Mon Ange

What year had it been?

Ah, it ‘twas circa 1941.

Forgive me; my memory, it rusts.

All these fragmented pieces float about, bouncing against my cranium, wreaking havoc on my mind. Now it is all but a haze. Foggy dreams and nightmares I wish had stayed in planes of fiction. Even now, as I sit on these polished floors that are soiled by blood, I try to open my eyes, hoping to find I was truly in some labyrinth of a hallucination. Oh, but I hear them. Far too close—far too real for any hallucination. For my last moments, I’ll allow myself to wander the wrinkled pages of this journal, scribbling the hopes and fears that have led to my inevitable demise.

***

“Mon petit ange…”

Those words repeated again and again, falling past my lips in quiet grace as I slicked the floors with soapy water. The grip I had on that mop was almost punishing, my fingers curling around, nails biting back into the flesh of my palms. Pain was nonexistent to me in that moment.

It was a miserable day, as were the past few weeks leading up to said day. Suffering through poverty, recently divorced, and the remains of my miscarriage fusing with the soil in the back gardens, my condition could only be described as forsaken.

I couldn’t provide him with a child. He’d stolen my heart and carried me from France, nestling us in the suburbs of the industrializing States, only to toss me aside when I was no longer of service. With the weekly allowance I’d been so humbly bestowed with during our years of union, I managed my way into a creaky, molding apartment in the city. Days had never been rougher, food never more scarce, and with money running out, it seemed I’d have to bus tables or forfeit my body to man.

Setting down that mop was difficult. From the lofty heights of my home to the deepest depths, bubbly suds cleansed the building of all its impurities. Yet I remained, my womb barren and my heart ravaged. While running my fingers down reflective counters, my attention fell upon a limp newspaper. I didn’t purchase this; my wages burned out. Even to this day, I’m burdened with the confusion of how it came into my possession. Perhaps gusty winds swept it up and carried it through my ajar window. The possibility of that was far too slim, but it was all I could manage to settle upon.

Flipping through the unsaturated pages, my eyes fell upon an advert.

“DARLING DREAMERS: REUNITE WITH YOUR DARLING TODAY”

Curiosity consumed me, my eyes tracing the lines to follow with a certain—almost deranged precision. This company claimed to grant you one more chance with a loved one, living or deceased.

Deceased?

The compiled madness of the previous weeks surged through my veins. Could I meet the child the Lord had withheld from me?

No. Surely, it was impossible. Merely as the advert stated: a darling dream.

I set it down, instead carrying myself to my bedroom, struggling to find any solace in sleep.

As evening pressed on into the stormiest of nights, thunder awoke me from my slumber. I couldn’t ease myself back to sleep. I paced the apartment, aimlessly barefoot with a fury of puzzling thoughts. I could feel it—desperation gnawing away at my resolve.

Circling back to the kitchen, my hands found their way to the newspaper advertisement.

Reunite with your darling today.

How those words etch into your brain, imprint into your being, urging you to feed into their trickery. The more I reread, the more I tried convincing myself this was a sham. And such the coincidence, the cost was but my last few dollars. So tantalizing, so deceitful.

And yet there I was mere moments later, pushing through a thunderstorm in my nightgown with the newspaper clenched in my fist, seeking out the address in the advert.

As I arrived, all the hellish rain came to a sudden halt. I remembered how quiet it was. The streets were empty, lined with perfectly symmetrical trees. Sharp, iron-wrought fences boxed in the building. The creaking of its stone foundation irked me to my bones. Even as terror replaced curiosity, my legs carried me up the steps, and my hand rapped against the splintering wooden doors.

Light illuminated from the bottom of the doors. The clicking and sliding of a dozen locks could be heard from within before the entry gradually opened up. A man stood behind the threshold. It appeared he was wearing a standardized uniform. A butler, perhaps?

He stepped aside, guiding me into the lobby. It was plush, with warm lights overhead and fancy velvet furniture littered throughout the room. I was shown to a seat and told to be patient as he then left. Patience had never been an obstacle of mine. I had waited every day of my life to meet my child; what was a few minutes? Unfortunately, the few minutes I had presumed it would be turned into hours. I busied myself, glossing over magazines, adjusting my rain-soaked hair, and lastly surveying the room for anything that validated the company’s promises.

My eyes fell upon a pale, red door. It was an eyesore against the yellow wallpaper. It appeared to be heavy, with a round doorknob that led to God knows where. Before I could reach for the doorknob, I heard a deep voice emerge from behind.

“Miss?”

