live?" his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dude, she doesn't exist, of course she knows where you live.
"I'm your guardian angel."
"I don't see a halo or wings."
"The halo is an incredibly common misconception, and have you ever seen an angel on earth with wings? It's impractical and none of us do it."
"I've never seen a unicorn, either," he muttered as they walked. As they walked along the country road, attempting to find the bus station, he weighed up the pros and cons of running all the way to the suburbs. Pro; getting away from his batshit delusions, Con: it was a five mile run, Pro: he ran track in school, Con: that was six years ago.
"Screw it."
He shook her off and set off sprinting, if he could find the next bus station along, or call a cab from a truck stop, or something, he should be okay.
He looked back to see the girl looking dazed and thoroughly pissed. Luckily for him, she didn't chase after him. She simply dug about in her coat pocket and produced a phone, ringing someone.
As long as it wasn't God asking for a car, whatever, man.
Quinn arrived outside his house two hours later, having limped the last mile. He unlocked his door shakily and opened it to reveal a house full of ghosts and memories. Half of the furniture was older than he was, the battered sofa was the one he carried all the way through university with himself; degree in English literature, what's the point, Quinn?
And the place had a horrible cold feel to it that couldn't be displaced with a fire and blankets. A chill that penetrated your bones and left you feeling horrible and awkward and in constant pain.
No wonder he tried to off himself.
Quinn flicked his keys off his palm and into the key bowl in a beautiful case off style and badass, then he removed his suit coat and dress shirt, letting them pool to the floor. His shoes followed and he collapsed to the sofa in just a pair of skinny jeans.
"You can't wear skinnies to a funeral, Quinn, that's disrespectful."
"She would've liked it."
Sleep overcame him, and he swore to try again with the whole killing thing tomorrow, regardless of how much his mind didn't want it.
Quinn awoke to an empty house for three fifths of a second before there was loud swearing and a clatter. He shot up, to find the girl from the night before, now clad in skinnies and a checked shirt struggling to sweep up a coffee cup.
"How did you-"
"I broke in," she smiled, looking intensely at the coffee cup and then putting the now intact cup back on the table, "Although I can't believe you only have instant coffee and no tea, I had to go out and buy a bloody teapot and decent coffee it was goddamn ridiculous."
Quinn stared on gob smacked, "How did you... I... What?"
"I told you, idiot, I'm your guardian angel."
"What's your name?" he asked.
She leant back into one of the kitchen chairs, sipping her tea lavishly, "Rashel Jordan. Pleasure is all mine, idiot."
"Would you stop calling me idiot? My name's Quinn."
"I know."
That girl certainly wasn't his guardian angel, but as she lit a cigarette without a lighter – maybe she was just fast with it – Quinn was becoming less and less sure of that.
Woah what.
Chapter two soon. Drop a review.