The Angel’s Eyes

“Mr. Stephens, it's time for your speech,” James reminded me quietly. I had been absently twirling my champagne trying to enjoy the photos that adorned the walls. They were not dull or repetitive by any means. Perdita’s photos were always quite exceptional. I stepped onto the marble platform which by now was garnished with heaps of flowers. Mounted behind it was a lovely oil portrait of Perdita. Even in painted form she had those soft doe eyes. I was about to clear my throat till a pair of eyes forced me still. Eyes that saw through me. But what could they see? I did nothing. I steadied my heart by repeating that to myself. Murmuring in the room stopped bringing my attention back. I began.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first annual Perdita Clements Photo Gallery. As you know five years ago Perdita went missing on her drive home from an art show in Nashville. It was her biggest show yet receiving national recognition at only 18 years old. The residents here probably already know the police reports and findings by heart, but for our out of towners I will recap. Perdita was on the highway, but took the wrong exit. A gas station on a back road saw her last before her and her car vanished. Three weeks later her car was found stripped in a junkyard in Kentucky near the state line. The car showed no trace of Perdita. And all leads were a dead end. The dictionary defines photography as the art or practice of taking and processing photographs. And all of you here tonight know how much she practiced. Every scene you could possibly find in this beautiful little town Perdita would be their camera in hand. Though, she did not take and process photos. She discovered and shared them. Take a look around this room. Every photo is raw. Every photo has an unspoiled richness. From the portraits of our dear neighbors to the hidden valleys you see unbridled beauty. Everything is there for us lay people to behold. Her photos evoked wonder. Even the most lowly in spirit got a moment of awe. Perdita did not believe in editing her photos. She lived by the rule that everything was created the way it was supposed to be. She carried this sentiment into her daily life as well. She truly seeked to be kind and caring no matter the stigma or past.”

The crowd hung on to my words with reminiscent, soft smiles. Perdita’s mother even began to dab her eyes. Before I could start my next sentence I was caught again by those eyes. Looking straight at me was a woman in one of the photos. The maid was dressed in white with long golden hair. Her tunic waved around her daring to lift her up. She made no mistake with her gaze. I felt it then and now she has pulled my chains to face her again. My hand tightened around my flute. I reminded myself I did nothing. I stared back convinced, but she only intensified her gaze. Her head tipped in a way that allowed her to look down on me. Ashment a mother would possess for a foolish child played along her features, but why didn’t she just spit upon me and move on. My hand trembled. I had to switch my glass to my other hand. I had reasoned with myself for years. I had felt I mastered the storm, but I could already feel the clouds begin to darken. I dared not to speak another word.

“Mr. Stephens, are you alright?” James stepped up beside me. He looked at me with sympathy like I was one of them. An innocent mourner trying to honor the lost and not fall apart.

I looked back at the maid. I passed James and stepped off the stage. I walked up to her and read the gold plaque. Perdita named the photo “Angel”. I had done nothing. I had done absolutely nothing. And... I was wrong. I was a coward. I had done nothing to help her. I looked back up to the angel, but something had changed. The icy blue eyes now seemed warm like a blue lagoon. The straight lips actually curved at the ends. Her arms weren’t still by her sides like I thought they were from afar. Her palms turned out, inviting me in now. I dropped my flute and let the glass shatter. A sob cracked through my lips, but I let it out. I put my hands on the walls of either side of the photo and bent my head. I cried. I cried for Perdita. What have I done? I heard a soft click clack of heels behind me.

“It isn’t your fault, Noah. You did nothing.” Camile placed her hand on my back. I didn’t move.

“Camile. I need to talk to the police.” Her hand flinched back.

“Why?! Noah, wait!”

I headed for the door. It isn’t worth it anymore. I have been quiet for long enough. If I am killed at least people will know she might still be out there. That is what is important now. Whatever I face it will be my penance. I started running , but before I turned out of the hallway I saw the last photo of the gallery. It was a candid photo of her friends laughing sitting in a tree. The plaque read “Found”.

I quickly shrugged on my coat and opened the door. I hastened through the starless night. I didn’t even practice what I needed to say. No more perfectly crafted speeches. I wanted to say it all. Be rid of this diseased state. Despite the puddled sidewalks I only increased my speed. The wind blew at my back trying to help me go faster. Raindrops watered my lashes, but I barely blinked. I let the water drip down my face all the way to my chest. It was the cleanest I felt in years.