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Her hands won’t stop twitching.
Whenever this phenomenon took hold of her, Angelica would clasp her hands together in prayer; the position as familiar as breathing with the lungs her savior graced her with. She would recite verses to herself over and over. Each line was etched and memorized into every fiber of her being to soothe whatever evil stirred in her nerves.
The twitching seldom ceased, but purging sin was never an instantaneous process.
O cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall nourish thee: and shall not suffer the righteous fall for ever. And as for them–
A wine-red droplet drips into her lap, followed by another. By the time she comes to, a steady stream of blood is trickling down her chin and painting the holy tiles crimson.
“Ah…” Warm blood flows onto her still-praying hands, navigating through the crevices in her skin and pooling where her hands formed divots. Her mind blanks at the sight. A hand grasps her shoulder.
“Stay with me, lady.” His grip is firm; not aggressive enough to hurt, but enough to snap her out of her daze. She’s relinquished control again, though she can’t recall when it was stolen from her. Though in a human vessel, his holy touch still burns her shoulder. Another nosebleed, when would she–
She clamps a hand over her nose after a brief muttering of ‘amen’ and hurries to retrieve a towel to clean up her mess.
Forcas stares after her. “Take it easy now. You oughta get some rest if you’re shivering like that; even the big guy upstairs can’t help if you’re not getting good sleep.”
Angelica ignores him, focusing on the smell of iron filling her nose and the fluffy white towel becoming filthy as she wipes the floor. Her head aches, but she’s gotten used to it by now; the Fallen Angel’s raged attempts to regain control became something to expect each day. As the days passed, the possessor melted into somewhat of a feral spirit, clawing at what bits of Angelica’s own soul lingered to claim as its own.
No matter how many prayers she sent up to the heavens to salvage her soul, the shake in her hands still remained.
“Lady, you still there?”
…
The guardian angel peeks over her shoulder. She’s scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn dip in the tile with her eyebrows furrowed, eyes glassy. Forcas has seen that glazed-over expression several times over his time protecting Angelica, but it never gets less unsettling seeing soul fighting soul in the vast sea of her pupils.
Her clothes were dark, but the splotches of blood were still visible. If one of the nuns were to walk into the church right now, she would be in for a lecture. The growing dark circles under her eyes weren’t doing her favors with the church either.
He sighed. Once he sees her expression unfog, he clears his throat loudly.
“Lady, how about you finish up here and change into something clean, and we can hang in the courtyard?” Forcas suggested, kneeling over next to her to nudge her shoulder, “This whole possession stuff must be hard to deal with in such stuffy air!”
“I suppose–” Angelica rubbed her temples. The fallen possessor angered at Forcas’s offer, and briefly an infuriated visage of crumpled wings and an abundance of eyes flashes in front of her. “Yes… that would be alright.”
Forcas beams at her and fist-bumps her shoulder.
“That’s the holy spirit!” A wide grin stretched across his features.
Angelica rose from where she knelt, bloodied towel in hand. It was like she was on auto-pilot, floating from place to place like an afterthought. Each step induced bouts of deja vu thrumming through her temples.
There was no pain medication to clear her headaches; the nuns always believed that prayer was the best medication. Angelica was inclined to believe that too, but whenever a chill breezes through her, she thinks that maybe she never truly recovered from any of her childhood ailments.
Forcas hovers behind her until she reaches the door of her shared living quarters, where she waves him off.
The cracking and peeling wall paint of the room greets her, as does the looming figure of the wooden crucifix above her bed. It always creaked upon the single nail that it was affixed onto whenever the door opened.
When she was a child, her room seemed so big; the entirety of her world encased within four walls with a tiny window far above, where the outside would peek inside to say hello.
A seven-year-old Angelica would stand on her mattress to try to see through the window, right up on her tippy toes because the nuns had told her she had grown so nicely for a young girl and because she prayed to God and asked him to make her the tallest out of the other children.
She holds her breath because maybe if she does, she could squeeze in the extra inches to even graze the window’s dusty ledge with the tips of her fingers. Her round and wide eyes, as blue as the sky that awaited her, are curious enough to kill a cat.
Even on her toes, her hand-me-down nightgown still flows down like a veil at her ankles, and she trips backwards when it catches on her foot. Her nun caretaker rushes in, scolds her, and forces her to recite verses from the Bible, word for word, until her larynx was scratchy and the back of her hand is a swollen, feverish red from the ruler that came down on her hand whenever she misspoke. That was the last time she tried to peek through her window.
