Hey everyone! I hope this update, as always, finds you all well! I'm happy to be updating again so soon, I've had a bit of free time lately. I'm going to put a warning up again here – this chapter definitely continues with the intensity, even more so than the last. So just be aware. I hope you enjoy it!!
-Ang
5 Months Later
"Well done, Andrew. I really think you're ready to go out alone."
Andrew had thought he would never hear those words and the shock of finally hearing them from Tess nearly knocked him breathless. He displayed the correct emotions, and said the right words of enthusiasm for her sake, but on the inside, he was nearly erupting. He was astonished at the fact that he kept himself from shouting out with joy. He did not think that Tess would understand or appreciate an exclamation from his just now because first, it would be highly unlike him to do such a thing and second, because it was slightly inappropriate for this particular news. Furthermore, for him to be excited about anything these days would probably seem odd to Tess, and being questioned by her was the last thing he wanted.
This is it, he thought to himself, a private triumph building within him that he could hardly contain. Andrew had been working hard on regaining Tess's trust and although it had taken several months longer than he had hoped, he had finally done it. She was letting him go solo. After five long months of constant effort on his part, she was letting him go solo. This was extremely good news to him because it meant that he could finally begin to work on locating Monica, which was the only thing he cared about. For the first time in a long while, he was beginning to feel a smidge of hope.
He was growing weary of putting on a show for Tess and he was looking forward to some time alone, when he wouldn't have to pretend to be well and happy, to finally come to terms with everything that had happened eight months ago. Andrew couldn't believe that it had only been that long … every day away from Monica felt like an eternity, and it was almost unfathomable to him that it had been two hundred and forty-three days since he had last looked into her beautiful maple colored eyes, last held her in his arms, since he'd kissed her goodbye … he had to stop himself, physically shake his head to push the images of her away, or else he really would not be able to keep himself from breaking down and he didn't want that, not with Tess still in close proximity. He had been trying so hard to keep his composure around her that he hadn't had any time to just deal with the crippling emotions that boiled just beneath the surface of his fake contentment and false enthusiasm for work. He was starting to feel extremely guilty about it, for he knew in his heart that he was not doing the right thing. On the one hand, working did provide a distraction for his thoughts, but the fact that he was only doing it happily because he had an ulterior motive was a little alarming. Not enough to keep him from doing it, obviously, but enough to raise a red flag. He knew what he was doing wasn't good, and that there would probably be consequences for it down the road, but he refused to think about that. He would find her, and he would not lose her again when he did, if it was the last thing on this earth that he did.
Andrew breathed a great sigh, not of relief, but of unease and apprehension at the task that lay before him, not doubting in the least that it would be difficult if not close to impossible. He tried not to dwell on how daunting trying to find her would be. There were more than a million different places she could be and locating her would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, quite literally. If she had still been in a celestial form, it might have been slightly easier due to the fact that angels could feel each other's presence and sense when another was near, but he didn't have that luck on his side. If he could get in touch with Adam and he had help from him, and anyone else who was willing, he might have a fighting chance, or so he hoped. He was convinced that Adam would help, if not for Andrew's own sake, surely for Monica's. Before he could get his hopes up though, he needed to track Adam down, which might be difficult depending on what he was up to. As far as Andrew knew, he was still working as an Angel of Death and so would not be tied up with lengthy assignments, but would be darting to and from Heaven quite frequently, which might make it hard for Andrew to pinpoint him. All the same, he would give it his best shot.
Andrew's thoughts were interrupted by Tess, who cleared her throat and said,
"Angel Boy, would you care to join the class?" Her tone was playful, not annoyed, but Andrew still had to force a smile.
"I'm sorry Tess, I was just thinking about how great this news is, that's all."
Tess regarded him warmly and stepped forward to give him a motherly hug,
"Alright well, I better get going," she said. She paused for a moment and stepped back slightly so that she could look directly in his face, "Andrew … I just want to say that I'm really very proud of you. I know that these last eight months have been the most difficult of your existence so far, and that you've worked very hard to overcome this. Doing the right thing is not always the easiest thing to do, but you know what? Eventually, things get better and you're proof positive of that. Keep your head up, keep moving forward. That's all you can do."
Andrew felt sick at her words. He wanted nothing more than to be honest with her, but he knew that he couldn't have it both ways. He compared his current feelings to an alcoholic who's unwilling to recover. The alcoholic hates going through rehabilitation, but he puts his best foot forward in order to speed the process of release up. He says the right words, makes the proper progress in therapy, but it's all a façade. He does well to get out so that he can drink again. He is not cured; in fact, he is worse upon leaving rehab. It was a fierce cycle of manipulation, and Andrew was quite ashamed of deceiving Tess in this way. But what could he do?
"Thank you, Tess. It means a lot that you trust me again," he lied through his teeth, seeing the look of pride on her face, and wishing he were dead, "I won't let you down."
"That makes me very happy, Andrew. You are more than capable of working alone and I think it's high-time that you have the privilege again. I won't see you very much anymore, I think the Father has me assigned to a brand new caseworker and Lord knows that will keep me busy! You remember how Mon—" but she caught herself before she said Monica's name, not missing the dark look that quickly crossed Andrew's features and disappeared almost as fast.
