Chapter 1

I first met my guardian angel when I was ten years old.

Like any other day, I woke up at seven a.m. sharp and bolted out of the house soon after; I never spent much time there, not when it was an empty shell. My mother worked two jobs to keep us clothed and housed, leaving our home devoid of much warmth. That morning, I threw on my ripped backpack and cut through yards, jaywalking across streets, all in the hope of getting to school so I could grab a hot breakfast.

I remember clutching my belly. My stomach growled, a gnawing pain twisting through me from not eating dinner the night before. It was so distracting that when I crossed the street, I didn’t look both ways like the idiot kid I was. I never saw the bus coming.

When you die, there isn’t much pain, just an ethereal numbness that spreads from head to toe, and a peaceful acceptance that your soul is becoming one with something greater. Regret did not exist on this plane, nor did the guilt of leaving my loving mother behind. I accepted that I was dying.

Of course, this lasted only a moment before the bright light overcame my vision.

The smell of olive oil and wine hit me first, scents I didn’t recognize at the time but now are as comforting as the scent of my mother’s perfume. Along with the smell was the softest touch against my arm, one that sent goosebumps up my skin and shivers down my spine. For a moment, I had touched heaven.

Then a snap–the exact sound I always hear when Peter snatches me back from death–brought me back to Earth. Screams followed the snap. Some of them were my own, some from the kids at the bus stop who had just watched me die. I ended up in the hospital for a month, with two broken legs that still give me twinges of pain when it rains.

But even so, I still remember waking up from death with a gasp, lying on the hard asphalt and swearing I saw a glimpse of a man bathed in golden light, radiating the warmth and love I had always dreamed of receiving.

That was the first time I met him.

When I was sixteen, I was a rebel. I would take any stupid bet my friends made for some quick cash. The stupidest thing I ever tried to do was to backflip off a Wendy’s roof for free burgers for a month; not my proudest moment, but I was a hungry teenager and there wasn’t much food at home.

I recall the peace of jumping off–the wind tousling my hair, and the weightlessness as I flew. That calmness lasted only a moment before the excruciating pain of my neck snapping replaced it. In less than a second, I was once again dead. I felt the same floating sensation I had when I was ten, along with the acceptance of death, until the scent of expensive wine flooded my nose.

My guardian angel had arrived to save me once more, and this time, I caught sight of him in all his divine glory. His form was beyond my human vocabulary; he was stunning in the same way as the sun setting over an ocean horizon, all colorful, bright, and never-ending. The sort of beauty that hurt if you stared too long. For as long as I live, I will never forget the warmth of divinity welcoming my soul back to the mortal realm, nor will I forget the sight of my guardian angel holding me in his arms.

After that, I could always see my guardian angel.

With my guardian now a constant presence in my life, I named him Peter. Maybe it’s a little stupid, but we were at a Wendy’s and he had saved my life yet again. Peter Pan and Wendy seemed like a great duo. I thought he deserved a name. I still do.

When I was nineteen, I joined the military, and Peter and I became closer. Cops had pulled me over for drinking and driving with my buddies on the back roads. Between my mother’s tears and my guilt at upsetting her, the whole mess scared me straight. Not long after, I enlisted for five years in the United States Navy. It was easily the best and worst decision of my entire life.

During my time in the service, there wasn’t a day Peter wasn’t trying to save my life. The military deployed me twice during that time, for over two years altogether. As lucky as I was, the Navy trained me as a power plant technician, and I spent more time repairing machinery near danger than I ever expected. I saw more combat zones than I should have, including stray bullets grazing our vehicles and bombs dropped within miles of where I was working. Nightmares plagued me until I confessed them to Peter.

Throughout it all, I had Peter. Peter has never spoken, but he never had to; I didn’t need words to understand him. After all, actions speak louder than words. My guardian would comfort me with dream-filled sleep, thoughts of heaven and what awaited me after this mortal plane. He’d listen to me rant for hours on end, all with a peaceful smile on his face and eyes crinkled with love and adoration. He’d nod, laugh, and weep with me; the perfect companion for someone who needed a shoulder to cry on.

I like to think he enjoyed my company back then as much as I enjoyed his. From what I gathered from all my years of research and endlessly questioning Peter, (who could only nod and gesture) humans seeing, let alone communicating with their guardian angels, is unheard of. I guess I got lucky, especially because when I asked Peter if heaven allowed such a thing, he didn’t seem too keen on admitting that it didn’t.

His rebellion brought a smile to my face. Whether I realized it or not, the two of us were troublemakers from the get-go. In the end, it makes sense that I found myself falling in love with him.

I confessed one night under the stars, with the warmth of Peter against my side and his wing folded behind my back. Even now, I still revel in the shock and hope I saw in his gaze in that moment and in the way he accepted my love.

After I confessed, my life turned around. I assume Peter pulled some strings for me because after two miserable deployments I was granted an early honorable discharge.