The sun flickered between the gaps in the boards that covered it now. Her cell never felt quite the same after the nuns boarded the small window up with rusty, bent nails and half-rotted wood.
These days, the only reason she woke up was to perform her duties as a nun of her covent. Her sisters expected much of her, and who was she to deny the job she had been trained to do since she was young?
She was used to the work, and it gave her something to do when her fingers got impossibly restless and when prayers couldn’t silence the cacophony in her head. No complaining; it was a blessing to be a part of something so influential and sacred.
In the corner of her cell, she settled down onto what she calls a vanity, but in reality was an old, creaking desk made with scrap wood and a dull metal sheet for a mirror. Nuns weren’t supposed to bask in their own appearance; they wouldn’t be getting married to anyone besides their lord and savior.
Still, she wishes she could view herself face-to-face to confirm that despite everything, it’s still her.
Angelica dips her sleeve in a cup of water she had left by her bedside and tries to wipe the remains of dried blood off of her face– as much as she can see, anyway. Even through the vague shape of her head in the ‘mirror,’ she notices her already pale skin has become more pallid than before. Her glasses try their best to cover the darkness blooming under her eyes.
She sighs, squishing her cheek with her index finger. Not only that, she’s gaunter as well. Eating is made more difficult when another soul is attempting to reject the sustenance you need to survive.
Angelica quickly removes her dirtied clothing, tosses them into the ‘to-wash’ basket, and opens her drawers to reveal several neatly-folded piles of the same outfit; a black habit and a steamed veil. She takes her time getting ready, mostly because it’s all her exhaustion allows her to do. Her thin comb struggles to pull through her thick hair after she unbraids it; the teeth almost break away in her hair.
With practiced fingertips, her hands fall into a steady rhythm braiding her hair while she’s humming nostalgic hymns. Strand over strand, catching each stray hair and hoping they stay in place. For a moment, she’s at peace.
If she closes her eyes, she can pretend that the hands braiding her hair was one of the sisters that cared for her when she was younger. She could pretend that she was still a girl, thumping her feet against duvets and gnawing on treats that the sisters would sneak to her. She could pretend that they loved her alongside their devotion to the Lord; that they hadn’t tried to sacrifice her soul in exchange for another.
… Hm...
Angelica traverses to the courtyard soon enough; though she can’t recall when she made the journey.
The dirt path is oddly comforting as her shoes scuff the ground, sending up puffs of dust behind her everytime she fails to fully lift her foot. As a grown nun, she should have let go of the mischievous thrills of childhood long ago, but she can’t help but laugh to herself as she sees how big of a dust cloud she can make. She dusts off the hem of her habit before a nun can catch her.
Forcas’s booming voice calls out to her from above. “Over here!”
Quizzically, Angelica whips her head in all directions, scanning the sky for the strange guardian angel, even looking into the flower bushes to see if he’s somehow wedged himself between thorns and leaves. He’s not there. She turns to–
Something whacks her straight into one of her glasses’ lenses, making a pathetic doink sound as she reels back.
“Hey–! What was–” Angelica shoots a glare in the direction where the object launched from, looking directly into the eyes of an upside-down Forcas. His expression is giddy like a child let loose inside a playpen.
“What’s up! Or, well, for you, what’s down!” Forcas’s laugh bellows through the air as Angelica bores a hole through him with a dumbfounded stare. Hanging from a fig tree, he ruffled her hair, strands of her neatly-styled hair beginning to spring out from her braids.
“You took long enough. Look, lady, there’s so many figs on here. Wonder if I could hide them in my coat and bring them up as a snack…”
“I– what – why would you throw that at me?!” Angelica sputters, storming up to him. “Prescription glasses don’t fall out of the sky! I’ve used these since I was young; I would practically be blind without them! What if you had broken them? Even as a guardian angel, you probably couldn’t have saved me from the sisters’ wrath!”
Forcas averts his eyes, with enough sense to look a bit guilty, but a small smile still plays on his lips. “It’s not everyday I get to descend and not be monitored by the guys upstairs.”
