Los Angeles

“An unprofitable servant of God,” her father called me. His eyes black as blood. Angie loved him, but she adored (worshiped) me. “Don’t defile her purity boy,” he’d say. “Your love should be for Christ, not my Angie.” He spoke of love, but couldn’t grasp Divine Love, our love. So it was necessary. Silly detail really, for Angie. I assured her we would at last be free.
. . .
Taking life for me is guilt free. Done early, 4 a.m., to make good time for L.A. As blood sprayed from his throat, he gurgled Angie – a name that should only be uttered by me. The mom sobbed, pleaded, and asked for Jesus’ love. She prayed. I waited for the amen. Then I sent her to hell.
. . .
The wind came forth, and with it the symphony. Yes! The angelic horns shimmered while malicious drumsticks beat the symbols to shatter the black of that sinful house. Exquisiteness manifest, crimson wine from heaven. I stopped only for a moment to breathe it in to my marrow.
. . .
In the car, I dried the rose on Angie’s cheek. “Oh my God,” she said, and wiped my face and hands blood free. We made love with the top down before heading to L.A. With my finishing thrust she grabbed my cheeks and claimed to see God, I saw my reflection staring back at me. And the clouds broke and tears poured from Angie’s eyes, the sweet symphony pushed aside the last remaining stars of the dawn, violins drowned by cellos, Angie drowned by her tears.
. . .
Engulfed, but breathing in the sea, Angie escaped my embrace in the back-seat and swam toward the surface, as if there was a surface any longer. We were to go to L.A. together, but she was deaf to the choir. She somehow forgot. I caught up to her and grabbed her heel. She looked at me once more, and her soft eyes turned to jagged rock. If she would not go with me, then I would send her to Los Angeles alone.

Tagged as: fiction, poetry