When I was little, my father told me an old story of the Angel of Music. He had been more than a bit drunk that night when I begged for my goodnight story. I stubbornly refused, in typical little kid fashion, to go to bed unless he told me a story. And not just any story… a new one, a long one, and most importantly a good one. He twirled me up off the ground and set me on his lap, exhaling a mouthful of drunken breath in my face. He teased me, calling me a tenacious little girl, taking after too much of my mother's side. I giggled hysterically, as though I was the drunken one of the pair. My mother, who had wandered in from the kitchen at this last comment, simply rolled her eyes and stalked off somewhere to brood over her cursed fate.
I can't recall any memories where my mother didn't seem to be moaning over her misfortune, always complaining to God or raving to friends on the telephone. "Harold's drunk again.." she'd curse to the empty telephone as she smoked cigarettes by the packs. There were no friends left to call. Pity how a life full of promise can resign itself to nothing more than shadows of hope and empty bottles of darkness. She strived to numb the pain that was felt by unhappy couples trying to get by for the sake of their little girl. Everyone drinks or smokes to cure their illness and hunger. It's how our society manages to keep afloat and it's the only reason we haven't overthrown the government, I suppose.
"Only when I had finally calmed down enough would my father agree to begin his tale. His drunken mind slowly wound its way around to the dusty story section of his brain and picked an old one that hadn't been told in quite some time. I don't remember the exact words he used, only of his slurring phrases and liquored kisses when the story was over. I stumbled to bed on chubby toddler legs, happy that my story was everything I wished for. My father tucked me into bed and sent himself back to the brandy.
The tale itself was nothing more than fanciful words yet my small brain managed to warp it into something more. Every night after that, I would pray to God that the angel would come to me. I chattered endlessly to my parents about how I so badly wanted the angel to visit me and take me away to be his student, until they told me it was inappropriate to want for such a thing. Then I had enough sense to keep to myself unless I wanted to provoke another fight about what is socially acceptable. I was meant to be perfection, not a disaster.
"It took a few months for the imaginary friend show up. Later psychiatrists would describe him as being an average idea for my age group but I simply took it much too far. After all, most of my peers had imaginary friends; butterflies, cats, dogs, fairies…etc. My "imaginary friend" was a dark shadow that flitted along the walls and taught me to sing. I called him my Angel; after all, what else could he be than the one I had always wished for. This odd creature I had seemly created from the depths of my darkened imagination shocked my parents. My mother yelled at my father for telling me the story in the first place and he defended himself with a flying fit of curses. My mother explained that he was just a shadow and the songs I heard were just in my head. My father snapped at me to stop being weird and my mother snapped at him to be nicer so then they both snapped at me and I stopped talking about Angel.
Angel was a little abstract for many of my friends. They told me I was being stupid and refused to play with me if I didn't have a normal friend with me. Angel refused to share me with any others so I told them I didn't care and they pretended not to notice my absence. Unable to make friends my own age, I took to walking around the soccer fields surrounding the playground while my angel sang a sweet melody only I could hear. As loneliness became a part of life, I retreated farther and farther into my little world of music and dark angels
What had been acceptable during kindergarten was causing problems as I entered grade school. My parents had let me crawl into a shadowy world unchecked and now they were trying to drag me out kicking and screaming. Their wild child had become more settled, a change which they had once welcomed, yet now felt unhinged by. I had become reservedly polite around my parents and schoolmates. I had distanced myself from my parents and their constant fights. I would stand rigid and still when they hugged me, the angel's voice throbbing in my brain that they were against me. I was unable to connect to my peers in ways I was supposed to. I didn't understand games or how to make a best friend or the point of making cookies. Besides, traditional play dates were out of the question; they'd interfere with my "Lessons".
One day I strolled into the living room and informed my parents that I would now be taking formal voice lessons from my angel. Yes, they would occur in my bedroom and I would need three undisturbed hours every day. My parents tossed it off, assuming that even for a child as odd as me, no first grader could keep up with a task like that by themselves. But day after day I could be found in my room, standing with almost perfect posture singing scales to the air for hours at a time. Angel was a harsh teacher to say the least. I had only ever known his softer side so this new exposure to the danger of him was frightening. One day I kept missing scales, distracted by some school paper or other. My arm suddenly jerked up and pulled harshly on my hair. Focus. Tears sprung to my eyes and my head pulsed. My parents couldn't understand why I was so upset that evening. As Angel said, pain is a powerful teacher and helps one to learn very quickly. These lessons became the one stable event in my life. While my parents drank and smoked, my teachers fought me, and my peers shunned me, my angel always stood strong on these lessons. When the days were rough and the notes were sour he'd sing and provide more comfort than a mother's warm hug ever could.
My parents, however, didn't understand the importance of these lessons. Once my mother came in during my lesson and told me to come to supper. I told her that I was busy at the moment and would eat later. She firmly shook her head and told me that she had enough of this nonsense, that supper was on the table and if I wasn't there in five minutes I was in big trouble. I bit my tongue and turned away and resumed my scales. Ten minutes later my mother stormed in and told me if I didn't come to supper now, I would not eat tonight. I didn't stop singing nor turn to face her, I could almost hear my voice improving as I sang. There was no way on earth I would give this up for a rasping, panting mother. She slammed her way out of my room and locked my door. For hours there was no sound but my singing, mingled with the clinking of forks against plates and the gentle nighttime cleanup. I heard my parents voices softly argue over my behavior. I knew better than to pay attention to their trivial noise. The angel had warned me that my parents wouldn't always appreciate my vocal commitment but if I continued with the work I was doing he would transform me into a strong and beautiful singer. He spoke those words with such reverence; I knew they would come true. My angel wouldn't lie.
Finally finished I walked over to the door, knowing he was pleased with my practice tonight. I tried to turn the handle but found it locked. Puzzled I tried again. "Angel… I can't get out…" I was confused as to why it would be locked, my door was never locked, no door was ever locked. I had finished my lesson in good standing. He had no reason to lock me in. "Angel?" I tried turning the handle again and again and again. My palms losing grip as sweat took over, eye watering as panic set in- I couldn't even remember that my mom had talked to me tonight, let alone locked me in. Breathe. I took a shaky breath and backed away from the door. Panicking wouldn't help me. I sat down on the edge of my bed and took some deep breaths, trying to meditate like Angel once showed me after an especially horrible day. I found that it was a lot harder without his voice to guide me. "Angel? Could you please unlock my door?" I whispered softly to the air. A 'click' came from across the room. "Thank you" I whispered and swung myself down from the bed. A soft smile skipped across my lips as a few bars of the melody he sang on the playground crept into my head. I opened my door and wandered out to where my parents were talking. They refused to believe that my angel had unlocked my door. My mother claimed that she must have forgotten. Little did they know.