Unnatural Instinct: Fallen

29.

The night is cool and you hurry inside.

When you reach your door, you pause. Yellow police tape is criss-crossed over it. It shocks you: a sudden reminder that you're a real person who's been missing for the past five days, kidnapped in public by a winged man and nowhere to be found. You're probably all over the news.

You grab the handle, thinking it must be locked, but it twists easily beneath your grip. The door opens with a creak, and you assume that it's probably Michael's doing too. Stepping between the crossed tape, you enter. Immediately, you go around the flat, switching on every light you can find. Where there's a shadow, you pull out a torch or light a candle. The candles don't make you feel good either, but they're better than the darkness.

For some reason you expect your rooms to be trashed; police tape always presents that kind of image. But they're not. Everything is as it should be: green vinyl couch with rips on the arm, courtesy of your mum's cat; glass coffee table, smudged and scratched; T.V, cabinets, dining table for two. Walking across the room, you pull open the drapes and gaze outside.

Everything seems so lonely. You glance towards your kitchenette and phone. You should call your mum. You go over but pause before you pick up the handset. If you ring now, everything will be chaos. The police will be over. Friends, family and maybe even reporters will be demanding answers. You can't deal with that right now. Besides, how are you going to explain yourself? Nobody is going to believe you.

You step back.

Soon.

Sorry Mum.

The first thing you do is have a shower. Though you can't smell it yourself, you bet you stink of smoke and sweat. You're covered in ash and it slops in wet clumps onto the floor at your feet. Steam fills the bathroom and it makes your heart race, reminding you of the heat of hell.

You wash between your legs, and your heart beats harder at the sight of the red stains left by Satan's semen. You wince; you can still feel him inside you. You can still recount those terrible dreams and all the things you did with him. The throne. Satan's gloating grin. Joel desperately calling your name. The end had been so close. If it weren't for Joel, you would be dead by now and the world would be within Satan's power.

You start to pant. You can feel the throb of your heart in your temples. Dizzily you brace your hand up against the shower wall. As the hot water beats against your head, you force yourself to take slow, deep breaths. Once your panic is back under control, you quickly finish.

When you're finally done and dressed, you collapse into bed. For a long time you stare up at the ceiling, both your lights and the ceiling lamp turned on. More light pours in from the hallway.

A tear rolls down your cheek. Rolling over, you clutch at your pillow. Will you ever see him again? Is he okay? He must be all right. He must be! But how can you be sure? After all you've seen, how can you be sure about anything? He could be dead. More than dead—destroyed.

Rolling onto your belly, you mash your face into your pillow as more tears flow.

Hours later, you wake up. The lights are still on. You can hear your clock ticking from the living room. Sitting up, you look around the room fearfully—but you're alone. Wincing at the pain in your bladder, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom.

After you've relieved yourself, you glance at yourself in the mirror as you wash your hands. Your eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, your cheeks tear-streaked.

'Oh, Joel,' you murmur, holding your elbows. Dropping your chin to your chest, you close your eyes and hold yourself more tightly. You can almost imagine it's his arms around you.

You remain like that for several minutes before a flash of light behind your eyelids makes you snap your eyes open. You step back with a gasp. The room is filled with a golden light, so bright that the basin, the shower and your reflection vanish.

'No!' you cry, thinking the worst. It can't be. Satan was destroyed!

Quickly your eyes adjust. As you stand there, frozen with fear, you slowly make out a head and a body amid the blaze. You almost cry out in relief. It's not Satan—but it's not Michael either, and it's certainly not Joel.

You stare at your reflection. He's standing behind you, his great white wings open as far as they can fit in the small room. Like Michael, like Satan, he's glorious and wonderful and forbidding. Long dark hair tumbles down his bare shoulders. Deep brown eyes gaze back into the eyes of your reflection.

'Who are you?' you say, clutching your throat. 'What are you doing here?'

He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. You peer more closely at his reflection and note how long and dark his eyelashes are. Your heart swells—you know those. Slowly, he curls his arms around your waist. You don't stop him, but take his hands, threading your fingers through his. Like his eyelashes, you'd know those hands anywhere. You grip him and he grips you back. Your heart soars. It's hard to breathe as tears fill your throat.

He's no longer forbidding now. How could he be when he's looking at you in that way with that familiar, gentle gaze?

'Joel,' you gasp. 'You're-you're beautiful.'

He smiles. 'It's me. The real me.'

You burst into tears—his voice hasn't changed. He presses his face into the side of your throat, and you pull his arms more tightly around you.

'You're with God again,' you croak.

'I never left.'

'What?' You twist in his arms so you can see him for real. Unable to resist, you touch his cheek.

Arching his magnificent neck, he laughs. You've never heard him laugh before. As it echoes loudly around your little bathroom, it sends your blood rushing through your veins. A wave of heat surges through your body from your feet to your hair.

He grabs your face and kisses you. 'My job isn't over. I am your guardian, remember?'

'So, you'll be here with me?' you say hopefully.

'Until the day you die and you can join me in heaven.'

More tears spill out of your eyes. Pulling you hard into his chest, he holds you tight.