Destroying Angel

We live in a world of speed and noise, bobbing around like a cork on the waves, carried by the tide of love and fortune. Entering this world in a state of pure vulnerability, the simplicity of life snowballs with layer upon layer of life’s occurrences, those in our control and those which are thrust upon us. That is, until we then travel full circle back to that weakened state of vulnerability, living a simple existence; reliant upon others. The tick, tock of our mortal clock grows ever louder as we tumble towards our so called ‘golden’ years. Amelia witnessed first hand, the cruel fragility of the human species. Surrounded by men and women who are in the last chapter of their lives.

Amelia smiled warmly at the frail shell of the woman in front of her. Her eyes scanned her crepe paper skin and her silver hair hiding her sunken brows which framed her milky eyes. “How are we today Mary?” she asked. “Peachy dear” came her strained response, followed by a kind smile emerging reluctantly from her lips. Out of all thirty eight residents at the nursing home, Amelia had a soft spot for Mary. She would listen to Mary’s stories of her past as she painted her nails and bathed her aching limbs. The world that Mary lived in was slower, quieter, the ocean of life; calmer. Money was never a motivator for Mary, caring for others and the warm embrace of her family were all the wealth and fortune she could ever hope for. Amelia likes to sit and gaze at the black and white photographs, sitting proudly on Mary’s dresser. She would perch on Mary’s bed, listening to her laboured breath, hearing her quietly groan as she absorbs another wave of pain rippling through her body. The photographs show a bright eyed woman, with an electric smile that would light up the darkest of rooms. Amelia witnessed a shadow of this smile when Mary first moved into Seven Oaks, but that too has faded as Mary’s body holds her captive in a limbo of eternal aches and immobility.

Amelia Broadhurst sat on the number twenty-two bus home, gazing through the dripping windows at the streets passed by. Her thoughts turned to her father who would have been Mary’s age if the Cancer hadn’t taken him seven years ago. Amelia closed her eyes and nodded along with the motion of the bus, picturing her father as a younger man, carrying Amelia on his athletic shoulders into the woodlands close to their family home. Every weekend Amelia and her father would spend hours foraging in the woods, bringing back a bounty of edible plants, fruits and fungi. It wasn’t that they needed the food, it was the thrill of eating from nature’s bounty that they thrived on. Even on the coldest winter days or the hottest summer’s morning, Amelia would follow her father from hedgerow to hedgerow, tree to tree, learning about plants that could feed, heal and even harm if you didn’t know what you were doing. After their basket and bellies were full, their tired legs would head home, with soiled clothes and ripped skin from the hooked claws of the hedgerows.

They were happy days. Amelia smiled as she pictured her father, his large hands delicately cradling the fragile berries they collected. The glint in his eye as he passed his daughter the legacy of knowledge that he inherited from his father, and his before.

Amelia’s smile quickly faded as the warm blanket of happy memories with her father was ripped from her as she skipped forwards thirty three years, to the last time Amelia held her father’s hand. Amelia remembered the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the smell of disinfectant and most of all, the frail body that lay limp in the hospice bed. Watching her father slowly disappear was the hardest thing Amelia ever had to do. He was a prisoner in his own body, a prisoner, innocent of any crime, sentenced to a state of involuntary hibernation. And what could she do as he lay for months, in the same room, looking at the same walls, same ceiling, waiting for the sweet release of death? She watched. She cried. She was strong when he was awake, wearing a mask of hope and loving smiles, refusing to let him see the pain and anger that rose from her belly every time she visited. The driver’s hoarse bellow of “Last stop love” made Amelia open her eyes and realise that, once again, her wandering mind had carried her away, as did the number twenty two bus which had long past her stop and was now stationery in the depot. And once again, Amelia Broadhurst was left walking home with only her wandering mind for company.

The rain had subsided on the bright October morning, as Amelia wheeled Mary outside for a healthy dose of sunshine and fresh air. “This is nice” whispered Mary as she looked up at a leaf slowly cascading down from the large Oak tree. “I can’t see the colours dear, but I can remember them. The beautiful autumn reds, browns, and orange. I miss them. It’s just one of the many things I miss.” she said with a heavy sigh. Amelia sat on the wooden bench next to Mary and held her frail hand.

“I know Mary, keep remembering those colours. Do you feel the sunshine on your skin Mary?”

“I do, yes dear, I do; but it isn’t enough.”

