The Story of the Boy
Michael. Eighteen years of age. Sixth son of Raphael and Elisabeth D’Angelo. Of the two ways to end up here, his arrival is by the worse of the options. When his parents were young, they agreed to give up their sixth born son if only their forbidden love could be allowed to happen. The pair probably never planned on having six kids. Venus doesn’t let people cheat her like that, though. The price agreed upon is always paid.
The worst part about this kind of agreement is that the kid has no say in it. They don’t know what they’re getting into. Lost, clueless, and eternally damned. It’s a horrible fate to endure.
The other way of ending up here is not much better. Selling your own soul. Venus is the demon of love, so for those who did sell their souls, it was not for a selfish reason. For most of them, it was to save to one the love. Granted, there are exceptions to every generalization.
I finish skimming through the file. It mentions Michael’s rebellious nature, his stubborn disposition, and his rather insane tendencies. I sigh. “You are going to get me killed, aren’t you?”
He just whimpers some more in his sleep, completely unaware of the fact that I’m even here. I go back downstairs into the kitchen, heating up a bowl of water and grabbing several washcloths.
I pull Michael’s shirt up, dip the cloth in the warm water, and begin to wash off the blood on his back. A knock at the door interrupts me in my task.
“Come in,” I call.
“I need you to open the door for me, Cassie,” Richard replies.
I sigh and return the rag to the bowl before doing as he requests. He enters the room, a tray of food in his hands.
“Em can’t break away from the kitchen so she sent me with some food.” His eyes find the file in the chair. “Yours was thicker.”
For the thousandth time, I apologize to him.
He rolls his eyes. “There’s no need to apologize when I’ve never been mad at you.”
I don’t know how that statement can possibly be true. After all the trouble I got Richard into when I first got here… I don’t know if I would be able to forgive me in his place.
His eyes roam over Michael’s unconscious figure and he shakes his head sadly. “Did Emily tell you what happened to him?”
“She was too horror stricken to say much.”
He nods, understanding. He passes me the tray which contains a bowl of soup, a piece of buttered toast, a glass of water, and silverware. Then he moves over to Michael, sliding the shirt up the rest of the way. Two small, bloodied bumps protrude, one each in between his spine and his shoulder blades.
“What are those?” I can’t help but ask.
“They were wings. Venus had Emily cut them off. I’m pretty sure the only thing that could have been worse for him would have been if Emily had castrated the poor kid.”
I shudder, finally realizing where that horrible scream had come from. “So what is he, then? He can’t be a fallen angel, can he? He has parents.”
Richard shrugs. “Probably some sort of half-breed. You’ll have to ask him, assuming he lives.”
“He had better or I’m screwed.”
“Good luck, Cassie. You’re going to need it.”
Don’t I know it.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, heading out.
I set the tray on the dresser, take the toast, and dip it into the meatball soup. The food doesn’t take me long to finish and I resume my previous task. Michael whimpers again as I wash the blood away.
“Hush. You’ll live,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me.
I finish the job and pick up his file again, realizing I need to actually read it. Not skim it. Maybe it mentions something about what he is.
Expelled from two high schools. Suspended three times this year alone. I can’t really judge him. At least he’s trying to graduate. Or was, until he ended up here. I sort of gave up on school when I turned fourteen.
I don’t even recall falling asleep and have no idea what time it is when a slew of swear words wake me up.
“Morning, sunshine,” I mumble over at him, rubbing my eyes sleepily. My eyes roam around the room, looking for a clock. I find a digital one on the wall behind me. Four am.
He moans and swears some more. “Where the hell am I?”
“Watch you language,” I murmur. “And don’t move. You’re going to hurt yourself.”