Being Human

Mortal Desire

 Chapter 1

Mortal Desire

    She watched as her mother tried to wake her up, to no avail. Her mother froze, disbelief washing up all over her pinched and gray face. Slowly, she sank on the armchair next to the bed. Her baby, her one and only daughter…..

      “She can’t see me?” The daughter asked me, watching her mother start to cry.

      “No. Neither can she see me,” I replied quietly, watching her face intently. Her face showed no pity or pain, nor did she try to struggle and go back into her mortal body. She just stood next to me. For a fifteen-year old who had so much promise and a great future for her, she seemed like she didn’t want to go back to her mortal life at all.

      “But I can see them.”

      She watched her life play in front of her eyes. As much as I hated this aspect of my job, sometimes this part is interesting. So much life to see, to understand, to feel…Father knows-and He knows it indeed-that I had always wanted to know how it feels to feel. As an angel, I don’t feel the heat of the sun, the coldness of the rain, the rampage of the wind, and most especially those human emotions of love and hate. I can’t-and for several eons none of us have-feel these emotions, primarily because I’m not human. I look like one, but I am not. I just look like (as humans would put it) a glorious partygoer in the most realistic costume ever. 

      I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t asked Father why I can’t feel like humans do. One time, I caught up with him as He was taking his leisurely walks in one of the gardens in Paradise, and as I neared Him He let out a soft chuckle.

     “You’re not letting that go, are you, my dear?”

      I stopped in my tracks, mystified.

     “Yes, I know all about your curiosity with the human feelings. Emile has told me much; you are curious so as to why you can’t feel like humans do.”

     “Well, Father.” I followed Him as He walked, trying to match His stride.  “Did Emile also tell you that I told him I cannot understand why he is so honest all the time? And that there was also a time when-“

      Father laughed. “You and Emile provide Heaven with the most innocent of conversations that take up a lot of-what do humans call it?-“brain cells” to process. Why, just now some teenager threw her hands up in frustration as she was doing her paper, because she cannot process how the characters in her story can be so greedy. And yet here you are, wondering how it feels to feel like a human would when most of my beloved creations wish they’re not feeling anything….”

      “But I’m not human. Being here has emphasized that as much.”

      Father paused to smell a purple rose. “And you don’t like being here?”

     “I do, Father. It’s just that….I think there would be more to being human than to being an angel.”

   I trailed off, thinking of what I just said. I watched Father rummage through His clothes as he took out some clippers and clipped at the tiny thorns sticking out of the rose’s stem. Father loved gardening. “It is here where I have my own patch of beautiful Earth, Earth before it started being the way it is today, “He always told me wistfully. That is one more reason why I wanted to know how it feels to feel like a human. What is it with these humans that Father always forgave them for whatever they did, and just listened to whatever they were ranting about even if it was so senseless? If that was me I would probably go down there and find a way to hit them with a shovel or something.

    Yes, I know, I am so un-angelic.

    “Humans, my dear,” Father said, interrupting my reverie, “are manifestations of Myself in different identities, in different minds and hearts. I know you see My creation as something so shallow at times. You cannot understand why a woman cries about a man, why an honor student cries about failures, or why some people cannot seem to use My gifts of talents and freedom to good use. You find it hard to believe that I am in each and every one of them-“

    “Well, I don’t think you’d cry over a burnt cookie,” I muttered.

     He smiled. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But you wonder so much about how it feels to basically be like them, yet you cannot accept their thinking at times. I am not wrong in saying that you are contradicting your own beliefs about them by wanting to be them, yes?

     I shrugged. “I just want to know how it feels to be like the rest of Your creations. Angels are always so elevated. Sometimes I think the world sees us as myths and not realities. We can’t seem to be wrong, and we always have to be so impartial in everything. Father, why can’t we feel like humans do?”

     His reply struck me. “You’re messengers of Heaven, my dear. In a place like this we can’t afford to be partial to the mortals’ mistakes and pains.”

     I snapped out of my reverie and looked at the teenager again. She was staring at me intently. “What?” I asked her.

     “I want to be an angel,” she said boldly, clearly.

     I started to walk away, holding her hand. “No you can’t. “

     She frowned, confused. “Why?”

     “Because being an angel…well, why don’t we just ask my friend? He’s here anyway.”

     Emile stood with a disapproving look on his face. “Really now, giving me this job to explain to her why she cannot be an angel-not at least right away. How nice of you, really!”

     I grinned apologetically. I moved away as Emile approached the girl, and reasoned with her as to why she can’t become an angel yet. She protested and protested, but Emile only listened to her rants with an impassive, even languorous, face, and answered in a polite but distinctively monotonous manner.

     “You can’t be one, not just yet. You will have to wait,” he replied to the girl, watching her.

       She just stared at him, frustrated. “Are you sure you’re an angel? You don’t sound so angelic. That’s not something God would say to anyone! And you’re supposed to be His messengers!”

      She stalked off, muttering under her breath. She gave me a brief look which to me meant like she’d hit me if she could. I wonder how that feels…that feeling of wanting to hit someone….

     “Fascinating,” a voice muttered. I turned around to see Emile, watching me with an annoyed expression on his face. “An angel, wondering how it feels to get so mad your eyes would cross and your hands would clench into fists and-“

     “Emile. I get it. You don’t like me wondering why things are such.”

     “Louis, hasn’t Father explained that to you already? We have to be impartial but not heartless because we’re a part of Heaven, where souls are judged, where the right is upheld greatly above the wrong. No matter how much morality the soul has, or lack thereof, we still have to see things without emotions playing with our decisions. We can’t afford to be biased because of personal experiences, Louis. We simply can’t. “

     I knew he was right, but what if I tried? What if I actually tried to get mad or happy or sad?

     Or even to love?