Angel of Death by Danielle Bolger (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

The woman watched the child’s laboured breathing with intense concentration, as if her will would be enough to heal the girl from her hospital bed. The woman was devout in her gaze, the hums of the machinery to the side causing no distraction, just as the soft volume of the television screen behind stole no interest. The woman was here for the child, to soak up every moment with her, before it was too late.

The woman was elderly, in her seventies but healthy enough that she could live another twenty years. Her hair was all grey, her skin etched with wrinkles, but she walked her dog every day with a pace that few could manage even half her age. She was a strong woman, determined to be by her family’s side for as long as she could. Though she was old, she knew that they needed her, even if they didn’t say so.

It was a lesson she had recently learnt herself. The passing of her husband only six months earlier continued to rip into her heart, but she had to remain, she needed to help her family. Especially when the sickness came.

The woman was grasping Madeleine’s hand. The contact was firm, the way grandmothers always want to be as close to their grandchildren as possible, but this hold was far softer than what she would usually give. She couldn’t be too tight, the child was so frail, she did not want to break her.

“Please,” the woman murmured. “Please...”

“Mum?” A man entered the room, a private ward in the hospital. The family did not have so much money that they could afford such luxuries, but this was the kind of hospital that put children in private rooms when they weren’t faring too well. Kids on their death beds was considered a contagion.

“Mum, I brought you a coffee.” The man, early thirties, came to sit by the woman and held a styrofoam cup out in front.

The woman finally broke her gaze, appeared bewildered for a moment before she collected the presence of her companion. “I’m sorry, Thomas. Thank you, coffee will be lovely.”

Thomas drunk his cup, the woman hers, in silence bar the subtle sounds of their swallowing. A minute passed. Not so very long, but since every minute is agonised when a child is fighting for her life, it was a generous time at that.

“Damn it!” Thomas shouted as he planted his styrofoam cup firmly on the side table. “I can’t believe this, I just can’t! The doctors said it was treatable! It has a seventy three percent survival rate, this shouldn’t be happening!”

Madeleine was not disturbed by the outburst, she remained rasping under her white covers. Rasping because her lungs were compromised. Metastasised. She could still breathe herself, but barely. Soon she would have to be put on oxygen, then morphine before she finally passed.

“It’s just not meant to go this way,” he continued, softer now, speaking pains he could only divulge to his mother. “We had everything in our favour. She was young, healthy. She was the light of our world. We tried so hard you know, for a child. Sarah and I, with the two miscarriages, then finally Madeleine made it. She did, she was our miracle child, for ten years...” Tears choked out his words.

The door opened again where a woman emerged. She was a few years older than Thomas but normally constructed her appearance so well she could have been considered a half decade younger. Now however, if someone were to guess her age and round it down they still would have given her a few years. Her skin appeared thin, the shadows under her eyes deep purple and large. She had lost weight too. It started two months ago, it showed now.

The entering woman tweaked her lips as the other two adults turned to look on her. An attempt at a smile, perhaps a reflex that was doing as poorly as their emotional states. She barely even closed the door behind her when the child murmured, Mum...

The younger woman, Sarah, rushed by her daughter’s side in a heartbeat. Even with all the noise the two others made it seemed the only thing capable of rousing a sickly child was the presence of her mother.

“Madeleine,” Sarah soothed as she knelt beside the bed, grasping what would have been a cold hand of her daughter’s with the two of her own. “Tell me, how are you feeling? Is it hurting today?”

The child raised her sleepy eyebrows then shook her head on top of the pillow. “No, I feel okay actually. I think I might be getting better.”

The mother smiled but could not keep the hint of a tear a bay—she’d heard the latest diagnosis.

“Did you do it?” Madeleine asked. “Did you remember to record my show? The one with the horses?”

“More than that! I brought all the episodes you missed on DVD!” With that Sarah whipped into her handbag and displayed the case to her daughter.

“You mean...” Madeleine paused, struggling for breath but recovered quickly. “You mean you bought it. It’s still wrapped up in plastic with the price tag on it.”

The three adults chuckled.

“A ten year schooling her parents, that’s priceless.” Thomas smiled.

“We shouldn’t expect any less from such a clever girl,” the old woman added.

The girl laughed. “And when I get to twenty, just watch out for what kind of wonders I’ll be capable of then, maybe I’ll be able to change my own car tyre!”

“Gosh that’s saying something,” Sarah uttered as she placed the show’s disc into the player. “I’m more than three times your age and still can’t fathom it!”

As the show started it bestowed a group of teenage girls caring and riding horses that they competed with professionally. Amidst the jockey-club other drama occurred in line with any other teen favourite, but it wasn’t the drama that stole Madeleine’s attention.

