Fallen Angel

"I fucked up, man. I really fucked up..." Damon uttered to himself as he held the bloodied blade. Disgusted, he tossed it aside. It landed with a heavy thud amongst the brush of honeysuckle.

He didn't mean it though. To go down like this. How'd he know that there'd be cops right around the corner when he was dealing out the stash he was given? An empty baggy covered in blood was all that was left, showing any evidence of the deal he'd just made.

The cop he left behind was laid out on the ground. He assumed to them it was a simple drug bust. Just another cowardly dealer from Surrey's Newton Area. One in a hundred. But that didn't matter much to her now. Her life's blood now pooled around her still body.

Looking back at it made him sick to his stomach. He reacted out of instinct. He couldn't take another stint in the penitentiary. He just couldn't do that shit. This was his only means of making any decent dough.

BC Bud. Some of the best. Luckily, not laced with that fentanyl shit that's been circulating. Or so he had thought.

How was he supposed to know that the kid would OD right in front of him? It was just a sample. Just another customer. Fucking hell, he couldn't have been more than two or three years younger than him. And then to have a cop patrolling at the same time. What sort of fucked-up luck did he have?

Now there were two lives snuffed out and for what?

Not giving himself time to dwell on it now, he got up and began to move through the townhouses. Luckily, there was a lot of cover from the building arrangement, leaving many small alleyways between homes. It was way past the witching hour, and he had the cover of darkness on his side.

But he could hear the chatter on the cops' radio; they'd be responding soon, and to hell with staying here to get arrested. He already had accessory to murder, manslaughter, and possession to his name – resisting arrest, of course, would be the cherry on top.

Sirens in the distance pressured him on. He cut through a nearby park and booked it for Buck's place. He wouldn't be happy with him dragging this mess through his cut of the woods. But Damon couldn't think of a better plan.

Arriving at his door, still covered in the cop's blood, he rapped hurriedly on Buck's door. His place was a small one-floor rancher, in the middle of a burgeoning housing district. The guy was stubborn and wouldn't sell despite the offers several builders gave him. He didn't care much for money; he was a cleaner and had enough dirty cash on him to build a skyscraper.

"Who the hell is it, at this time?" Buck asked through the door. Buck was a small man, deceptively so. His nondescript, typical Canadian look fooled most.

"It's me, Damon, please let me in, Buck."

With an exasperated huff, he opened the door. Slightly balding and with peering eyes through beady glasses, he wore a flannel jacket and jeans, making him look bigger than he was.

"What do you want, kid?"

"Look, you're not going to like to hear this," Damon tried to begin to explain. "But I think I killed a cop."

His eyebrows shot up, but then a scowl replaced it quickly enough as he looked Damon up and down, as if seeing him for the first time in the light.

"Kay, kay. Get in before they come patrolling this way," he said urgently.

He led him into his bungalow. It was fairly clean. From the outside, you'd think it would be cluttered, but he had a sofa, dining table, and TV in the living room, all angled to allow for ease of relaxing and chilling, obviously. His kitchen was immaculately spotless.

"Yo, can I use your washroom?" Damon desperately requested. The blood was caking on his clothes, and he wanted to get rid of the evidence of the hell that had happened tonight.

"Course, course... Just around the bend."

Damon followed the corner to yet another spotless washroom with a curtained shower above a bathtub. It was a bit tight, allowing really for about two to three widths of a person to enter and exit.

Taking off his shirt, Damon examined himself in the mirror. He was your typical lowlife. Easily racially targeted and just as easily spotted for his baggy clothing and chains, all of which he was dumping in the trash. Shirtless, with only his pants, he made his way back to the door to request if Buck had anything he could borrow to wear.

When he opened the door, the end of a .45 greeted him, pointed right between his eyes with a long silencer screwed tightly on it.

"Sorry, eh," Buck apologized quietly.

Before Damon had any time to react, Buck pulled the trigger.

Darkness. Absolute pitch darkness. Instinctively, Damon reached to the center of his head, scared to see if he'd somehow survived the bullet wound. But to his surprise, there wasn't anything there. Just smooth, healthy skin.

"What?.. the..." He got up. He'd been laying on the ground, for how long... He had no clue. The whole house was covered in darkness. Blindly, he followed along the wall to the door, which had frosted windows on either side. The moonlight shining through. He reached for the handle and opened the door, and a rush of cool, frosty air brushed over his body.

The sensation was oddly peaceful. Maybe it was his close call with death or something, but the momentary relief brought about by the open air was almost the most serene thing he'd ever felt.

Shirtless and unarmed, he trudged through the park again, wondering if Buck's gun misfired and ended up shooting himself or something. He didn't care to check and could care less how it all happened.

Where was he supposed to go now? Possibly three bodies now could be tied to him. Scared out of his mind, he booked it to the only safe house he knew.

Father Morrison's Church. Our Lady of Peace. He'd gone to school there as a child or the adjoining private school. No one would have suspected him to be a privy kid, but his mom and dad were die-hard Catholics. Wouldn't have them going to those Godless public schools.

In all respects, Damon had the chance to live a perfectly normal life. It was the draw of easy money, reputation, and the thrill of danger that got him on track to become your quick and easy dealer. His job was simple enough and required almost little effort and paid out huge.

He'd made 8K on his first month. That was four times the amount he made at the warehouse, where he'd worked as a forklift driver working in one of the top food distributors in the country. But working in a fucking fridge wasn't one's ideal work environment.

But as he passed a street intersection right before the House of God, a cruiser came around the bend with a spotlight at its side. The light caught onto him as he tried to book it. Unfortunately, the closest cover was fenced off, a car repair shop of some sort. He'd pass by it many times, but this time he cursed the metal chain link that kept him from safety.

