HeatMarie

The white screen appeared, the black line blinks, blinks, blinks. It beckoned me to write.

“Type a word,” It said, “I dare you.”

The well-marked path led into the botanical garden. Walking through, I smelled the fresh air and the flowers. I typed the words that created the fresh new smells and the black garden gate that served as a guardian to a pair of yellow rose bushes.

“Oh darling, you cannot write,” Another woman whispered in my ear. I’ve heard her voice a million times before, but never stopped to ask who she was. That time, I did. I asked her why. She simply said that I was not cut out to be a writer. That at 29, I should give up on such childish dreams. Then she procceeded to remind me of the million and one other things in life that will serve a much better purpose. She told me how I should go back to managing, “Make a living.”

This is my life. Every time I have an idea, there she is, the voice inside my head. She stops me, makes me turn around, and forces me to listen to everything but myself. It wasn’t until I read Virginia Woolf’s Proffessionas for Women, that I realized I wasn’t the only one with this pest over my shoulder. She too had an Angel of the House. To be honest, it wasn’t until I read about the Angel in the House that I knew of her existence. I thought she was just me. I guess in parts she is. But she’s more than that. She is every voice of every person who said I couldn’t write. That writing was a childish dream. She is the man who sat in my chair as I cut his hair and told me at 27 and nine years into a relationship I should be married, and if I wasn’t, it wasn’t a good thing. She is the voice of every person who ponders over my relationship status and says that I should be married with kids, working a 9-5 job, instead of writing and living life like I should be. “It’s not realistic.” She’d say to me. The Angel in the House eats up every word every person has ever said. She remembers them all and then expects me to abide by every single rule she sets in place, forcing me to forfeit the life I want to live.

I learned to sneak pass her, with a glass of wine, the potion elixir that drowns her, for at least a moment. Usually, long enough to write a page or two. But, she always finds her way back and bites at me with a ravenous temper the next day. Even though I sip the elixir as we speak, I know that tonight, I will kill the Angel in the House. I seem to be missing a blessed sword that is sworn to kill angels. But tonight, I will do whatever it takes.

The first thing I must do is find her. I stand in front of the mirror with a small candle and it’s flickering flame. I see nothing but the shadow of my own face. I say her name. I speak it three times. I wait a long moment; maybe three and all I see is my own shadowed reflection pleading with someone who isn’t there.

I step away from the mirror and walk back to the dim lit room. I draw out a circle of salt and crystals, sit in the middle and I say her name seven times. I wait impatiently expecting to hear her cry, but all is silent. It’s like she disappeared, vanished. She couldn’t be dead. The thought of her death without my exhaustion would only be all too easy. I pray to god, any god, all gods. I curse her name and demand her presence. I insult her. Still there is nothing in the house but dancing smoke of the burning incense and the presence of myself.

Frustrated, I sit down in the circle I made. I keep my thoughts quiet in hopes she cannot hear them. A white light appears from my desk. I look over at the screen and the single black line blinks a steady rhythm. It’s calling to me again, “Come my darling, tell me your story.”

I go and sit before her, that blinking line.

The image first appears in my head, a girl in her room, alone and scared. There is something in there, she can feel it. Her fear is real. The rain pours outside, the thunder clashes rattling the house, and the lightning strikes the sky. A cold breeze settles to the base of her spine and refuses to let her go. Amalee. That’s her name, the little girl in the bed. Amalee.

I am beginning to write her story and I push down the tab key. “Silly child,” Whispers her voice, “Don’t you know by now, that you cannot write.” The Angel in the House speaks for the first time tonight.

“I’ve been calling for you.” I reply. I hear her sigh.

“So, I’ve heard. You propose to kill me?”

“I do.” I say, a bit hesitant. “I have a story to write and I can’t do it with you.”

“You cannot do it at all.” Her words bite like the bitter wind I hear blowing outside.

