An Angel Weeps

It seems befitting to fall this way. For so long, Daniel had been wandering in the margins, keeping away from any real connection. He had a system. He'd lived life with a meticulous level of control, making sure never to draw a hand blindly. He was untouchable. A storm, really, for the people around him. But he kept clean.

Pain hits him again, this time from the side and then crawls up to the center, there, right between his lungs. Daniel wheezes, half-laughing. The hard concrete eats up his spine. He could have avoided this very moment. He saw it coming. He saw the signs.

What was it about her? He couldn't tell exactly; there was no specific place to point, other than to that deep intuitive sensation that she had entered him and would never leave. She is not the last person he held, but she is the only one who knew where it would hurt him most.

The pitter-patter of her high heels clatter through the room. He's heard the sound a million times before, as familiar to him as the hitch in his AC, that strange distinct swing to her step. Ta-thum and then taa-thum, her left leg lagging, taking extra time to rise before falling. The clatter echoes over his heart one step at a time, amplifying the ache in a strange way. She walks right up to him, until he sees the crisscross pattern of her nylon stockings stretching over the muscles of her calves. She turns to face him.

Two lips form a dark red halo overhead. They pull and stretch, revealing a necklace of shiny white pearls.

"Daniel," the halo whispers in her soft, gentle voice.

Daniel exhales a pained breath. He presses his eyes closed, trying hard to think past the rivers scorching down his cheeks. A sob escapes him; perhaps it's the blood loss that's making everything so hazy; everything spills out, exposed and vulnerable. Maybe it is the edge of her shoe, which digs into his side, into his wound.

She had that quiet kind of brutality to her. One that she masked under a shiny veneer of wide-eyed innocence. Dark curls drape over her shoulders. It was so easy to fall for it; he was done for the moment she stepped into view.

"Daniel," she repeats in a sing-song voice.

A part of him aches to see the rest of her face, which is hidden in shadow. The translucent shape of her spills onto his body like ink, like an omen, like a repercussion. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he feels her warmth.

"Just couldn't resist me, could you?" He manages to croak out. His lips were going numb, so it was hard to talk, "You could've just said hello."

She chuckles. The sound is warm and soft, pattering down like condensation on old pipes. The sound rattles inside of him. He holds his breath to keep it there a moment longer.

"Would you have listened if I did?" She purses her lips, all nonchalant.

Something about her makes Daniel's world tilt. Maybe it was the drawl of her stagger, the grit in the way she stood as if she'd faced the world alone and survived it. She looked him up and down that very first night, measuring him, putting him in his place.

"Of course," the confession slips out against his will. It lands between them all mushy and exposed. For a fleeting second, Denise looks as though she believes him, but then she remembers herself. She toes his sentiment away.

He knew about Mick, even back then. Mick stood in the corner by the door. Mick watched over her. That big, looming absence, a name that slowly encroached upon them both. He was a veil around her eyes, a cloud over her form. He was that coldness, anyone could see it, that wretched, painful pull that had conquered every inch of her body and soul.

But for a second, things were different.

Daniel had gotten through. For one night, her eyes melted and softened. She whispered the same three words that bring men to their knees. Except this time she meant it. I choose you.

"Don't tell me you didn't see this coming," Denise tsks gently, crossing her arms. Daniel doesn't say a word, which elicits a patronizing aww from her, "Don't tell me you fell in love."

Daniel groans as the tip of her shoe digs deeper. She keeps herself hidden enough, out of view for Daniel to remember Mick again. He must be watching somewhere. His big, cold hand grips Denise's shoulder, enshrouds her eyes so that they feel cold and lifeless.

"You're better than that," she tells him.

He would've laughed had the pain not been so unbearable. Consciousness weaves in and out; he battles to keep his eyes open. Meanwhile, the tip of her shoe digs deeper and deeper— perhaps that is all that this was, Daniel thinks to himself, the two of them, a gash and her shoe till his ribs expose.

What was the last promise she planted on him? She uttered: I trust you.

It might have been the only true thing she'd ever said to him. The way she handed him the key. The way she placed her hand over his and pressed them against his chest, right where the bullet sits now, as if she had been practicing all along.

"Where's Mick?" Daniel chokes out.

"He isn't here."