"Hey, you there – stop where you are!"

Ignoring the warning, he jayran across the street to get into the now-empty bus station. The cruiser followed in hot pursuit.

He practically Olympic leaped over a bus bench and ran into the small commercial area in King's Square, named after King George, which was the main street attached to the shopping district. There was no one on the streets, and it took him a moment to realize, but he was running towards the closed Police Station.

Another police car came barreling down on him from his front. Nowhere to run, he sprinted towards the A&W, the only place open at this time. He slammed his fist against the drive-thru window, yelling at the attendant to let him in, but the worker backed away cautiously from the window as the sirens grew louder.

He turned and swore under his breath as they blocked off his exit, leaving only the King George highway. He made to cross the four-lane highway when a cop swerved to his side. The copper was yelling something at him, but his ears were pumped with blood, and he was practically zoned out from adrenaline as he tried to make his escape. The cop car gave him a warning shot that he didn't hear and then, without any hesitation, made to hit him.

The car inches away from taking out his legs was suddenly impaled by something that thunderously crushed the front of the vehicle. Shrapnel of metal and engine parts came flying off the hood. Instinctively, Damon covered his face and looked about himself in disbelief. Then, not losing the opportunity, he stumbled away from the wreckage before any of the other coppers could tail it towards him.

As he ran, the moments before impact came to his mind. He could have sworn he saw something had landed on the vehicle. Something that was like a blur of silver or white. He couldn't really make it out at the time, but he could have sworn it.

He arrived before the parking lot of the church. It was an L-shaped building with the bottom half being the chapel while the taller half being attached to a mess hall and connecting to the private school he attended.

He rapped upon the wooden doors, and after a long moment that felt like eternity, Father Morrison opened the door.

"Damon, my dear boy, what has happened to you? Get out of the cold, come on in." The priest ushered him in.

Within the chapel was the suffering of Jesus displayed in quaint portraits of each moment of his death and, later, along the other side of the chapel, his resurrection.

"I believe you have a lot of explaining to do," Morrison said solemnly as he led him over to a pew to sit.

Unable to speak, he panted heavily and nodded.

"Would you like some water?" he asked.

Damon nodded in response as he bent over, trying to compose himself.

The priest made his way to the mess hall.

As he was given some time to himself, Damon wondered how he'd explain his way out of this. There was nothing he could really do but tell the truth. But then, he'd be thrown into a slammer, and then what? It would just be a disaster for his family, and his future would be thrown out the window at the same time.

He's counting on me, Damon thought as he clasped his hands together and placed his elbows upon his knees. As if in prayer, but he had nothing to say. He was just exhausted.

Returning with a glass of water, Morrison watched as the young boy downed the cup.

"Why is this happening to me, father?"

The priest thought for a moment and then responded.

"All things good and bad happen based on our choices. The very will given to us as a gift. Now tell me what have you done to drive you here with nary a shirt on your back, and I'm assuming those sirens outside are meant for you."

"I think I stabbed and killed a lady cop. I might've also gave some weed laced with fentanyl to an unsuspecting minor. I ran off to a killer's house, and I think he might've killed himself by accident. And just now, a cop car got into some weird accident. I'm not sure if they're dead too.."

A look of disbelief washed over the priest.

"These are serious crimes, Damon. Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes, father," he said with a bowed head. "I didn't mean for anything to happen. It was an accident. I can't go back to jail! Please, you've got to hide me somewhere or something."

"I can't do that, Damon. You and I both know this. You must confess your crimes, and only through God's graces can you find true freedom."

"I don't need a lecture now, priest. I'm talking about my life here."

"Eh, so am I. Your life is a precious one. You may have come close to throwing it away as easily as you had thrown away the life of the poor fellow you were dealing to and the lady who had tried to stop you from walking the path you'd chosen. But every moment, you decided to thwart God's signs to change."

"You and I both know there was no way I was going to make enough cash working at my dead-end job."

"Yes, sadly, I do know. But we aren't given everything on this Earth at times; things are taken away from us. And must live with that temporary loss. As all things come back to Him."

"I can't," Damon blubbered as a single tear came unforbidden down his cheek. "I can't let him down..."

"I know, Damon, I know." Reaching out, the priest wrapped his robes around the troubled youth. Beneath the high ceiling, the sound of the doors being forcibly opened echoed throughout the holy grounds.

"There will be no more bloodshed tonight," the priest spoke with benevolence. "This young man will confess to his crimes and come peacefully into your custody, officers." Three cops as tall as NBA players, resting their hands upon their pistols, loosened their demeanor at the sight of Damon.

He was kneeling on the ground and praying, with tears flowing freely from his shut eyes. His first real confession in years.

"Please watch over my brother, O' Lord, he needs your strength and guidance. Please bless him, O' Lord. Forgive me of my sins and forgive me of my trespasses as I've forgiven those who've trespassed against me. And lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil..."

Images of his brother came washing over him. His younger years when they would bike around in big wheels. His voice laughing in chorus with his own. Then suddenly, the beginnings of his hospitalizations. How his cheeks began to sink in from the chubby ones he'd had before. Now, as he had left him last, laying in the hospital bed, his skeletal body wracked by cancer.

"I'm sorry, bro..."

His last words as the officers placed cuffs on him and brought him out to the squad car, where he was brought to the back of the vehicle. His eyes never leaving the priest as he was brought towards the station.

As they passed the cop car that had been chasing him earlier, there was a fire truck and an ambulance nearby that blocked off most of his view of the front of the broken vehicle. But there, laying upon the ground, was a single white feather.