Hey, guys! Remember when I promised to re-write this story? Well, guess what this is!
First, an extensive author's note:
1) THIS ACCOUNT WILL HAVE NO NEW STORIES POSTED TO IT. All my stories are being placed upon my personal website, and my new fanfiction account, "tonystarktheautobot".
2) ALL STORIES ON THIS ACCOUNT WILL EVENTUALLY BE FINISHED. Most of them are years old, and in an attempt to continue them, I am re-writing them so I can start fresh. These will all be on my new website, a link to which will be in the author's description of both my fanfiction accounts.
3) I have yet to decide whether I will post the rest of the rewritten chapters of this story solely on my website, or as a new story on my new fanfiction account. If you have an opinion on what I should do, please share, and I'll take it into consideration.
All of that said, enjoy the rewritten first chapter of 'The Orphanage'.
When I was a child, I was saved by an angel.
Or at least, so my mother told me. It was a story I heard almost every day of my life, whether in as a small reminder or a family anecdote, or just a way of telling me to be grateful for what I had. Whenever I cried over a scrapped knee or a lost toy, she would remind me of that angel and how lucky I was. Or maybe, it was meant to instill in me a respect and awe for something greater, more wonderful than myself. I don't know why mom kept repeating it. If she were still alive, I'd ask.
Since I was just a kid, I can't remember the close call where I was 'saved'. My mother was the only one who would ever mention it. My brother would get fidgety and nervous, and avoid the subject, while Dad would just blow me off completely. So, being the impressionable child I was, I believed my mother. Maybe I still do.
S,o I was saved by an angel when I was seven, a happy little girl with two parents and an older brother, content as can be. My mom called me Josey Girl back then. I don't know why; my name is Samantha. Another one of those questions I would ask... if I could.
Anyway, that day, my brother and I were playing in the street - which was foolish - and I was almost made a pancake in the middle of the road by an SUV. It was at that moment, my mother would say, that the angel appeared in a flash of light and saved my life, whisking me out of harm's way with his big, bright wings.
Twelve years later, and I still have my mother's words about the incident engraved in my mind.
"There was this beautiful light, and a strong flap of wings, and next I knew you were in my arms. It was a miracle, Josey girl."
Mom died seven years later, and Dad had a heart attack not three years after that. They left behind a large, two story house in Georgia, our childhood home, a place of warm hardwood floors and large bay windows, and a staircase where every stair but one creaked at so much as a toe pressed upon it. It was home. But the memories were too much for my brother, who ran away to the big cities and flashing lights to escape mom and dad's ghosts. Whereas I, who knew they would follow me wherever I went, elected to stay.
There are days when the loneliness gets to me. When I'll find myself staring at an old family photograph on the mantle for an hour. When I'm reading and find I've read the same line of text over and over, and I've simply stopped caring. When, in a flash of pain, I scramble awake from a nightmare, covered in sweat, and though I'm trembling and in a panic I almost feel as if there's someone right beside me, holding my hand.
In those times, for just a moment, I believe in mom's story. Those times when I feel the weight of my losses the worst, it's almost as if there's someone there buoying me, keeping me afloat in my darkness. I'd think it were creepy if it didn't bring me such a sense of peace. The house smells of flowers and heartache after those moments, and after they end, only then do I wonder if it's real or if I'm losing my mind.
So, maybe an angel did save my life once.
To my great surprise, I'd soon have my proof - when the angel saved my life again.
I wonder what blood tastes like. That's the first thought I have when I look down at my trembling, upturned hand, soaked in my own blood. The second thought is that I must be delirious because my thoughts aren't making any sense and I'm shaking head to foot. It occurs to me that the knife in my gut really hurts. I suppose I should remove it, so that's what I try to do once whoever it was who did me in runs off with my purse, wallet, and phone.
My hand takes slick hold of the knife and - "AHH!" - I find it's not so easy to dislodge. In an effort to cause as little damage as possible, I leave it, and struggle to stand back up and move towards the street. There are three signs directing me towards Parsons St. and the edges of my vision are blurred and the struggle to breathe is so sharply painful I'd almost rather stop breathing at all...
Dying is not what I had planned on doing that day, but then, I know well how life rarely goes as planned.
Then, I smell flowers. The air seems lighter, somehow, and that strange comforting presence appears nearby. For a moment I manage a smile and think that at least I won't die alone, until I realize someone is speaking, with a voice like wind and honey.
Aw, man. One hour off the job, and you're already in trouble.
The blood loss must be more than I imagined; my mind is pulling together delusions of voices and angels to comfort me. I open my mouth to tell my mirage he isn't real, but find myself saying something else in a breathless whisper.
"I'm dying, aren't I?"
You don't have to.
Of course, my mirage wouldn't be a mirage if it couldn't promise me exactly what I wanted - exactly what is out of reach.
A friend of mine is going to die. I want him to live. But he's a bit of a fallen angel.
My eyes are tunnels looking out on a quickly darkening world, and my ears have been stuffed with cotton balls. There's no longer any pain, no sensation at all, just dull nothingness as all my sense leave me.
If you take care of him, I'll give you a second chance. Who knows; you might like this guy better than me.