I stumbled away from the door, embarrassed. “O-Oh, I’m so sorry,” even my words falling over one another as I stuttered out a response. He simply smiled, soft lines creasing his skin.

His strides were long as he neared, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his gaze with feigned confusion.

“Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so,” I answered honestly. I had no recollection of the man. Certainly, I would have remembered if I had seen the tall gentleman before, especially one with as handsome a face as his.

The man took my hand, a slight flush warming my cheeks. It had been far too long since I’d felt the touch of another. He guided me down the hallway he had emerged from. With a glance back, I watched as that pale, red door blurred out of sight.

We arrived in a fairly sized room. The walls were concrete gray, cracks slithering up the corners. A small window, positioned high over the bed, moonlight pouring in and creating some sort of tranquil safety. It would be an understatement to say I was enamored with my surroundings. There I was, drowning, not realizing air had escaped my lungs. Sinking, not realizing the lifeboat had abandoned me. And just below were awaiting jaws ready to swallow me whole.

My hands ran over my hair. I must’ve looked crazy. No sane person trudges through a thunderstorm with their last bit of savings and dimmed hopes.

“This will be your room.” He began casually, sitting in an armchair across from the bed. My eyes scanned the room, confusion arising.

“Pardon?”

“We like to make sure our guests are completely satisfied before sending them out into the world, so you’ll be here for as long as we see fit,” he explained as I perched upon the bed.

“How exactly does this work? Is it witchcraft? Is this all a ruse to get my money?”

A sound chuckle left his lips at my theories.

“No, madam. I can assure you this is all logical. No witchcraft; rather, it’s science,” he spoke.

I pondered on that, his words tossing around in my head. “Science?”

“Yes. Are you looking to reunite with the living or deceased?” he questioned.

“My child. Technically, she was never living or deceased. I miscarried.” I grasped my stomach, as if hoping to find my baby still curled up inside me, instead of the lump of cells discarded in my backyard. “Can you still bring her back? Her father isn’t in the picture anymore. Will that be an issue?” If so, this will have all been useless. Mon petit ange will remain trapped in fantasies.

“No, actually. All we need is the DNA of one parent, and that should suffice.”

He stood up, his tan trench coat falling around his calves. In a swift motion, there he was, in front of my face, gently raking his fingers through my hair. “One strand?” He asked, making his own answer and ripping hair from my scalp. I gasped, clutching the side of my head, my meticulously kept hair now slightly more sparse.

The man extracted a small bag from one of his many pockets and placed my hair strands inside. “And now the money?” He gestured to my coin pouch, harshly clasped between my fingers. I reluctantly handed him what would’ve been my last month of rent and next week of groceries. Finally, he gave me a paper to sign. “We just need your signature. As I said, you’ll stay with us for as long as we please.”

I took the pen he pulled from his pocket and swirled my name in cursive.

“Excuse me, sir?” I caught him as he began for the door. His back remained turned to me, but I continued with my question, “What’s your name?” I asked, needing to know who to thank for my hypothetical daughter.

“Howard Sterling, Miss. But just Howard is fine,” he replied curtly, showing himself to the door.

That was the last time I saw Howard for at least eight years.

The next months were accompanied by anticipation.

It was silly of me to think my daughter would’ve come within that day. But to wait months? Skepticism chipped away at the faith I placed in this company. I walked empty halls every day, in wonder of where the other customers were. Howard was gone for as far as I knew, and the staff would only visit thrice a day to feed me. I was miserable.

One evening as I roamed the frigid, colorless halls, I saw a woman. I called out, watching her turn to me, her hair frazzled and her face hollow. She smiled, as though it were her first time seeing another in weeks as well.

We wore the same plain nightgown, or hair grown out to the same lengths; even our insanity seemed identical. A looming fear brewed, trying to determine if I was staring at a reflection or not. Though I don’t remember having blonde hair.

Before my terror could set in, another voice called. A man ran over to us, the same look inscribed into his face. And then another. And another, until the halls were crammed with people crying for joy, the glee overwhelming as we all realized we weren’t alone.

Elaine was the name of the first woman. She and I grew very close. She’d spent every last dime to see her husband again. Then there was Charles, and Miranda, and—Even now I laugh, reminiscing on the times we all shared.

Good times. Good, good times.

Our friendships were formed within a few days. Those days before them.

One morning, as I wandered into the Outing Area, I heard crying. I wasn’t sure if it was pain, distress, or something else. I opened the doors into the wide expanse of the garden to find Elaine crying in the arms of a large, burly man.

