Malachi of the Angelmen (Book 4 of The Angelmen Series)
by T.C. Slonaker
Chapter 1:
Question
For maybe the first time since he was a child, Malachi Whitman ran. He just purely sprinted. Not that he had many memories of running and playing happily as a child, but this was also the first time since those long-ago days he had been as excited as he now was. His life had spiraled so far toward rock bottom he was certain no one from above could hear his cries for help. The time had come to pull himself out of the trench of despair on his own. He could think of only one way to do it.
As a back up plan and a precaution, but really as more of an afterthought, Malachi had grabbed his Swiss army knife from his dresser and shoved it into his pocket before he’d left. He’d become accustomed to keeping a weapon with him for protection. The little utility knife was his favorite as it was so easily accessible, while still able to cause serious damage if needed. He fingered it nervously as he stopped in front of a small brick building whose sign read, The Artist's Touch.
He clutched the short black railing that led to the door, catching his breath and claiming a second to compose his thoughts. For Malachi, the decision was a no-brainer, but for her, it might require a little more thought. The only option he had at this point was to leave everything behind and begin again. She might not yet be finished with the life she was living. Leaving that behind might be harder for her.
Forget thinking. It never got him anywhere anyway. Malachi burst through the door, and all heads looked up, wincing at the outdoor light that had just intruded upon the rather dark waiting room.
“Cynthia!” Malachi called out, whipping his head around in search. “Come here! I need you!”
A gauntly thin girl with porcelain white skin to contrast her dark features – dark everything – made a quick apology to the muscular man sitting in the chair waiting for her to begin his tattoo. She rushed over to Malachi on soft, quick toes.
“What are you doing?” Cynthia asked the suddenly confident twenty-something standing in the front of the store.
The pleased look on Malachi's determined face didn’t match the ill-fitting dark shirt and black jeans he wore. He expected her surprise, as his bold entry wasn’t something his girlfriend was accustomed to experiencing at work.
“I'm with a customer.”
Malachi still nervously fingered the blade in his pocket. She couldn't know about that, though. He brought both empty hands out of his pockets and used them to clasp hers. He dropped to his knees and continued with an oddly desperate smile that appeared out of place in the tattoo parlor. Smiling was something he rarely ever did, and that probably scared the girl more than the words that came from his mouth next.
“Cynthia Vincent, will you marry me?”
Cynthia looked down at the kneeling young man with pity in her eyes. She wasted no time with her answer. “Oh, Malachi. No.”
“Next time try it with a ring, buddy,” came the facetious reply from the guy waiting in the chair.
“Hey, shut up,” Malachi quipped, the smile having evaporated from his face. He was off his knees quickly to subconsciously bring attention to his six-foot height. Then he looked at Cynthia apologetically, still lightly hanging onto her hands. “I don't have a ring, but I’ll get one.”
She let her hands drop and sadly shook her head, walking back to the chair. “It isn't that, Malachi. You know why.”
She didn’t face him as she answered. The awkward confrontation hurt them both too much.
Of course he knew why. She was obviously better than he deserved. It was just his hope that she didn’t see it that way.
Like an embarrassed child about to throw a tantrum, Malachi puffed and retreated out the door without another word. His anger kept him from slamming the door shut. Instead, he stormed out without bothering to close it at all.
The knife came out of his pocket.
****
“So, you aren't going home, I see.” Cynthia caught up to Malachi after several minutes. This was not the first time she had needed to chase after him; he knew she’d give him a little time to himself, but not enough rope with which to hang himself. Her timing was perfect, as usual, before he had a chance to attempt anything.
Malachi sat on the ledge of the overpass above Highway 83. The road was busier than a typical weekday afternoon, but it wasn’t unusual for a warm, sunny day. Perhaps it was a touch too warm and the drivers of the cars below were headed to a place more refreshing. Good luck finding that anywhere near this place, thought Malachi.
He didn’t turn his head to talk to Cynthia. Nothing she could say would change the track his mind had picked up. He flipped the knife back and forth in his hand. A few short, bloody marks on his arms had borne his frustration with the situation.
Seeing her eyes on the knife, he read the question in Cynthia’s mind, wondering if he’d decided which way to go — jumping or slicing. Experience had taught them both he would be successful with neither.