“What do you mean?” asked Amelia, who asked the question but deep down knew the answer.

Mary paused for a moment, then began; “Many years ago we had a dog, his name was Jack. Scruffy little thing he was, but served us well as a loyal pet. He looked out for us and us for him. That’s what you do for the ones you care for isn’t it?”

“Of course” said Amelia, nodding in agreement.

“But there came a day,” Mary continued; “When our old Jack was old and in pain. He didn’t have the life he deserved.” Amelia watched a tear navigate it’s way down Mary’s wrinkled cheek before free falling onto the tartan blanket below. “Jack needed us to do right by him, dear, that was the least we could do. The day the vet ended his suffering, was both filled with sadness and relief. Sadness to loose our friend, but relieved that he could rest in peace. We were happy that we could do that for him.” As Mary uttered those last words, she lifted her head to Amelia and set her foggy gaze deep into Amelia’s eyes. Intense, unmoving. Amelia felt Mary’s frail hand grip hers. “It would be the kindest thing you know. The kindest thing.” Mary’s voice trembled as a whole troop of tears descended down her cheeks. “I’m not really living any more Amelia.” Mary spluttered. Amelia embraced Mary’s frail, quivering body, as a mother would embrace a child.

“It’s OK Mary, you’re OK.” Amelia examined the falsity of her words as they emerged from her lips like a safety net, trying to catch Mary as she fell deeper into sadness. She quickly added a truth to help pull Mary back from the darkness; “It’s your birthday in a few weeks Mary, now that is something to look forward to.”

Mary didn’t respond. She composed herself and stared off into the distance. The sadness enveloped her whole body, her spark extinguished. During the following weeks, Amelia couldn’t get Mary’s words out of her head, or the way she looked deep into Amelia’s sole, asking for help. Mary was different after that day. She refused to go outside, or even get out of bed. Mary seemed to have relinquished her spirit and what remained was an empty shell, watching her old ticking clock in her room, waiting for time to pass.

“Happy Birthday Mary!” Amelia announced as she entered Mary’s room. Mary turned her eyes to towards the beaming nurse, wearing a glittery cone shaped hat on her head, proudly presenting a pink and white cupcake, complete with candle. Mary’s face remained empty and still. She reminded Amelia of the porcelain doll she played with as a child. Amelia wasn’t deterred by Mary’s empty stare. “Here you go honey” she proclaimed as she sat the cupcake on Mary’s bedside table. “This is a secret family recipe, delicious, if I do say so myself!”. Mary managed to force a weak smile before slowly turned her head and closing her eyes. Amelia topped up Mary’s morphine. She bent forward, close to Mary’s ear and whispered “It would mean so much to me if you tasted your birthday cupcake Mary, you won’t be disappointed. Sweet dreams.” Amelia stroked Mary’s hair before turning towards the door, humming Happy Birthday as she left the room. Her happy tune could be heard disappearing down the corridor until Mary was left only with the tick tock of her old clock and the soft glow of her birthday candle.

Amanita Virosa, or the ‘Destroying Angel’ is a pure white, beautiful but deadly mushroom. One small piece of this angelic fungi is enough to open the doors to death within twenty four hours. Amelia remembered her father warning her every time they passed the spot where the killer resided in the woodland under a cluster of old birch trees.

Amelia’s phone buzzed on the kitchen work surface amongst the bowls, spoons, flour and other evidence still remaining from Amelia’s baking frenzy. In true Amelia style, she had decided that dishes can wait, but a hot bath could not.

Amelia ignored the rude intrusion of the phone, and heard the voicemail alert. She let out a satisfied sigh as she rose from her steaming sea of bubbles. Amelia stepped out of the bath and wrapped a warm towel around her. She studied the strange outline of her re flexion hidden behind the condensation on the mirror. The lack of features revealed a shadow staring back at her as she methodically brushed her teeth. Looking down to spit, as her head rose back up, she dropped the toothbrush in shock as she stared wide eyed at the words that had emerged out of no where on the mirror in front of her; ‘Thank you! It’s just what I wanted. M’ .

Amelia stepped back and took a breath as a knowing smile began to to migrate across her face.

“You are very welcome Mary. Happy Birthday honey.”

She turned and walked over to her phone. As Amelia listened to the voicemail, delivering the news that Mary had passed, she enjoyed, for the first time in her life a feeling of power and purpose, of love without regret. This she thought, was only the beginning.