Born in the Mouth of an Angel Part I

  Part II

  He didn’t know it but Annabelle watched him as long as she could. And even when she let the curtain fall, before the first ray of sunshine kissed the grass, she found it hard to tear herself away from the window. But she’d never seen him leave before.

  She slept poorly that day, tossing and turning in her antique bed. She woke several times in the night, her legs tangled in the sheets, her nightgown twisted around her body. When she finally kicked off the covers and rose, Annabelle felt groggy and depressed.

  Before she showered or ate, she went outside, as she always did the night after he left. It was easy to find where he’d been standing. A thin film of ash covered the grass, a grey shadow of the man spread on the ground.

  She got down on her hands and knees, scooping the ashes up in her hands. She poured them into the glass jar at her side. There wasn’t much ash but she collected all she could before she screwed the lid shut on the jar and got to her feet.

  Carefully, as though they could somehow spill, Annabelle took the ashes through the living room, past the kitchen and up the stairs. At the top of the stairs she turned left, into a small room where the walls were covered in shelves.

  The room was hidden behind a ceiling-to-floor tapestry her mother brought back from Europe years and years ago. Annabelle didn’t even know what the room was intended for. There, she placed the small jar of ashes on a table in the center of the room. She pulled out a label and marked the date on the white slip before sticking it to the side of the jar.

  Once that was done, Annabelle placed the jar next to the last one she’d filled with his ashes. Then she took a step back and looked at the room. Half of it was full of those same little glass jars, white labels with dates that distinguished one from another. She didn’t know why she collected them or what they meant. She’d started the first time it happened, afraid that he wouldn’t come back, that he was gone.

  But like clockwork, every month he came back around the same time. At first he’d remembered her but as time went on he seemed to lose his memories from one visit to the next. This was the first time he hadn’t given her a name. He’d used many in the past and none of them seemed real. None seemed to fit him.

  Annabelle could remember the first time she saw him. She’d been living alone in this big house for a few years by then, her mother gone and only dim memories of her father left behind. As she did just about every night, Annabelle took a small stroll outside in the large gardens tended by a gardener she’d never met.

  Though she had plenty to fulfill her in the house, mainly her painting career that added to the funds her parents left her, she tried to begin every night with a walk. Humming, Annabelle would explore whatever new delight the gardener had included. Sometimes he left clues and sometimes she had to search on her own, unaided.

  She’d been on the hunt through some bushes, which Annabelle could have sworn hid something special, when a man stumbled through, covered in blood. Surprised but not scared, Annabelle had straightened up, curious. He didn’t look injured, just confused and exhausted. When he finally noticed her, he’d stopped, frozen, his eyes wide and nervous.

  He hadn’t been able to speak that first night either. He’d looked a little worried when all that came out of his throat was a croak, but not panicky. She didn’t invite him inside at first though she allowed him to clean off with her hose and brought him a towel and some of her dad’s old clothes. He hadn’t asked for any food but she would quickly learn that he didn’t eat. But he did request some tea.

  Before she knew him, she never drank tea. After that first night, she had to replace her tins regularly. She didn’t know where he slept that day but when she woke the next night, he was sitting in the middle of her lawn, the moonlight washing his complexion away. That night he could whisper faintly.

  They spent the night, their heads bent together as they spoke. He said his name was Manning. He couldn’t tell her if it was his first name or his last. She just accepted it and told him her name in exchange. It was nice to hear someone say it again. She hadn’t had much contact with people since her mother died and the next night she rushed out to make sure he was still there.

  That third night, Manning was scorched and looked a little grey around the edges. In his rough voice, still coming back, he explained that he didn’t deal well with the daylight. He preferred to sleep during the day and stay awake at night. Instantly intrigued, Annabelle offered him the protection of her roof and her heavily curtained windows. No one else she knew was nocturnal. She never regretted it since.

  The first time he vanished, she remembered all too vividly. They’d been outside not far from sunrise and she wanted to go back in the house. When the darkness waned her body readied itself for sleep. She remembered tugging on his arm.

  “Let’s go inside, Manning.” He’d been sleeping in a spare room on the ground floor. There was a bed there though why she never knew. Her parents never had any visitors.

  “I think I’ll stay out today,” Manning had replied, his gaze caught on the distant horizon where the sky lightened and the stars disappeared.

  “What?” She hadn’t understood.

  “I’m going to stay outside today,” he repeated. “Thanks for giving me a bed.”

  And then he wandered off. Torn between going after him and returning to the house, she’d stood, frozen with indecision. Eventually the sky decided for her and she retreated to the house. But she watched him from under the heavy curtains as long as she could.

  Manning stood under the protection of a tree, its leaves not far from brushing his dark curls. But when the sun started to peek, Annabelle wasn’t there anymore. She’d trodden on leaden feet to her antique bed and collapsed, asleep on the lace coverlet.

  When she’d woken the next night, Annabelle had fled outdoors, looking for her mysterious friend. But he didn’t appear and she couldn’t find him. All that he’d left behind was a mess of ashes under the tree she’d last seen him standing by.

  Even now she couldn’t say why, exactly, she’d done it. Heart heavy, she’d gone back indoors. Leaning against the kitchen counters, she wondered about the ash and where Manning was. Maybe he’d come back later, maybe he hadn’t actually left. But something inside told her he was gone.

  Then she spotted the row of old glass jars lined up like soldiers in her cabinet. She picked one up and turned it in her hand, looking at it but not really seeing it. Annabelle turned and went back outside, the jar still in hand. When she reached the tree, she’d twisted open the jar. Scooping the ashes into it, she wondered at her actions.

  The jar sat on her vanity, next to her hairbrush for a month. Every night it was the second thing she saw, after the ceiling. At bedtime, she sat, propped up, staring at it until she fell asleep. It was the only thing of Manning’s she had. It was also a mystery. Where had he gone? Where had the ashes come from? There was no doubt that that is exactly what they were.

  But then after a month passed, she’d seen him again.

  “Hi, I’m Carter. You’re Annabelle, right?”