My voice caught in my throat, squeezing out all the air. I swiveled my head around a dozen times, seeing couples forming and families building.

“Maman?”

My heart, how it swelled. All of the years of yearning for her. And there she was. To my right was a young girl, with a round, pale face and trimmed hair that curled towards the sun at the ends.

Mon petit ange…

“Mon petit ange!” I shouted, running for her, embracing her with no intent to let go. I sobbed, breathing her in. Familiarizing myself with her scent, grabbing her face to know her features. And she was there. All mine. She had my eyes, my nose, my hair. She was me. Entirely. And I promised to love her every minute of every day.

How else could I describe the next eight years as anything other than pure bliss?

Every day I whispered a new word in our mother tongue.

Pomme. Apple.

Fleur. Flower.

Mon petit ange. My little angel.

I believed wholeheartedly that she was nothing but a lifeline from God himself.

Perhaps I should have gotten her baptized.

Wind pounded against the window, tree branches scratching their spindly fingers together. That night, sleep seemed impossible. My eyes had been shut for hours, wrestling with my sheets to find the dreamworld, but it was all in vain. I groggily opened my eyes, pushing myself upright, when I saw her. There, in the corner, shadows veiling her face.

It was unsettling, her figure swaying in the dark.

“Mon petit ange?” I reached out my hand, urging her to follow me back to her bed. Her sways ceased into statue-like stillness. Steadily, I went to her side, grabbing her small hand and leading her to her own bed. I tucked her in extra tight, the shimmer in her eyes calming my heart.

I kissed her forehead that night, and thought I slayed demons.

But Satan was still lurking.

I assumed she had been influenced by her growing imagination, maybe imitating the legends she reads in all those books. It wasn’t only her suffering from this strangeness.

Charles’ son was found scratching so deep into his skin he bled. Ophelia’s sister gnawed at her arm, damaging her skin.

And the worst came when Elaine’s husband was caught feasting upon bird carcasses.

“Thomas!” She yelled, people stepping back in fear. Disgusted groans filled the air; the man latched onto the small animal no signs of stopping.

“You sick bastard—” Miranda shouted at him, looking for her own husband to cling onto. And she found him, sure. Arising from the bushes with a helpless bunny in his jaws. An older man in the back hurled, Miranda fainting at that moment.

One by one, more people appeared, devouring anything they could get their grimy hands on. Immediately, I began calling out for my daughter. I just hoped she was safe and nowhere near the filthy mouth of those rabid—

“Mon petit ange.” My voice was barely a hushed breath leaving my lips.

There she was, her face buried in the remains of a squirrel.

The world fell sideways, my entire body trembling.

My weak legs launched me towards her, a fury suddenly taking control. This couldn’t be. Simply a young child acting out. I fought to get this girl a thousand days of my life; I wouldn’t allow this single incident to have her swept away from me.

My hand wrapped around her arm, hoisting her off of the dead animal. I shouted words I can’t remember, swore in French after reprimanding her for it a thousand times, and tried to push past the crowd of onlookers.

I yelped abruptly, pulling my arm away. She bit me. She really bit me.

The mark on my arm reddened, painted by her bloodied mouth. A strangled gasp fell from my mouth. She smacked her mouth, licking her fingers.

This wasn’t my baby.

No, she was a hollow clone possessed by the Devil.

The entire garden broke into frantic screams as people tried to flee the monstrous versions of their loved ones. She lunged at me, swift on her feet. I kicked her off, her jaw nearly unhinging to get to me. Flight came to me after the initial panic, and I sprinted back inside. The halls were already a bloodied mess. For once, color lit up the walls. Why’d it have to be crimson?

The halls were long, spiraling, and never-ending. I found myself entering rooms I’d never seen before in all my eight years of confinement. Bodies littered the grounds as I maneuvered around them. All of these people waited almost a decade to meet their ruin.

“Maman?”

I cried, her voice projecting down halls. She was everywhere at once, calling for me, searching for me. And she sounded so scared. She sounded like my darling. Mon petit ange.

But as my eyes found her at the end of the hall, I could see the fright I’d heard was hunger in disguise. She came down the halls at inhuman speeds. I frantically scrambled for the door at the end of the corridor, a faded ruby color, before pushing into it and slamming it closed behind me.

Everything stopped.

My chest heaved, and my clothes were drenched in… Not blood, but water. I was soaking. Rain pattered against the windows outside, and it all came back to me.

A gorgeous man in a trench coat too long approached. He tilted his head and squinted.

“Have we met before?”