Angel Dust by Aurora Morgenstern (summer beach reads .TXT) 📕

a big fluffy towel, there is a letter lying on my windowstill. I completely forgot to close the window this morning, but seeing the letter I am glad that I did. I examine the letters exterior, the envelope is crispy white and my name is written on it in elegant black ink lettering. The letter within is not quite what I expected, instead of a message I find a quotation that is to be attributed to Edgar Allan Poe if memory serves me right. It reads: Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;" . I wonder what exactly Nathaniel is trying to tell me through this line since I am assuming he is hoping to tell me something. I make a mental not to ask him about it later, maybe it´s a sort of test? I am sleepy after the hot shower and decide it might be best to sleep on it for a bit before I call on the little bird to deliver a message to Nathaniel. However the so planned short nap, turns into a 5 hour long napping fest and i wake up to a pitch black night sky. I stretch lazily, already feeling pains all over my body and groggily walk downstairs to pour me a glass of water. I doubt it´s any use messaging Nathaniel now as I am sure he might be asleep already, I´ll just explain the situation to him tomorrow and hope he understands. It is in the kitchen that I remember Michaels absence and decide that now might be the best time to have another look at that book in the library without his knowledge. I grab a small blanket from the sofa and make my way upstiars, the floor is cold beneath my bare feet and the house is eerily quiet. My heart quickens a little when my mind tricks me into seeing shapes in the shadows around me. I hasten my pace and clutch the blanket a little tighter, it´s silly to be afraid but I can´t seem to shake my unease. I let out a heavy sigh of relief when the ehavy library door swings shit behind me, my heart rate slows. For some obscure reason I feel safe in here, like a haven the library is inviting with its dim oil lamps and heavy carpets. It feels like I´m doing something forbidden and yet I cannot explain why I feel this way, Michael probably wouldn´t even mind me looking at the book. Still there is this nagging voice in my head, telling me that there is more to that book, I feel drawn to it. I quickly cross the room, now almost impatient to get my hands on it. I reach the shelf, my heart almost exploding within my chest, ragged breaths escaping my lungs. I pick the book up and everything goes still, it is then that I realise the silence around me, nothing but silence. I notice something different about the book, it feels heavier than last time. I frown at it for a second before I realise it´s kind of ridiculous to frown at a book. I carefully open it to see why it might be heavier and to ym surprise I find a stack of papers lying inside the book. It takes me less than two seconds to find the nearest armchair and as soon as I get comfortable, I exmaine the stack of papers. The stack consists of ten or so pages, all heavy and thick paper, bound together with string. Delicately I loosen the string and examine the first page. The hand writing on it is done in black ink and is very neat and precise, I recognise a masculine hand in the writing. On closer exmaination I notice that the handwriting isn´t the only thing, the back of the page holds more drawings. Unlike the drawings in the book this one is highly disturbing, it shows a kneeling angel, arms and legs bound by chains to a wall. I can only make out half of the angel´s face, the rest is covered by long strands of hair. He head down in a way that suggests a lack of faith and utter defeat. The angel is wearing what looks like a white dress, torn in many places and from the looks of it covered in filth or maybe even blood since the angel displays many wounds. Her wings like her dress are filthy and slightly torn, the left one especially is bent at an unhealthy angel that suggests it has been broken. The image terrifies me, why would anyone want to draw something like this, it looks too realistic and it most certainly has shivers running down my spine. The writing on the front of the page reads:In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls:-- And their king it is who tolls I feel like I faintly recognise the line from somewhere but I can´t tell where I have heard it before. I am usnure wether I want to look at the rest of the pages after this, but something tells me I have to. The following images are even more bizarre, full of strange and twisted creatures with claws and fangs. They look like what I would have called a demon when I was still human, now I don´t know what to call them. There is no writing to accompany most of these images and I am almost glad, but the last page is even stranger than the first one. This page depicts a male angel with wings dark as night, almost like ravens wings, it´s evident from the drawing that the model is very well built and strong. Like the first picture it is impossible to make out the angel´s face, all that is visible is a mouth twisted into a darl, cruel smile. Hestitatingly I stare at the picture in horror, I can no longer believe that these are Michael´s drawings and yet the question remains what they are doing in his library. They must have been made by an angel, that much is clear to me and yet what kind of angel would draw such scenes and creatures and leave them in a book full of beautiful drawings. Some darker corner of my mind doesn´t want to admit the fact that I know for a fact these drawings have been done by the same artist, the same careful lines and teh same style. But what would change a person so much that they would go from observing utter beauty to depicting hellish scenes. The last page only reads a short note: "In a clamerous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad expastulation with the deaf and frantic fire leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire". This final line resonates, dark within my mind, ringing in my ears. I put the pages back together carefully and tie them with the string and place them back inside the book. The pages are something I don´t want to look at again and I doubt that I will come back fro the book either, it changed something in me and I feel a huge wave of relief when my hand finally lets go fo the book and places it back on the shelf and yet there is a burning sensation in my heart, I feel as if some of that darkness has crept up through my arm into my soul. I try to shake the thought and yet it linegrs, dangerous and inviting. I feel as if a darker presence took a hold, sank its teeth in me and I know that it´s not going to let go. My breathing speeds up and I try my best to think of something, anything else. My mind is running wild and my imagination isn´t far behind. I try to control my breathing, nervously wiping my hands on my jeans as if that would rid me of this tainted feeling. I cluth the hem of my shirt in a desperate attamept to regain sie control, failing. It takes me over half an hour to get my breathing and my heart beat to level and still every shadow looks like a monster now, more so than before. I feel the panic rushing on and ebbing, like a wave. Deliriously I ride the wave of madness, time dripping slow, until finally I dare to open my eyes and to release my iron grip on mky t-shirt which is now frayed on the edges. My hands are beyond sore from the hard clutching and I can see red crescents on my plams where the fingernails have cut me through the t-shirt. I don´t think I have ever been this scared in my life, what was it about these images, I mean I have seen things that were perhaps more horrific in my life and yet. It must have been the reality of them and I have no doubt that the artist had real life inspirations for his art. Still shivering, I walk back to my room, jumping at every creak of the wooden floor beneath my naked feet and with the knowledge that these nightmare scenes will haunt my dreams tonight and my waking hours for days to come. I slide into my bed, pulling teh covers up to my chin in the childish hope they may protect me. But while the covers may protect innocent children from monsters under their beds, they can´t protect em from the monsters lurking in my own head. In my dreams that angel is me, I am bound in my cell, wings torn and broken. I should be cold in the dress and yet there is an unbearable heat coming from the walls. Worst of all is not the despair of having no eycape, no. Worst of all are the screams. The endless, agonising screams of tormented souls. We all have our demons

I barely slep at all last night and it is wearily that I walk down the stairs to get ready for my lesson with Raphael. I feel like throwing up as soon as I try to eat anything at all for breakfast and ultimately I give up on trying tof orce any more food down my throat. I have a quick shower and it is only under the hot water spray that I allow myself to slide down the back of the shower into a crouching position and start sobbing. I can´t understand the deep terror in my heart, I mean they were only pictures and yet... I scrub angrily at my skin, trying to get what I picture as black goo from my skin, but off course there is nothing there so I only succeed in scrubbing my skin raw. I tear at my hair in frustration and I feel like screaming. I know that I can´t tell anyone about this, they would only call me crazy, tell me I´m overreacting. I have been there before and at some point when enough people tell you you´re crazy, you start believeing it yourself. Eventually you learn to pretend