Angel Spider Sees

     While he injected himself into me like a microchip beneath my skin I thought maybe I wasn't myself at all. Maybe I was the angel in the farthest corner of the darkest crevice in the bathroom. I was floating there watching with eight large eyes surrounded by rings. If I wanted to I could have crawled down and bit him right in the eye so he could see things from my point of view but, the water turned cold and my piss turned red and the angel turned into a spider. Small, weak, and riddled with large black eyes that seemed to stare directly into my soul. They stared like they had never seen anything so gruesome in their life but I didn't scream. I am still afraid of spiders but not of old weaselly men who reek of Marlboro's maybe I didn't learn the lesson that God was trying so desperately to teach me. The lesson of lifeless eyes and "ultraviolence".

    As I floated in that cramped, grimy space, the shadows twisted and swayed, weaving grotesque patterns that danced along the stained tiles. My skin prickled as he leaned closer, his breath a sickly blend of smoke and decay, dripping with stories I never asked to hear. I could almost taste the bitterness in the air, like spoiled fruit rotting in the sun. I watched, suspended in that bathroom’s darkness, my body a ghostly remnant of something once vibrant and whole. But what was whole? Was it the girl who giggled under the stars or the specter of regret lurking behind my dilated pupils?

    The spider—the angel turned traitor—scuttled across the floor, each leg a reminder of how small I felt. I imagined it whispering my secrets, my fears, broadcasting them to the weaselly man, who now grinned with yellowed teeth. “You think you’re safe?” he croaked, his voice grating against the fragile walls of my mind. I wanted to deny him, to scream that safety was a mirage, an illusion spun by hopeful hearts and naïve dreams. But the words tangled in my throat, choking me with the weight of my own silence. Instead, I was the mute observer, reduced to nothing more than a spectator in a theater of horrors.

    Behind the grimy mirror, my reflection flickered—a twisted version of myself, eyes wide with terror, the irises swallowed by darkness. It seemed to beckon me, to drag me back into its liquid depths. Perhaps that was where I truly belonged, submerged in a void where pain and joy coalesced into a murky haze. I wanted to plunge in, to dissolve and float away, far from the man with his sickening laughter and the suffocating stench of despair. But the spider crawled ever closer, its multitude of eyes reflecting my own flickering spirit, urging me to confront the beast that had wrapped its claws around my heart.

    I felt the walls closing in, the bathroom morphing into a prison, each tile a reminder of my confinement. I wanted to shatter the mirror, to unleash the fragments of myself trapped behind glass, to let them scatter into a million pieces. But all I could do was watch, paralyzed, as the weaselly man leaned back, his grotesque smile stretching wider, the lines on his face deepening like scars etched by a cruel artist. He whispered promises of ecstasy laced with agony, and for a moment, I wondered if he spoke the truth. Was it ecstasy to drown in darkness? Was it freedom to yield to the monster that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to swallow me whole?

    I closed my eyes, summoning the memory of light, of warmth—the feeling of sun-drenched skin and laughter that didn’t taste like ashes. But the spider persisted, weaving webs of doubt and despair, its dark little heart beating like a metronome, reminding me that time was slipping away. The cold water wrapped around my ankles, and the red stained the white, a watercolor masterpiece of anguish. And as the weaselly man reached for me, the last shred of angelic defiance flickered in my chest.

    The cold seeped deeper into my bones, as if the chill from the water was gnawing at my soul. His hand lingered in the air, suspended like a grotesque omen, and I wondered if he felt it too—the darkness pulling me further, deeper. His fingers twitched, but they didn’t reach me, not yet. Maybe he saw the spider too, scurrying along the periphery of his vision, taunting him with a menace he couldn’t comprehend. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the noise would have been swallowed whole by the suffocating silence that hung between us.

    The angel, long since vanished, left only fragments of its presence in the brittle air. I tried to summon its warmth, its strength, but the image of those large, unblinking eyes—staring at me, judging me—invaded my mind. What had they seen that I couldn’t? What wretched reflection of myself did they recognize, a thing twisted and frayed at the edges? I’d always been afraid of spiders, their skittering limbs and their patient cruelty, weaving webs to catch those unaware. And yet here I was, a fly caught in the man’s web, trembling but still alive. Still watching.

    His voice slithered through the air again, dripping with a rancid sweetness. “You’re not alone in this, you know,” he rasped, his grin splitting his face like a wound that refused to heal. “There’s more where you came from. They all think they can escape. None of them do.”