"I'm sorry, I know you miss her," Tess said sadly and then hurriedly changed the subject, "I'm sure I'll see you around, I don't think it's necessary for me to check in on you too often. Feel free to keep the apartment for when you stay on Earth, otherwise, you're free to go Home if you'd like."
She smiled at him once more and disappeared. Andrew let out a noise that was something between a sigh and a groan and dropped back to the couch heavily. He was tempted to immediately begin his search for Adam, but he knew that he needed to take this slowly. Running around blind, like a chicken with its head cut off, was not a smart move. He needed to thoroughly convince everyone that he was back to "normal." He could not risk raising suspicion from anyone who might try to thwart his efforts, like Tess, or worse, Sam. Even thinking the Angel of Angel's name brought a nasty taste into Andrew's mouth, sure that he had been awful to Monica and was primarily the cause of her fall. He definitely didn't want Sam catching wind of his plans.
After a few moments taken to regain his composure once more, Andrew felt ready to go Home. The knowledge that he was now essentially free to do as he pleased, between assignments of course, was comforting. That alone made him feel one step closer to finding Monica, though he knew he had a great many steps ahead of him. As he made ready to leave Earth for the first time in over eight months, he whispered aloud the words that he wished dearly that she could, wherever she was, hear for herself,
"Hold on, Baby … I'm coming."
Another week, another month had gone and Monica was nearing what she thought to be her breaking point. She was sure that she was beginning to lose her mind, and positive that she'd lost her soul months before. She found it hard to believe that just eight months ago, a blink of an eye in an angel's existence, she was happy. She turned the word happy over and over in her head, trying to remember what that particular emotion felt like, but came up with nothing. She felt so far removed from her former self, that the idea of being happy was almost laughable.
She sat in her apartment after another long day at work, numb and exhausted beyond comprehension. She closed her eyes and as her thoughts wandered, the fingers of her right hand traced a line up her left arm, bumping along the rough scars from her wrist to above the crook of her elbow and back again. She often did this subconsciously, as though she needed to feel the scars from the cuts to make sure that they were still there, that she'd really made them. She had long since abandoned her once nightly ritual of cutting herself. She had quickly grown immune to the rush of adrenaline that it brought her and was no longer satisfied with the pain from the blade ripping through her delicate skin. It had worked to deaden her emotional pain at first, but the crushing weight of the despair that she had been trying to run away from had caught up to her. Because of this, she'd had to find other ways to attempt to control the never-ending pain.
Going days at a time on nothing but alcohol mixed with purposely throwing up when she did eat was her newest and favorite coping mechanism thus far. She quite enjoyed the feeling of denying herself that which she knew she needed to survive in this human body. She ate just enough to subsist, getting through most workdays on bits of fruit and bread and cup after cup of black coffee. The feeling of emptiness in her stomach rivaled the emptiness in her heart and, for the moment at least, it was working to keep her thoughts away from Andrew. The simple fact that she was eating nowhere near enough meant that she could think of little else but food. When her hunger was so great that she couldn't resist, eating was usually and promptly followed by throwing it right back up. Her throat was constantly sore from fingers with sharp fingernails shoved too hastily and roughly to the gag spot. But even this was quickly losing its effectiveness. In all her anger, hurt, and confusion in the last months, Monica had waged an all out war against her already emotionally fragile human body, and she was winning. If she wasn't starving herself or purging food, drinking alcohol to the point of unconsciousness, or slicing up her arms, she had no choice but to think of Andrew and those thoughts were just too painful to deal with.
Alarmingly, she found herself thinking of suicide often. She knew that if she kept moving in the direction she was going, she would not be able to survive it, and a strong part of her wondered if she even wanted to. She had lost Andrew and lost herself … she had nothing to live for anyway. But, at least for the time being, she was far too afraid to think of what might happen to her if her human form did die to seriously consider it. She held on to it in the back of her mind though, her one last option if she just couldn't take it anymore, a sure way to rid herself of the pain once and for all.
Monica sat up on her bed and opened her eyes, giving them time to adjust to the darkness before moving. She crossed the room slowly and came to the old wooden desk that was situated in the far right corner of the shabby little apartment. She opened the only drawer and removed three items before returning to her bed and flicking on the little lamp on her bedside table. In the glow cast by the lamp, she laid out the items before her; two baggies - one filled with pills, the other filled with a dense white powder - and a syringe. She'd bought the stuff off a neighborhood drug dealer weeks ago but had not had the guts to do anything with it until now. He had shown her how to load the syringe, how much to put in, the angle in which to stick, everything she needed to know in order to 'shoot up' properly, as he had said.
She pinched a bit of powder from the baggie, a dangerous mix of cocaine and heroin, and loaded her syringe to just under the amount that he'd told her would make her "forget things but still be alive in the morning." She was banking on the fact that he had been honest with her about the effects of the two drugs mixed together. She took a deep breath and slipped the needle of the syringe into the vein at the crook of her arm. She didn't even flinch. The stick of the needle was nothing compared to the cut from a knife.
"Please," she whispered urgently to the syringe as she pushed the substance slowly into her bloodstream, "make me forget him …"