“Why would I go home?” he asked with as little emotion as he could drain from his voice. “Cry to my dad that my girlfriend left me? Could anything be more pathetic?”
He continued his downward stare, watching the cars pass. Did the drivers know where they were going? Did they know their purpose in life? Could he be the only one in the world who was lost?
Cynthia climbed onto the concrete block next to him. “Nobody said I left you.”
She dangled her feet a little in the enjoyment of the freedom they had being surrounded by nothing but air.
How he hoped she would go away. He had hoped she would understand. The fact that she didn't was humiliating.
Through his misery, he wanted to say something funny like, “Who said I was talking about you?” But that was levity she didn't deserve. He had completely laid his life out before her, and she hadn’t thought even a second before taking his salvation and tossing it out the window.
She offered little explanation, so he just ignored her while she continued her counsel. “If you are trying to make a choice, you'd better go with jumping. If you use that knife on your arms or hands, it could really affect your music.”
Cynthia picked up one of his limp hands and turned it over in her own, finally bringing it to her lips to kiss.
He had to break his silence to correct her mistake. “And if I jump, being flattened on the highway would have no effect on my music?”
Cynthia smiled the knowing grin of arrogance, thinking she had brought him back.
“I’ll stop by tonight,” she said as she turned to slide off the barrier, job done. She didn't turn around to second-guess her work. If he saw her turn to check on him, it would verify that she really thought he would do it. He watched to see if she would do it, if she would turn. Her goal was obviously to keep him in some kind of fantasy world where his problems didn’t really exist. She refused to marry him but acted like they were still together and everything was fine.
Well, everything was not fine. The proposal was the first step in his last-ditch effort to pull himself from the depths of his pitiful existence. She was worried about his music? Really? Where was that going?
Only one thing gave him hope each day, and it was Cynthia. He needed to start a new life, but without her to straighten it out, it would be just as pitiful.
She had just made it clear he wasn’t worth staying with for life. She just told him, essentially, that she was hanging around until she decided it was enough. Well, too bad for her, because he was going first. Enough was enough.
Malachi made his choice quickly. He took the knife and flung it as far as he could out in front of him. Then, he scooted himself forward and tumbled down toward the busy highway below.
by T.C. Slonaker
Chapter 1:
Question
For maybe the first time since he was a child, Malachi Whitman ran. He just purely sprinted. Not that he had many memories of running and playing happily as a child, but this was also the first time since those long-ago days he had been as excited as he now was. His life had spiraled so far toward rock bottom he was certain no one from above could hear his cries for help. The time had come to pull himself out of the trench of despair on his own. He could think of only one way to do it.
As a back up plan and a precaution, but really as more of an afterthought, Malachi had grabbed his Swiss army knife from his dresser and shoved it into his pocket before he’d left. He’d become accustomed to keeping a weapon with him for protection. The little utility knife was his favorite as it was so easily accessible, while still able to cause serious damage if needed. He fingered it nervously as he stopped in front of a small brick building whose sign read, The Artist's Touch.
He clutched the short black railing that led to the door, catching his breath and claiming a second to compose his thoughts. For Malachi, the decision was a no-brainer, but for her, it might require a little more thought. The only option he had at this point was to leave everything behind and begin again. She might not yet be finished with the life she was living. Leaving that behind might be harder for her.
Forget thinking. It never got him anywhere anyway. Malachi burst through the door, and all heads looked up, wincing at the outdoor light that had just intruded upon the rather dark waiting room.
“Cynthia!” Malachi called out, whipping his head around in search. “Come here! I need you!”
A gauntly thin girl with porcelain white skin to contrast her dark features – dark everything – made a quick apology to the muscular man sitting in the chair waiting for her to begin his tattoo. She rushed over to Malachi on soft, quick toes.
“What are you doing?” Cynthia asked the suddenly confident twenty-something standing in the front of the store.
The pleased look on Malachi's determined face didn’t match the ill-fitting dark shirt and black jeans he wore. He expected her surprise, as his bold entry wasn’t something his girlfriend was accustomed to experiencing at work.
“I'm with a customer.”
Malachi still nervously fingered the blade in his pocket. She couldn't know about that, though. He brought both empty hands out of his pockets and used them to clasp hers. He dropped to his knees and continued with an oddly desperate smile that appeared out of place in the tattoo parlor. Smiling was something he rarely ever did, and that probably scared the girl more than the words that came from his mouth next.
