The Music of Angels

Trigger Warning: Contains violent content and domestic abuse. Child abuse is alluded to, as well.

He felt the sting in his hand as he watched his knuckles gush red. What hurt the most was the realization that he had screwed up—again. It had been four months since he had punched anything. Darren Holmes, in all his sixteen years, had never tried as hard to accomplish anything as he has to control his temper. He was doing well for a while there. Then, after 5^th-period Algebra class, he caught Courtney, his girlfriend of three-and-a-half months, tongue dancing with Chad Dillinger in the hall. A nearby locker suffered the brunt of his rage, and Darren got a trip to the principal's office for his troubles. He sat in a cozy chair, waiting for Ms. Everest to rip him a new one, staring at the crimson stream staining his knuckles. The sight of blood, as always, brought back childhood memories.

It was a sun-drenched day—one of those perfect days when Mom was still with them. Darren and his little sister, Suzy, played Chutes and Ladders together as Mom's laughter filled the living room. Ah, Mom's laugh, it was like the music of angels. But that day, it stopped abruptly with the front door opening, perhaps in anticipation of it slamming closed.

"What's so damn funny? I'm out bustin' my ass working, and you have all the time in the world to sit on yours, laughing like you don't have a care in the world? Real nice, Lacey—just perfect," Dad barked.

Mom transformed, from Mom to Lacey, when he was home. It wasn't just because he called her by her first name, it was her entire demeanor that changed, and the angel music just disappeared.

"You're home early," Lacey half-whispered.

Lacey hit the floor as Dad smacked her hard across the face. Darren could barely hear the whimper that slipped out of her blood-stained mouth. Dad ascended on Lacey, and Darren began ushering Suzy upstairs to her room. This would get ugly, and he didn't want Suzy to get hurt again.

He stayed with his little sister, holding and rocking the five-year-old in his arms. He tried his best to muffle her sobs for her Mommy while angry tears fell from his own eyes. Eventually, after Suzy cried herself to sleep, Darren laid her down in her bed, tucked her in, and tiptoed to his room. There he paced and paced, his mind and heart downstairs. Then Darren grabbed one of his pillows and started punching it over and over again. As an eight-year-old boy, it was the first time he had clenched his hand into a fist.

    *     *     *     *     *    *

"So, Mr. Holmes, I see you're back again. I was hoping we would make it through the rest of the school year without crossing paths again. Come in," Ms. Everest said as she led the way to her plant-infested office.

"Trust me, Ms. Everest, so was I," Darren replied, shaking his drooping head.

He didn't much care about being in trouble at school—it was pretty much expected. He didn't even care about the inevitable beating he'd get from his father at home when he found out about the trouble at school—after all, it was just an excuse.

Darren had been trying, really trying!

As Ms. Everest droned on and on, Darren caught a few words here and there. "Violent behavior," "delinquent," "not tolerated," but he wasn't really listening. Darren had heard it all before. He already knew that it was up to him, and no high school principal's lecture would be the difference maker, no matter how well-intentioned.

Then he heard it, "your mother"! That's when Darren zoned in, eyes ablaze.

"What did you just say?"

Ms. Everest took in a breath and repeated,

"What would your mother think of your behavior?"

The chair fell to the floor as Darren stood abruptly. He was at the door in a single bound and, while yanking it open, shot back at her,

"NEVER talk about my mother!"

Darren was out of the office and out the school's front door like a bullet. He jumped over the stairs, using the iron handrail for balance. He began running for his life, or away from it. Darren had no destination but found himself at the cemetery, sweaty and breathless. Without thinking, he sought out his mom's grave, marked only with a number. The bastard didn't even have it in him to bury her properly—no loving wife, protective mother. Just a number. Not even Lacey. The woman who survived his father's abuse, only to die of a broken heart.

That day in the hospital—that last day—his mom was at her most weak and fragile. Darren could never protect her from his father, and he couldn't protect her from a bum heart either. So all he could do was snuggle in the medical bed with her and pray for her to get better. Little Darren tried to make a deal with God that he would never get angry again if He would please save his mom. But all he heard in response was the gradually fading beep of the machines attached to his mother's body.

"Honey, you have to listen to me now. I know you're always looking out for your sister, and I am so grateful for that. But I won't be there to look out for you anymore, and I worry about you. I see how angry you are, and I know a lot of it is my fault, but you must find a way not to grow up angry. You see what that has done to your father. You are not like him, Darren. You are a good soul, a protector! But anger can fester and change people, and I can't let that happen to you. Not my sweet boy…"

Lacey paused, took short, ragged breaths, and tousled Darren's hair.

"Mommy?" Darren looked up with tears streaming down his cheeks, "How do I stop being angry?"

"Oh, honey! It'll be okay! I'll be watching over you, and I will always be in your heart. Now give Mommy a great big squeeze. I have to rest now."

Darren bear-hugged his mom, crying into her shoulder as she slumped into the pillow, lacking the strength to sit up completely. After a while, she fidgeted a bit until he let go. Then Darren's mom smiled at him and told him it was okay for him to go.

"I need to sleep now. Don't forget to say your prayers before you go to bed. I love you, Sweet Boy!"

"I love you, Mommy."

With that, ten-year-old Darren waved goodbye to his mom for the last time. He made it to the elevator before bloodying his knuckles.

*     *     *     *     *    *

Even though he was staring at a numbered marker, Darren felt close to his mom at the cemetery. He tried focusing on better times, but, at least in his mind's eye, they were always marred with violence. Then, suddenly, he began to hear angel music—was this a sign, or was he starting to lose his mind?

"I thought I'd find you here!"

He spun around to find Suzy, thirteen years old, red-headed and growing into her own beauty. But that laugh, that was Mom's laugh!

"Do that again," Darren demanded.

"What?"

"Laugh," he pleaded.

Suzy laughed, not because her brother asked her to, but because it was funny that he did.

Darren's eyes spilled with tears as he whispered, "The music of angels."

"Are you okay, Bro? Seriously?"

"Your laugh—it sounds just like Mom's. It's like the music of angels. Do you remember it?"

"I don't remember her much," Suzy said, downcast.

"I know. You were so young."

"I remember other stuff from when I was young. I remember you holding me and singing in my ear on my bed a lot. Honestly, you were my best parent!"

Darren stared at her for a beat and replied,

"Do you trust me?"

"Always have and always will!"

"I've been thinking about something. Hear me out and let me know what you think, okay?"

"Sure thing."

"This is big stuff, Suzy-Q," he countered and continued, "I'll be 17 very soon, and, if you go for the rest, I can try to declare emancipation. That means I'll be considered an adult, and I can petition the court to have you come live with me instead of dad. What do you say?"

Tears sprung in Suzy's eyes as she leaped into his arms.

"It'd be over? Really over? Of course!"

Darren hugged her tightly and relished in the angel music emanating from her. It made him feel stronger than any fist ever had. He could do this, even anger management—for Suzy.