The old woman leant toward the girl as the show played. “So how will you put your genius tyre changing skills to use when you grow up?”

Madeleine gave a gentle smile that faded as she spoke. “I used to want to be all sorts of things: a doctor, lawyer, dancer, actor, writer, teacher...but I’ve stopped thinking those things. Now I just wish I could have a chance for that,” her chin indicated towards the small screen ahead of them. “I...I know I’m sick and I also know things are going bad. I...I want to ride a horse.” She kept her voice soft so her parents couldn’t hear, but not so quiet that the woman couldn’t hear the despair.

The woman leant in further and spoke in a softer voice still. “You will. I promise you will ride a horse and more. You’ll have a life, don’t give up. You’re a fighter, just like me. You can’t die unless you’re ready to.”

Madeleine turned to her, eyes glistening, and smiled. It was small but it was real. “Thank you, Grandma, you’re right. I promise, I...won’t give up.” She had to stifle a cough to say it, but she said it.

That was it, her grandmother was decided. Even though she wasn’t voicing it I could already hear her calling me. She was old, but she was also strong.

The woman placed a hand to her granddaughter’s cheek. “You have so much kindness in you, so much passion, and life. You have so much of yourself to share with the world. Don’t believe the doctors, don’t believe your research. Yes, I’m not so old that I don’t realise how all these young people are diagnosing themselves on the internet. Believe that you’re strong and you will never die until the moment you’re ready.”

They kept their voices hushed so Madeleine’s parents couldn’t hear. Thomas and Sarah saw the interaction but did not interfere. They all needed their heart to hearts, their goodbyes.

Madeleine smiled properly then, she coughed, but put it back in full force. They didn’t say any more, just fell into a hug of the woman’s volition and remained there for a good two minutes. Eventually it was the grandmother who pulled back.

“I need to pop out for a bit, sweetie, but I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Madeleine nodded with more energy than she had shown in days. Positive thinking was an amazing thing to give strength, but stretched over too long a period it could ring false too easily. The only thing that could trump it was genuine belief. No one had spoken of the child’s survival with the same hope as the woman just had in a long two weeks.

That was what scared all of them, it went from treatable a couple of months ago, to fatal just weeks ago. They did everything feasible, the chemotherapies, the radiation. Surgery wasn’t possible, not this type of disease, but the parents signed off on everything else. It gave their only child a chance to survive and with it she grew thinner and dropped hair. But the success rate, it was high for kids, they were sure that their daughter’s suffering now would be met with life in the long term. There was just no comparison to that.

The old woman left the child’s bedside with a final kiss to the forehead and a I love you, then exited out the ward door.

She walked down the hospital aisle, passing multiple wards, most quiet at first but becoming louder with every footfall. An open doorway revealed a room where kids were actively engaging in a pillow fight. It was the same ward Madeleine was present in just a few weeks ago.

The woman walked further still until she found that familiar female sign indicating a bathroom. She ventured inside and, after ensuring it was empty, approached a mirror and began to draw.

Most people think that to communicate with other realms some sort of sacrifice is needed. Things like blood, fresh killings of animals, certain body parts, even hearts. It’s true, but not all communications are the same, only the most sinister realms demand the most garish of sacrifices.

Upon the glass a clear fluid outlined the shape of an hour glass, its sand falling to both the top and the bottom of the vial.

The caller must make a gift, always something from one once living. My gift is one delivered in pain but at least one that is no longer wanted once shed.

It didn’t take long for her tears to begin to weep down from the drawing.

Using the gateway I appeared beside her in the bathroom, the light dimming as I took physical form.

“Angel of Death,” she acknowledged me. “Forgive my summons, I don’t mean to pull you here against your will...”

“No, stop.” I told her calmly, raising a hand in front of me. The reflection in the mirror also raised its hand out in front of it. It looked like a woman with fair blond hair and porcelain skin. The dress it wore clung with fair pink wisps, moving as if in response to an unfelt breeze. The invoked body did not favour being cast in such a restrained form. To be bound by gravity and flesh was always a stifling experience.

“Don’t apologise,” I continued, “I’ve known your intention for quite some time, gazer. That is why I responded to your call.”

She smiled grimly. “Then you will know the reason for my call?”

“I do.”

“Well then, can you do it?”

“The question is not can I, but whether the will is there,” I corrected.

The woman fidgeted with her fingers, battling between her internal fears and desires but soon declared, “Give it to her, please! She’s can’t die yet, she’s too young. She needs more time!”

“Time is a constant force,” I informed gently. “It can bend, be slowed down, sped up, even jumped across; it is not as straight and simple as you humans perceive it. Having said that it is still limited