“Cynthia Vincent, will you marry me?”
Cynthia looked down at the kneeling young man with pity in her eyes. She wasted no time with her answer. “Oh, Malachi. No.”
“Next time try it with a ring, buddy,” came the facetious reply from the guy waiting in the chair.
“Hey, shut up,” Malachi quipped, the smile having evaporated from his face. He was off his knees quickly to subconsciously bring attention to his six-foot height. Then he looked at Cynthia apologetically, still lightly hanging onto her hands. “I don't have a ring, but I’ll get one.”
She let her hands drop and sadly shook her head, walking back to the chair. “It isn't that, Malachi. You know why.”
She didn’t face him as she answered. The awkward confrontation hurt them both too much.
Of course he knew why. She was obviously better than he deserved. It was just his hope that she didn’t see it that way.
Like an embarrassed child about to throw a tantrum, Malachi puffed and retreated out the door without another word. His anger kept him from slamming the door shut. Instead, he stormed out without bothering to close it at all.
The knife came out of his pocket.
****
“So, you aren't going home, I see.” Cynthia caught up to Malachi after several minutes. This was not the first time she had needed to chase after him; he knew she’d give him a little time to himself, but not enough rope with which to hang himself. Her timing was perfect, as usual, before he had a chance to attempt anything.
Malachi sat on the ledge of the overpass above Highway 83. The road was busier than a typical weekday afternoon, but it wasn’t unusual for a warm, sunny day. Perhaps it was a touch too warm and the drivers of the cars below were headed to a place more refreshing. Good luck finding that anywhere near this place, thought Malachi.
He didn’t turn his head to talk to Cynthia. Nothing she could say would change the track his mind had picked up. He flipped the knife back and forth in his hand. A few short, bloody marks on his arms had borne his frustration with the situation.
Seeing her eyes on the knife, he read the question in Cynthia’s mind, wondering if he’d decided which way to go — jumping or slicing. Experience had taught them both he would be successful with neither.
“Why would I go home?” he asked with as little emotion as he could drain from his voice. “Cry to my dad that my girlfriend left me? Could anything be more pathetic?”
He continued his downward stare, watching the cars pass. Did the drivers know where they were going? Did they know their purpose in life? Could he be the only one in the world who was lost?
Cynthia climbed onto the concrete block next to him. “Nobody said I left you.”
She dangled her feet a little in the enjoyment of the freedom they had being surrounded by nothing but air.
How he hoped she would go away. He had hoped she would understand. The fact that she didn't was humiliating.
Through his misery, he wanted to say something funny like, “Who said I was talking about you?” But that was levity she didn't deserve. He had completely laid his life out before her, and she hadn’t thought even a second before taking his salvation and tossing it out the window.
She offered little explanation, so he just ignored her while she continued her counsel. “If you are trying to make a choice, you'd better go with jumping. If you use that knife on your arms or hands, it could really affect your music.”
Cynthia picked up one of his limp hands and turned it over in her own, finally bringing it to her lips to kiss.
He had to break his silence to correct her mistake. “And if I jump, being flattened on the highway would have no effect on my music?”
Cynthia smiled the knowing grin of arrogance, thinking she had brought him back.
“I’ll stop by tonight,” she said as she turned to slide off the barrier, job done. She didn't turn around to second-guess her work. If he saw her turn to check on him, it would verify that she really thought he would do it. He watched to see if she would do it, if she would turn. Her goal was obviously to keep him in some kind of fantasy world where his problems didn’t really exist. She refused to marry him but acted like they were still together and everything was fine.
Well, everything was not fine. The proposal was the first step in his last-ditch effort to pull himself from the depths of his pitiful existence. She was worried about his music? Really? Where was that going?
Only one thing gave him hope each day, and it was Cynthia. He needed to start a new life, but without her to straighten it out, it would be just as pitiful.
She had just made it clear he wasn’t worth staying with for life. She just told him, essentially, that she was hanging around until she decided it was enough. Well, too bad for her, because he was going first. Enough was enough.
Malachi made his choice quickly. He took the knife and flung it as far as he could out in front of him. Then, he scooted himself forward and tumbled down toward the busy highway below.