“You should still behave yourself as one of his followers, no?” Angelica huffs, settling at the base of the fig tree and examining her glasses for damage. “If our Lord could see you acting like a big child in front of a mortal…”
“I like to think I am very sophisticated, lady! If you’re so ungrateful, I’ll just take my gift with me and leave!” Still upside-down, Forcas makes noncommittal gestures with his arms and then crosses them.
Angelica adjusts her glasses back onto her face, quirking up an eyebrow.
“Hm? Do guardian angels usually bestow gifts upon their subjects?”
“Maybe subjects that look like they’re on the brink of death!” Forcas shoots back, but with little venom in his words.
He attempts to land a flip off of the tree branch, but underestimates how fragile the branch is. Forcas lets it go before it snaps, plopping him face first into the ground next to Angelica. Finally, she cracks a smile.
“It’d be rude not to accept a gift if it’s offered, though.” Angelica admits as Forcas recovers. The fall doesn’t seem to have deterred him at all; in fact, he’s almost vibrating with energy. For such a holy creature, he is strangely simple.
Forcas perks up. “Alright! Wait here. I swear I left it right over here…” He scurries around the tree. Angelica’s expression fades into unimpressed after his third lap around the fig tree, until he makes a grand pause.
With a large intake of breath, he announces, “Yup, found it! Now, close your eyes.”
She follows his instruction, shutting her eyes and listening to the sound of clumsy shuffling. She swears she hears a bit of sloshing liquid, and Forcas using a colorful array of fill-ins to not cuss as he fumbles with his reveal.
“Okay… now open!” Angelica blinks, readjusting to the bright sunlight starting to filter in through the treetop. Her eyes settle on a mug that Forcas holds out to her.
The strong aroma of coffee hits her and she’s already salivating at the sight of the rich, dark coffee swirling inside. It’s still hot; she can feel the steam warming her face as she stares into it.
Except, there is a tiny green leaf floating along the beautiful surface. Angelica points this fact out with some fond exasperation. Forcas takes one look inside the mug and gawks.
“How did that get in there?! Hold on, I’ll get it!” Before she can stop him, he dips two fingers into the hot coffee to try and fish the leaf out, but squeaks the moment it touches him.
Another string of creative, non-curses to Angelica’s ears. Is this what all divine beings were like? Maybe she had just received a defective one…
Forcas does manage to pinch the leaf out, but he’s gripping his thumb and index finger and blowing on it while hopping around on one foot once it’s over. Warmth floods her palms as she grips the mug.
Angelica observes it, rotating the mug around in her hands. It’s a plain cream color; he must have stolen it from the covent’s kitchen area. When she was younger, she remembers laughing to the sisters that it matched her hair. Now, she doesn't get to do much laughing around them anymore.
After his slight tantrum over burning himself, Forcas spins back to Angelica. “Wait, lady, I got some sugar packets from the kitchen. You gonna drink that coffee black or what?”
He laughs at the idea and digs into his coat to hand her the sugar. She doesn’t take it.
Forcas waves the packets in front of her face.
“Take ‘em. I got them for you. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten shy over getting a gift from a divine being such as myself.”
“Oh, I was actually planning on drinking it black,” Angelica mutters, pressing her lips to the rim of the mug to check if the coffee was cooled down enough. “I don’t enjoy sweet things.”
“You WHAT ?” Forcas gapes at her with an incredulous stare as she shushes him, forgetting for a moment that no matter how loud he was, any nearby nuns wouldn’t be able to hear him. His shock leads to the sugar packets being strewn all over the ground. “Y- you’re a mortal . You have access to all the sweet things in the world and you just choose… not to eat them?”
Angelica shrugs, sipping the black coffee and relishing in the homely bitterness washing over her tongue.
Though some of her sisters indulged in coffee once in a while, she rarely took time out of her day to prepare any for herself.
Besides, things tasted better once you’ve forgotten what they tasted like in the first place. It was the gift of temperance.
“Why do you care so much about me not liking sweets?” Angelica eyes Forcas, still in a physical state of disbelief over her transgression, “I would’ve thought lowly foods like that were below a divine angel such as yourself .”
“W- well…” Forcas readjusts his tie and snaps his suspenders with his thumbs. She seems to have struck a nerve. “It’s… well… y’know–
THEY ONLY SERVE WINE AND BREADCRUMBS UPSTAIRS!”