In the cold of her words the brightest light appears in my room. Her angel wings open wide and consume all the space before me, she smells of rose and hibiscus, alluring and sweet. She is beautiful; breath taking to be exact. Her beauty alone is enough to make me stop my journey. But her light is so bright that I turn my head. Before me I now see, standing here alone, that black blinking line, waiting, waiting, waiting. . .

Curious I turn to the Angel, “What do you want from me?”

“To protect you.” Her answer is simple, her words more so. Like a mother hovering over a small child all she wishes is to protect.

Mother. . . I miss her. . . No, this is her point, to distract me. To make me forget. To make me be exactly who my own mother tried to be. The perfect house wife, the perfect mother, caregiver, lover. . . “She loves with love that cannot tire; And when, ah woe, she loves alone, through passionate duty love springs higher” . . . She wants me to be the Angel in the House and for what? The secrets that mother buried in a notebook? Write. . .

“Protect me from what?” I shout. I must be careful. It is crucial that she does not distract me. That she does not mesmerize me.

“From the world, from yourself.”

I laugh.

“If that is what you are for, then you my Angel, have already failed. See this glass of elixir. I drink it in your name.” I hold my glass up to the Angel as if toasting her presence and beauty, I take a sip. “If you’re job is to protect me, then I should not drink in your name. I should not wish for you by candle light. You should help me!” I stared back at the blinking line and the angel in my room shook her head.

“I am not a muse, I protect you, most of all from yourself.”

“I don’t need your protection,” I say, “I beg you, help me write!” But she won’t.

“Dreams only lead to heartache. You really are not any good. Better then you were a year ago, maybe. But, you still cannot compare. Harsh words, I know. But it is time you learn the truth. It is time you grow up.” I sit hurt, my heart breaks and tears blur my vision as they form in my eyes. This is what she wants. Again, it is crucial that I do not give her what she wants. In fact. I should no longer care why she is here. I need to do the job I was set out to do. To commit the murder, I have never contemplated. But how? I feel her breathing over my left shoulder as I type. It’s like a dragon’s fire, fierce and determined. She has won so many times, there is nothing, nothing making this time any different.

There is only me.

I am different this time. I know that I can win. I can defeat the Angel in the House. But do I have to kill myself in turn? That would make no sense. For if Virginia did it and lived, then I must be able to do the same. I care too much. It’s a girl thing. I need too much. It’s a girl thing. I love too much. It’s a you thing. Then the rest of the world sucks. For what is living without love? Easy.

There is more that I must dig into. So, what now? Have I drank her to death? No, she sits and breathes, waiting. She knows it is only a matter of time before I set my glass to the side and let her win. It’s easier than the blood and gore. It’s easier then dealing with the blackness of death. It’s easier then dealing with hurt, and reliving the lies. It’s easy.

But if I stop, where does that get me? Where do I end up? What road will I go down? The same one! It will be a never-ending cycle of loveless, loneliness searching for what I want to be. Living by what is expected to be. Never knowing what can be.

It’s starting again, the distractions. She is evil. Though she glows in white she wears a sequin dress made all of black. Her beauty is not lacking, it’s mystical. Distractions.

I guess no one ever said that this was going to be easy. It’s a line we have heard a million times. It’s not easy. How can murdering something so beautiful, so pure, be so right?

Breathe. Right and wrong have nothing to do with survival. It has nothing to do with who I am to become, if I ever wish to get there then I must kill her. And I will. Tonight.

Tonight, I deal with the hardest and solve the worst of problems. The Angel in the House. Her posture is perfect, her beauty is stunning, her everything is what people dream of. She is smart, intelligent, but keeps it quiet. Because no one needs to know how smart she is. She tells herself she is stupid until she believes it. Just so she can play the part. She is nothing but a fake. And if she is fake then. . .

If I can dream it, I can make it real. The black line on the screen blinks once again. I type in a few simple words. I conjure the sword of the angels. The gold of the handle glistens and sparkles, the blade has a light of its own. Without warning I pick it up, turn around and watch as light meets light creating a blinding flash.

I see her, the angel, begin to dissolve like pixels and particles separating into a black fog. I raise my glass once more, for tonight, I have killed the Angel in the House.