I Met My Angels – Fiction

I Met My Angels

by Joshua Brown

Okay, so I met my angels tonight. I arrived home a few hours before dawn, feeling positively OK. Lifting the light switch turned my bedroom from dead space looking outward onto a movie set city street into a tidy mess with semi-reflecting glass. The clothes I wore were littered with cast-off dead skin and cast off dead thoughts, some of which belonged to me, none of which belonged to anyone. Into the hamper they went, and were replaced after a brief nakedness by the light blue bathrobe that reminded me I was home. Also light blue was the exposed portion of my bedsheets that covered the Queensize Beautyrest that I was patting myself on my well-supported back for having finally bought. In a pre-shower daze, my six-foot-five inch frame sunk into the Queen’s coils and brown eyes met the stucco of my off-white ceiling. One of my habits, which dates back to childhood, is playing mental Lite Brite with a mountainous bedroom ceiling, trying to come up with interesting pictures. The first attraction (or distraction) I made out was a purple bat, to which I gave a human body. To balance it (another habit), my attention meandered to the other side of the track lighting which dissected the ceiling.

There I happened by a butterfly flitting through daisies which are at once sustenance and an inhibitor to the creature’s flight. To spice things, a galloping horse came onto the stucco Lite Brite scene, with some Marlboro Man-wannabe astride it’s unyielding back, in a snowy mountain range not unlike in the Busch beer advertisement. When the spice eased it’s way into my nostrils like smoke, new pictures fleshed themselves out of their own accord. One of the images was the fucking flowers from Pink Floyd’s The Wall movie. Another was the psychedelic Adam, sans Eve, in the lotus position with every vein luminous with static energy, each spiritual center/chakra along his spine shining like a GE soft white bulb. After Castle Grayskull, sans He-Man, a group of angels, sans wings, projected themselves out of the skull’s left eye and eclipsed all the other moving pictures. They were a host of magenta silhouettes outlines by lime green. Behind them was a florescent lime green trail on the path they’d taken out of the skull’s eye and into focus. When I shut my eyes they and their trail were still there, framed in black. They had a tangible presence, the kind you sense when you know a person is in your proximity, even though you can’t see, hear or smell them.

I asked the angels who they were, mouthing the words silently. After a static test-pattern pause, they sang to me of union by being one. I turned my gaze toward the street lights on the other side of my bedroom’s reflection, making the angels disappear, asking them what they had meant. Banishing the angels from my sight would certainly provide me with no answers, true or false, so I concentrated on the window’s glass until they reappeared. The indications were that this time they had instructions for me. What the angels did was guide me into the bathroom and had me stare at myself nude through angel eyes into the wall-size mirror. What I saw was oversoul resonance transmitted through a grey web of interference trapped by the skin’s pores and knotted muscles, centered on the anus and testes. My tension-trapping vessel turned on the shower faucet and made it’s way under the cascade once the water temp had risen. The angels sprinkled their inexhaustible essence into the water’s beads and baptized me with blood of light. Tiny orb-shaped television screens of random people’s thoughts and actions sulkily made their way out of my body and into the shower drain, like the life of the poor blonde woman in Psycho. Soap, shampoo, then Noxzema shaving cream with aloe all over my face and neck. A double-bladed razor cut pre-callous snakeskin off cheeks, forehead, between eyes and nose. I grabbed the alpha hydroxy and tea tree oil which had softened once acute acne into a dull roar and finally a faint whisper. I first rubbed the green tea tree oil all over my body, including and especially as far up my ass as I could go (I might have had resistance to this idea if I hadn’t seen my tension web pattern so clearly). The gel-like liquid softened more dead skin, fattening the cells for slaughter by the burning white of alpha hydroxy. When I was completely washed and toweled off, the angels showed me my New Skin.