"Too busy for the grand finale? Had to send in his lackey to do the dirty work?"

She's resolute. Her smile fades, "I'm no lackey."

"Sure, you're not, kid," he scoffs and a trickle of blood drips down past the edge of his lips. She tries to move her hand away, but he clutches it tighter, "What'd he promise you? A pat on the back? Love? Don't tell me you fell for it."

"Don't be crass," she snarls yanking herself back, "I chose to be here."

Want is a liminal space which Daniel resolutely resides in. They stand off, simmering in silence, and she's got the upper hand, but Daniel won't dare let her see that. There is too much at stake; so much of his heart has been shot away already.

"You don't know what you've done, do you?" Daniel asks bitterly.

Maybe she does know. Her eyes play tricks on him; for a moment, he thinks he catches a glitter of regret. She snuffs it out quick with the turn of her head, with that cold, lifeless smirk of hers. She clings to her nonchalance like the last leaf on the branch. Once, it would have struck Daniel enough for him to soften. He'd have forgotten himself. He'd have leapt to her comfort. Those big, teary eyes.

"Yes, I do. I chose."

"Take out the gun, Denise," he demands, but his voice is barely a whisper, a guttural gasp. He clenches his teeth together tightly and glares up at her, "Take it out and do it already. Be done with it."

She's not shocked by the request, nor is she surprised that he knew. Somewhere, Mick must be laughing. Daniel imagines it's his arms not Denise's pulling the weapon out of her purse, aiming it at him.

The gun forms a stain in her hand. It drips downwards in a long, abstract shape, landing at an unnatural angle over Daniel's face. He squints, struggling to make sense of the light and dark as it flickers over him.

"Do it," he tries for a smile but the sentiment falls dark and bleak over him, "Make him proud."

The gun shakes in her hand. Her fingers fall over the trigger but don't press. He watches her, somewhat dispassionately. A primal panic pierces through her eyes, rattles through her body.

"Do it!" He yells. His voice echoes through the dark chambers. Old steamy pipes groan and ache in effect.

Mick watches. Daniel can feel his eyes, the steady, uninhibited fear coursing through Denise's body. Her shoulders curl inwards, forming a shell against his hidden presence.

"Did you think it'd be so easy?" Daniel asks desperately through burning eyes. A fever makes his head spin, "You might have charm, sweetheart, but I know what you really are. Mick does, too. The money. His promise. It doesn't mean anything. Us. We're real. You know it. We had a real shot at it, too."

Denise doesn't answer. Her resolve wavers slightly, but then she inhales and stills. Daniel had always admired that strength she inhabited. It transformed her, grounded her in a way that made her feel impenetrable. Daniel always saw her as the weeping angel in these moments, stony and unyielding.

"Denise," he exhales weakly.

"I love him," Denise whispers. The gun shakes in her hand. She looks down at him, bright with conviction, "I love him, don't you get it?"

The air leaves his lungs. His head falls back against the floor. Ceiling lights swirl around above him. Denise towers in his vision, all hair and lipstick stains; she leans forward, so close that he can smell her perfume. The barrel of the gun presses cold and hard against his temple. It might as well have been her lips.

A searching hand finds his left lapel. She pulls out the key, and then the USB, which he'd locked in his fist. He lets her.

Just before she snatches the key away, Daniel grabs her hand and pulls it close to his chest, right above his heart. Right where the blood pulses and leaks out, soaking his shirt.

"Aren't we both just scum in the gutter after all?" Daniel chuckles and coughs, spluttering a mouth full of blood. He stares at the ceiling lights, "Except I see the stars, and you couldn't see beyond the smoke."

The gun shakes against Daniel's head. Hot tears drip onto their enmeshed hands like wax.

"I see you," he tells her.

She pulls away. Slowly. Sluggishly. So that Daniel's palm slides over every crevice and bump on her skin. For a second, time stands still. She gasps softly. Her gaze is a hand against his cheek. She leans towards him; the mouth of the gun digs into his skull.

Her lips find his. They travel up to his cheek, and then hover just above his ear. Her hot breath gusts over him. Daniel closes his eyes; the confession teeters and then collapses just at the tip of her teeth.

"Liar," she breathes.

The gunshot echoes but doesn't linger long enough for it to have any impact. Denise wipes her hand clean.