    I swallowed hard, the taste of blood and bile bitter in my throat. He leaned forward, a shadow too close, too real, and I felt the sting of panic lashing out inside me, clawing at my insides. But I didn’t scream. No, not this time. Because I knew better now. The angel wasn’t going to save me, and the spider wasn’t going to bite him. The only weapon I had was my silence, sharper than any scream, cutting through the thick air like a blade waiting to strike.

    And in that silence, I heard it—the faint hum of the spider’s heartbeat, echoing in time with my own. We were one and the same, it seemed, both too small and too afraid, but still alive. Still moving.

Home

Over a hundred thousand miles away lies a large white home with boarded up windows and two broken front steps. Stuck in the middle of an almost desert-like wasteland it sits patiently. Hoping the next family to happen upon it will have the strength to fix its smashed windows, congested pipes, sieve-like ceilings, and spine-chilling garage. Believe it or not, a young spunky little eight-year-old called this monstrosity home for a long time. Making mud pies in its abandoned lot and playing on the dilapidated swing set that sat up against the whitish siding. Her parent's power washed the siding once thinking this dusty turd merely needed a new coat of paint or, in this case, to have its coat of paint cleaned and, it would transform into a gem. Unfortunate you can dip a piece of crap in chocolate but, that doesn’t make it a delicacy. Nightmares of horrifying branches grabbing at her in sleep made the years she stayed there restless. Moving away was an answered prayer but, to this day she thinks of its pastoral scene and wonders, what of its lonely heart?

Dear Mother

She just sat there while I slowly died inside. Her fingers feverishly typed away while I counted out all my white pills. Occasionally, a laugh escaped her lips in response to whatever stimulus was always more important than me. Quickly writing down all the pain I was feeling while she yelled from downstairs,
“Haley, did you finish cleaning that fucking room yet? I am really getting tired of your lazy ass. Nine fucking years old, Haley, pull your head out of your ass.”

Tears beaded up and slowly made their way down my face, making small pools on my first suicide note. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a decade’s worth of failed suicide attempts. If there is a God, I fucking hate him. I don’t think “My God and me” ever had a good relationship; I was much too “fucking annoying” and “a god damn slob” to be a good follower.

It’s my own fault. With such high expectations, I was bound to be disappointed. I heard stories from my cousin about mothers who read to them at night, hugged them when they were sick, told them how beautiful they were, and how they would always love them. Ironically, my mother made it clear, “You don’t need to be telling the family our god damn business, you little fucking shit starter!” I would not be exchanging our mothers’ different parenting methods.

I asked for too much. She was sure to show up to every school event and blow so much money on ME it would cripple us financially for a while. Buying me all the candy and special treats I ever asked for, in addition to letting me do whatever I wished while daddy was away. I learned how to change diapers at seven, so I was given the gift of overseeing my siblings’ changes. How many children can say they were entrusted with their siblings’ well-being at seven? Not many; I guess I was just lucky.

Mother didn’t just have a wonderfully colorful nickname for me whenever she saw me, but she even taught me how to fight. “You think you’re old enough, bitch? Well, come on, where did that smart-ass attitude go?” Yeah, ironically, if I brought friends home, she acted weird. “Hey, honey, do you guys want to go get pizza?” She would take my friends everywhere and buy us anything we asked for. You can see how this would cause some confusing conversations later: “You think money just grows on fucking trees? What, I am so sorry I can’t spoil your ass as much as gran.”

She would hurt me daily as a child, and the first time I tried to end my life, this is what I wrote to her.

          Dear Mother, 

    I am sorry for asking for one of your drinks when just last week you had given my friends everything we wanted. I try not to be spoiled rotten, but it is very hard. Every time I try, I fail. I am happy you always try to correct me and remind me what I have done wrong. I guess I just was born bad, and that’s why I can’t be a good girl. I have decided to kill myself. You tell me all the time how it would be so much easier if you didn’t have to deal with my bullshit, so I realize what you want from me now. I am sorry I don’t keep my room clean enough, clean the dishes well enough, watch my brother and sister well enough, I used up all our rent money at my birthday, embarrass you every time we are out in public, and make you cry every day. I guess some kids are just born ugly and bad. I wish I had died when I was born, like I was supposed to. I guess I figured you wanted to see me since you had me, but I was wrong.

Dear true self

I feel as though these roots burden my steps, and yet I hold it against you that I cling to the ground.

As if you are to blame for gravity or safety.

Nobody told me how to feel, so I lie awake wondering if this is real.

How the sky is blue or the ocean is deep, or how my heart beats for you.

In that moment, you were not to blame.

You never asked to become my moon and stars.