This is ridiculous. I'm dying, and all I can find to do with the last minutes of my life is dream up a fairy tale my mother implanted in my mind? Laughing brings new spasms of pain to my chest. "Sure, whatever you s - say." Laughter turns to coughing. "So, what's this... guy's name?" Sleep is crawling over me, dragging me under, and I can't keep my eyes open anymore. Just before I sink under the weight of it all, I hear his voice one last time.
His name is Sephiroth.
When I awoke in bed, in my own home, the only thing I could clearly remember was those four words: His name is Sephiroth. I sit up in bed, hands scrambling to lift my shirt, revealing a scar that appears months old and not the fresh wound that it is supposed to be. Suddenly I feel light headed, a bubble of nervous laughter escaping my chest. My hand traces the outline of the scar, and I stare dumbfounded, before leaping to my feet and running to the bathroom.
Who the hell is Sephiroth? And why do I feel like I knew the name? And most of all, what the hell is going on?
Once I stumble into the bathroom, I flick the light switch on and pull my shirt up again, and the mirror confirms my original suspicion. A scar, not a wound, which is completely impossible unless... my lost memory has to be larger than I thought. Horror strikes me as I realize months of time must be gone from my mind, because there's no other way the wound could've healed so quickly. A flash of a figure haloed in light appears in my mind and I quickly and viciously shove it away.
My eyes drift away from my scar to my face, to a haggard, tired expression made of blue eyes framed by thick, black bags, and long, thin hair. A sense of emptiness pervades me, fills me to the brim and makes my eyes cold. I wonder if perhaps I am depressed - or if this is what it feels like to lose the presence of an angel.
I'm not sure where that thought came from, so I sweep it aside, and begin removing my clothes to take a shower. As I remove the blood and sweat that's caked on my skin and hair, I wonder if I should feel cleansed or remade. All I feel is an aching desire to go back to sleep. Once I'm done, I step out and dry off, slipping on a baggy grey shirt and black sweats, and step out of the bathroom. I'm still alone in the house, at that point, until I begin walking down the stairs.
That's when I feel it - a sense of warmth and joy filling up my bones and my breath until it's like I could float on air. Eyes widening, I stare shell-shocked at the door where not one, but two perfect beings stand framed in light and beauty. It's unlike anything I've seen upon the earth, too much wonder to truly describe. The door opens for them on its own, and they step inside my house.
One of these alien creatures is being carried by the other: he's battered and bruised, with blood and barely-healed wounds lining his skin. Somehow, the juxtaposition of his injuries and this holy light makes him the more beautiful of the two. His long silver hair shines in the brilliance, and my hand aches to touch him, just to see that he's real.
He's naked, I realize, and the way he's held in the first angel's arms brings to mind the Pieta, and for a moment I truly believe this "fallen angel" is the son of a God. I'm convinced of it.
The angel holding him, on the other hand, is My Angel - I would know that scent of flowers, that soft, warm presence anywhere.
Silence falls heavily over the room as My Angel steps across the floor. Blood drips onto the hardwood as he approaches the couch. He places the silver-haired angel there, arranging him with gentle care, before standing straight and turning towards me. His eyes meet mine, and suddenly I feel so unworthy, so intimidated and afraid, to be standing in the presence of such loveliness as only myself. Who am I to be here? With disdain, I realize I'm crying.
It's only when his lips press against my forehead, like a parent bidding their child goodnight, that I realize My Angel has crossed the room to me. I give a jolt of surprise, and wipe furiously at my eyes, self conscious and blushing. He merely smiles.
"Take good care of him, all right?" His voice is beyond believing, like music wrapped in wind. As he speaks, he backs away from me, towards the door that's bathed in ethereal light. In that instant, I realize he's leaving, and a thousand questions surge in my mind. What if this is my one chance to speak to an angel - My Angel - who might know anything and everything? Who could tell me about my parents, my mom, if there's a world beyond this one and if they're waiting for me in it?
The question that comes out in all that chaos is, "What's your name?"
Just before he vanishes completely into the light, I catch his response.
"My name is Zack."
When the light fades away into the orange-red hue of a Georgian sunrise, my sense returns to me and I slump against the railing on the staircase. My legs are giving out on me and I don't fight it, sliding to the step and sitting upon it. 'Shocked' is an understatement. Unbelieving, confused, terrified, and worried for my sanity - all of those would do, and more. My trembling hands reach out and take hold of the bannister, and I try to stand, if only to look at the couch and see if this was all real, or more of my strange imaginings.
So I force myself to stand, using the railing to help until it runs out. Then, I steady myself and somehow, miraculously, manage to make it to the back of the couch before I collapse again. Slowly, I lift my arms and take hold of the armrest, hoping to pull myself up. I hesitate for a moment - terrified of what this might reveal, of what it might mean if this is all real and not a dream -
Despite my misgivings, I pull myself up far enough to lift my eyes over the armrest - and there is my proof, all six feet of him, naked and blood-soaked on my couch. With a squeak I let go of the couch and slump to the floor, shaking and out of my mind.
Angels aren't real, I insist, curling up with my arms around my knees. It was just a story mom told to me as a kid to make me feel better. Just a story. This can't be real!
But it is real, and 'Sephiroth' is very real, and the upside of that is, at least I'm not losing my mind.
I hope.
Forcing myself to stand again, I look over Sephiroth with ever-widening eyes, before grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it over him. That's all I have in me - I turn and run back up the stairs to my room, slam the door shut and lock it behind me, then collapse against it.
For the first time, I wonder what I've gotten myself into.