Forcas stomps on the grass, and continues to stomp like a toddler having a tantrum while waving his arms around. Briefly, Angelica fears he might induce an earthquake as he nearly smacks her mug out of her hands.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is, lady? To just have wine and breadcrumbs fuelling you for your entire afterlife?!” he whines, continuing to rant about how restrictive the afterlife is up in the heavens.
“I suppose I wouldn’t know…” she relents as to not increase his temper tantrum, but in her mind, she tries not to question the will of her Lord to allow down such an immature guardian angel if her danger was so imminent.
Angelica lets her eyes wander around the garden as he continues his theatrical complaints. The courtyard was one of her favorite places within the covent, and for good reason.
The area was beautiful and well-cared for; the flowers bloomed up into the air with bright fervor in neatly trimmed sections. The sisters always paid extra attention to snip every last thorn and wilted petals off of them. They ensured that even the plants received their sustenance in moderation.
Her eyes wander around once more.
A crushed, half-burnt cigarette butt laid between the roots of the fig tree right beside her.
“And seriously, they gave me this human vessel but they still treat me like I– you with me, lady?” Forcas follows her line of sight. Seeing her eyeing a cigarette butt on the floor, his face drops.
“Eugh. For such a pretty garden, filth like this still gets tossed around?”
Angelica’s piercing gaze remains on the cigarette. The convent never receives visitors. She could never place a time when an unfamiliar face walked within their walls, and the sisters were adamant about staying away from the outside sin to the younger members. Must have been one of the nuns.
Forcas mutters something about the horrid smell of smoke before he pauses.
“What? Does it bother you that much? Here, I’ll get it–” He reaches to pick it up, but she holds up a hand to stop him.
“No, I… I’m just curious. Nobody else besides the sisters are allowed in the convent. But, we aren't allowed to engage in such unholy acts such as smoking.” Angelica tilts her head at it.
The ashes at the end flake out next to the burnt cigarette, and she glances at the other side. It’s a darkened yellow-orange, slightly malformed, presumably to the pressure of someone’s lips around it.
“Huh… So was a nun smoking in secret?” Forcas gasps and clutches his chest in dramatized shock. “That’s so against the rules! Ain’t it, lady?! Of all the unholy things to go against, and it’s smoking?”
Though she can’t imagine one of the sisters breaking their vow of obedience, she struggles to compute a reasonable scenario on how the cigarette butt appeared in the garden, if not for another nun.
“Maybe it was a visiting family member that came by,” Angelica reasons– more to herself than Forcas– though the sisters never spoke of family at all, much less invited them over, “I trust in our collective faith to… avoid such behaviors.”
But when she sips on her black coffee, she can’t help but wonder how a cigarette would feel propped between her lips, with the end sparking and blackened with flickering embers of red and yellow. What would it be like breathing in the grounding fumes and letting it snake through her system, fuzzing her brain and stalling her twitching hands, before exhaling a stream of fluttering smoke in the wind? Tapping the burning end against a ledge, watching the ash break away onto the ground?
No, no.
She grips her mug hard and her nails screech against the ceramic. As curious of a creature she was, there were restrictions and rules for a reason.
She was a devoted, loyal nun. A faithful and perfect follower of her Lord. She prayed to be absolved of any sin each day, and sang and sacrificed to appease him. A sinful act such as smoking was… beneath her. Forbidden as the fruit in the Garden of Eden. A bursting pulse of pain rivets through her head; the Fallen Angel makes their own disapproval clear.
Forcas held his chin between his pointer and thumb, unaware of Angelica’s mental warfare.
“Huh… I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of the nuns, though,” he mutters, “they preach and preach, but no matter how straight-laced they want to seem, some of them think God might look away while they’re doin’ something like this.”
Angelica averts her eyes away, focusing on the umber swirl of her drink. She’s almost reached the bottom of the mug. “They’re devoted.”
“Yet not every believer ends up in heaven.” Forcas replies, shuffling beside her to presumably toss the cigarette.
She doesn’t reply to that. Another thought occupies her mind.
“Forcas, will I ever be free from this?”
He freezes midstep, slowly turning back towards Angelica, where her knees have drawn up to her chest. Looking into her eyes, he searches for the swarm of mist signaling the fight for bodily control, but her eyes are shining, clear. It’s still her.
“Oh– uh, well–” Forcas’s eyes darted around sheepishly, pulling at his tie, “why do you ask? Free from the covent or what? I mean–”
Angelica’s gaze hardens, “This. The Fallen Angel possessing me– faking being the pastor’s wife– it’s...”