Yet here I lie, wishing you could read my thoughts

or wanting the world to be what it is not.

I lied to you.

I lied to myself.

But worst of all,

my lie is rooted so deep I don't know what's real.

Maybe I will wake up, and this will all be a dream.

I am afraid.

Because I love this nightmare too much to believe it isn't real.

For every bit of truth I found to be meaningless

and every strength I had to be powerless.

All this time I've spent

willing the ocean to be solid and still

has only left me tired and cold.

The most important piece of myself isn't real

and I'm terrified of that truth.

Because it means I've spent my life being someone I'm not,

and here I am at the beginning of possibility with no direction.

Dear, Rosemary

    There are two types of people in this world: The Fallen and The Floating. An unhealthy dose of normality is injected into your bloodstream as a baby; the blood that pumps through your heart matches your father's collar—too good to know any better. At the age of six, you knew no worse pain than that of a scraped knee or a dead goldfish. In a world full of pain and misfortune, your father died at the age of eighty-four, and at ninety, your mother followed. A quiet departure: your father from a blood clot at work, your mother of old age while sleeping. When you fall asleep at night, you miss them, but not enough to pay them with waking hours; it was their time—no need to mourn the inevitable.

    When you hear stories of the girl in your high school class, you shudder, as the thorns and thistles she called a childhood leave scratches in your memory and scars on your heart. She is a happy woman, and although you try, you'll never understand why. That's why you married her—to give the Fallen what they never had. Yet she has treasures that you could never possess. In a crimson box underneath the stairs sits saturated memories. She can recall specific dates by smelling her favorite candle. Every year, your wife's friends gawk at the Christmas gift exchange as you watch her unwrap yet another clean linen candle. You and her friends will never understand why she prefers the scent of clean linen over any other fragrance.

    You and your wife make a disgusting amount of money, and yet she still clips coupons. Even though she is thirty years old, she still makes collages out of old magazines. She loves sixties music but knows absolutely nothing about it. She's watched every single Harry Potter movie a hundred times, and yet she can't fall asleep at night unless they're playing. She could buy anything in the world for herself but would rather make all of her own things. To this day, she has only ever purchased new items from the store to give to local organizations. She won't eat meatloaf—in fact, she hates it—but she makes the best meatloaf you've ever had every year on the same day. You will never understand why, in the middle of June, she buys a plane ticket to Texas and never goes. Sometimes she sits on the edge of her bed with a torn-up baby photo in her hand and just cries. You don't ask her why she does these things because if she knew, she would probably stop doing them.

    When she cries, you don't ask why because you two fell in love at an old theater, watching gory horror films over a shared love of seltzer water. You proposed to her a year later in that same theater, celebrating your newfound love. She gives you beautiful poetry every Valentine’s Day and sings to you for every birthday; like some sort of rare bird, she is a lovely one. You love her more than life itself, and even though you wonder, you'll never wander. When she cries, you don't ask why; you simply hold her in your arms and say, "I love you!"

    But in the corners of your mind, shadows linger, whispering secrets of the past. You remember the days when laughter was a foreign sound, when the walls of your childhood home echoed with silence instead of joy. Each holiday passed with a veil of muted colors, and even the brightest decorations seemed to dim under the weight of memories that lingered like smoke in the air. You learned to navigate the world with a stoic face, hiding the broken pieces that lay beneath the surface, knowing that to be the Fallen was to carry an invisible burden that few could see.

    You look at her as she dances through the mundane, a light in the chaos of everyday life. Her laughter rings like wind chimes, delicate yet unyielding, and you often wonder how she learned to float above the debris of her childhood. You catch glimpses of her joy in small moments—a sunbeam spilling through the window or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—and for a heartbeat, the scars on your heart fade, replaced by a warmth that blooms in her presence. It is a strange contrast, watching the Floating glide effortlessly while you remain anchored to the depths of your own sorrow. You find solace in her happiness, even if it makes your own shadows feel heavier.

    Yet, in those quiet moments when night falls and the world slows, you sometimes catch her gaze wandering beyond the horizon, lost in thoughts you cannot reach. You wish you could dive into her memories, understand the ache that hides behind her vibrant smile, but you know better than to pry. You let her have her secrets, knowing that the thorns of your past have made you cautious and fragile. So, you become the silent sentinel, guarding her heart while your own remains a battleground. When she sits at the edge of the bed, you offer your hand, a lifeline in the tumult, and remind her that love, in all its messy glory, is the greatest treasure of all.

This is an original short story, please do not steal. Thank you for enjoying my blog. If you have any pointers or anything you would like to know about the post please feel free to comment below.