Instructions for a Guardian Angel

Azarath's POV

Watch them without being seen.

She hiccupped in her sleep. It was a more silent remnant of the previous sobs that had now quieted to a whimper. It was pitying, the routine of her actions before she slept. I was beginning to think it was the only thing that would drain her energy enough to put her to sleep. How pathetic.

How pathetic it was, that out of all the resources we pooled our energy into, that ‘guardian angel’ required my presence? Frankly, it was a waste of time. There were evils in the world that required my expertise and it was absurd to have a warrior like me reduced to babysitting this dead human walking.

She jolted awake in mid sob, gasping. Her wide eyes stared straight ahead, glassy and dazed as they adjusted to reality. The pain on her face stayed though.

She popped two capsules into her mouth and swallowed—without water—and curled back into a fetal position. She stared out the window at the rain as it poured down the window and as the thunder shook the empty apartment. No matter what, her human eyes were unable to catch my figure. With her eyes fixated on the window, she was staring through me.

This assignment was scheduled to last no longer than a year. The circumstances of the assignment were simple. There were specific rules to being an angel that one needed to follow, and guardian angels were no exception, with a tad bit more freedom to roam.

While others make guardianship their entire existence, angels typically saw guardianship as a punishment of sorts. It’s the lowest type of work to be done, only for novice angels. Human lives were fleeting, and to mess up on an assignment was many times, minimal damage.

Just one year, and I could return to my regular life.

All I had to do was wait for the reapers to come collect her.

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Jasey's POV

I wake up and sigh.

Just another day to get through.

I practice my smile through the mirror. Hold my shoulders up straight, laugh—today will be more convincing than yesterday. Some days are better than others.

Just another “Good morning!”

“I’m doing great. How about you?” to top it off.

When they ask, I have to respond with “Yes, I’m feeling better” to paint the illusion. I’m better than yesterday.

“No, not today. Maybe some other time.” So they know not to ask again.

I brush my teeth.

I put makeup on, put myself together to paint myself into happiness. It’s a show.

I pull the sleeves over the scarred wrists and wince. The pain reminds me that I’m still alive and I have to keep living. I’m still alive after all of this.

I get on the train and sit. Or stand.

I look around me. Someone’s watching. Maybe it’s him.

But it’s always no one.

I pause before entering the building. Someone’s footsteps behind me.

But it’s always no one.

I turn off my alarm. It’s a reminder to drink water.

I remember to eat lunch.

I remember to take my pills with lunch.

My alarm goes off. It’s a reminder to stand up, stretch.

I lean against my co-worker’s cubicle and ask about her kids. She talks for 15 minutes if it’s a bad day. 5 minutes if it’s a good day.

Work ends. I clock out. I walk past her cubicle and she’s waiting for me. The conversation is always the same.

“Heading out?” She asks.

“Yeah.”

She does one of the following: twirls her hair between her fingers, bites her lip, or leans back in her chair. “Can I come over tonight?”

The answer has been the same for the past month. “No.”

The excuse is always different:

“I have company tonight.”

“It’s not a good time.”

“I’m not feeling it.”

“I’m tired.”

She knows the answer will always be the same, yet she asks. Maybe it’s her way of checking in on me. Maybe it’s her way of telling me she misses me.

I miss her too.

I miss the laughter between stolen kisses in the office. I miss her body. I miss the way her fingertips trace along my back to calm me to sleep.

But she shouldn’t miss me. She deserves better.

“Okay.” She responds. “Maybe next time?” She gives a smile to remind me to ask again the next day.

“I don’t know. Maybe” is usually the answer.

Sometimes, on the good days, I’ll give her a little hope. I say “Next time.” I know it’s cruel because tomorrow may not be as forgiving, but giving her hope also gives me hope. Maybe tomorrow will be better for me.

I leave.

I check behind my shoulder every few steps.

Though I don’t see anything, I’m still anxious.

I get home.

I contemplate watering the plants.

I don’t water the plants.

I make dinner.

I take my medication.

I shower.

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling and I sob until I can’t breathe. I turn on my night light.

I keep crying until I fall asleep.

Sometimes, on the good days, I stop crying after I turn on my night light.

Sometimes, I just repeat until the weekend comes.

I don’t water my plants.