Maybe it was the coffee that decided that now was the right time to confront her guardian angel, or maybe it was the fact that every time her head was about to split into two, blinding rage flooded through her lungs and choked her at the unfairness.
Why her? Why her?
“Why me?” She blurts out and hugs her knees tight. The mug falls out of her hands and rolls into the dirt, remnants of coffee staining the ground dark. “I’m faithful. I’ve lived my life abstaining from sin and begging for forgiveness for every possible wrong. All my life, I’ve followed what they wanted and the word of our Lord . Is this supposed to be divine punishment? ”
Forcas’s face twists with apprehension before stepping towards her as if she was a scared, injured animal.
“I- I don’t know, kid. I’m sorry.” Forcas kneels at her side and places a soothing hand on her back. His touch is a mix of stinging cold and heat, but she doesn’t shrink away from him. “I wish I could give you an answer, I really do, but you just have to hang in there.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she chokes on her words, clutching her temples as her body threatens to tear in half, “Everytime my memory blotches, I feel violated – sometimes my body doesn’t feel like my own, and I’m terrified of what it might do if they take over for good. I pray and pray, but that Fallen Angel messes with my head so horridly . Who am I, anymore?”
Angelica’s head lifts up, staring at Forcas with panicked eyes. He looks at her to reassure, but finds that her irises are pulsing and shifting violently– dull blues to shimmering sky, fogged windows to open seas– flickering back and forth like an emergency alarm.
“You’re still you, kid. Just breathe, look at me,” he pats her head, smoothing down her rumpled veil until he can see Angelica slightly regaining control, “you’re talking to me now, aren’t you? That’s you, Angelica. I can tell. The fact you’re here, listening to me right now, is proof enough, alright? The fact you listened back then is why you’re still fighting right now.”
She shakes her head as if in a trance. Forcas softens his voice as much as possible, though he can’t quite drop the gruffness.
“You are in control, Angelica.”
“I’m in control,” she whispers, “Urk… my head still–”
Forcas scratches his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given ya that coffee. Makes you get a little too antsy, doesn’t it? Yeah. I don’t think we can give you coffee anymore.”
“I don’t think it was the coffee that was the problem!” Angelica bursts out, perking up in an instant. She reddens as she catches Forcas smirking at her shift in demeanor. “I just– it’s been a rough day. Rough week.”
“Sheesh. I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.” He whistles low, propping himself up against the tree next to Angelica.
Angelica nods, and to her displeasure, her head feels ten times heavier than before as she does. Her forehead smacks straight into her knee. Despite the coffee, it hadn’t done too much to improve her energy in the end. Or she was starting to caffeine crash.
Forcas snickers as she massages the red spot on her forehead. “Guess I should brew a stronger cup if I do decide to bless another gift upon you.”
Though her head still hurts, it's not from the voices anymore. Under that fig tree, she is at the most peace she has ever been since her vessel’s possession. The lingering taste of coffee on her tongue, the gentle breeze tickling her nose, and the smell of fresh flowers on the wind– it reminds her that this is still her home.
Despite the agony, her body is safe here until she can free herself, with her guardian angel by her side.
Forcas is mid-speech about the flower varieties scattered throughout the courtyard when Angelica’s head bumps against his shoulder, sound asleep. Her glasses press uncomfortably into the bridge of her nose, so he carefully lifts her head to pluck them off and guides her to rest in the crook of his neck.
She’s suffering, but her soul is a fighter. As the days go on, the glimpses of her original self begin to overcome the Fallen Angel’s fabrications of being the pastor’s wife. Her exhaustion is clearer on those days, but it’s proof of her struggle; she is stronger than most, and the farthest from a lost cause Forcas has seen. Until he can coax her soul into salvation, he will stay by her side and be the shoulder to lean on.
He will bring the true Angelica to salvation.
He will prove the other angels wrong. Forcas owes it to her after how hard she’s worked.
It will be the most excruciating process she will go through during her time on Earth. For now under that winding fig tree, he will comfort her while he can. Forcas will brew as many cups of black coffee, dust however many pews in the church, or fall off as many branches as it takes to see her smile.
And after her freedom, the repercussions of the enraged Fallen Angel’s soul will be his cross to bear.