Soon after my release, I secured a job working for the government, which offered a decent retirement plan. I even had enough money to support my mother, who eventually became comfortable herself after some mystery person set her up on a blind date. The date turned into her marriage to a loving husband who worked as a professor of religion at the local university. I have more than a few sneaking suspicions that Peter had something to do with that.

He helped me find my wife. A translucent golden feather of his, floating on the wind, led me to my Jeanie, a stunning Greek woman with a heart as pure as Peter’s soul. She was a pediatric nurse, an incredible cook, and more loving than any human should have the right to be. I fell hard and fast, and we were married within a year.

Peter was more than smug when she revealed she was a Catholic. Although I had never been much of a church-goer, I didn’t mind going for her. And I certainly wasn’t opposed after I saw the way Peter would look at me when I did go; I think he gets some kind of sick pleasure out of seeing me on my knees in church every week.

After this, I became a devout Catholic, though I never felt the love for God that I did for Peter. I attended Mass every week, though it was more to spend time with Peter than with Christ, and my wife fell more in love with me as I became more spiritual. Of course, poor Jeanie, I don’t think I could ever love her as much as I love him.

I even named my firstborn son after Peter, who glowed so brightly in the delivery room when he realized what we had named the baby that it broke all the lightbulbs in the delivery ward. In time, Jeanie and I had a second child, a daughter, and we’ve raised our happy family for over a decade, watching our children grow into fine, respectable teenagers.

Of course, heaven on Earth can’t last forever.

Everything started going downhill one morning at church, when I directed my prayers to Peter instead of God. It had been a long time coming; honestly, I don’t know why it took me so long to thank Peter for saving my life and giving it meaning.

After all, what had God done for me? It was Peter who saved me, not him. And with the way Peter had glowed, his wings spreading wide as he soaked up my worship, how could I say no?

Soon I was praying to Peter at every Mass, and weekly Mass became daily. Worship became an obsession. I prayed only to Peter, thanking him for every good in my life. At first, I knew he liked it. He glowed so lovely when I worshiped him as if he were God.

Several months into my worship, I was kneeling beside my bed reciting prayers to Peter when a shaky hand touched my shoulder. He tried to stop me, begging me with those speechless chirps and pleading eyes, but all it did was infuriate me. I blamed God. I knew someone had spoken to Peter, that God had sent down another angel to tell Peter that he was not deserving of my love. All his pleas did was make me pray harder, clutching my rosary as if it were my only lifeline to Peter.

The next Sunday, I noticed the consequences of my sins.

During Communion, I whispered my thanks to Peter and drank from the chalice. For the first time, the Blood of Christ tasted like blood. Metallic, thick, with none of the sweet tang that I had always swallowed so eagerly. I ignored the blood-wine in favor of reciting my prayers, hoping that I was mistaken. My hopes didn’t last long. The week after that, I received the host and tasted spoiled meat on my tongue. I rushed to the restrooms to retch the taste of human flesh from my mouth.

It has been several months since then, and things have only worsened.

Peter is loath to leave my side, but every time he does, he comes back battered and bruised. On Easter, when I celebrated the resurrection of Christ with my congregation and family, I didn’t notice that Peter had slipped away; I was too busy praying to him to notice his absence. When I left the church, I couldn’t stop my smile from falling or the horrified gasp that escaped me in front of my family when I caught sight of my beloved Peter.

Whatever had attacked Peter had not been merciful. He stumbled up to me with patches of his beautiful feathers missing, and his toga torn open at the side to reveal three scratch marks that looked as though some hulking beast twice his size had tried to drag him into the ground. I openly wept at the sight of him, tears streaming down my face while my family tried to make sense of my mental break.

That day outside of church wasn’t the last time we encountered those beings. No matter how much I prayed to God to send them away, they always returned. At first, it was only holidays, then only Sundays, and now they are by my side every day. I’m not certain if they’re demons, angels, or something beyond my comprehension. I’m too afraid to ask Peter. I can never get a good enough look at them; it’s as though they’re constantly on the edge of my vision.

The beings follow me to work. Tap, tap, tap. They sit on the roof of my car, their claws visible out of the corner of my eye as they scratch my windows. At first, I thought I was crazy, until my wife pointed out the scratch marks left on the tinted windows of our car.

Most nights I lie awake, listening to the tapping at my window.

Tap, tap, tap. They’re out there tonight, waiting, listening. They haven’t entered my home, not yet, not with Peter here. I suppose I should be grateful that God has not harmed my family; after all, they are only victims in my affair against our Lord.

Today, I’m writing this as one last-ditch effort to save him, to save us. My son and daughter are asleep upstairs, and my wife is working the night shift at the hospital, so it’s just Peter and me awake. As I look at him now, I can only hope he can forgive me for only ceasing to pray when those beasts began hunting me.

His feathers are gone. Only wing stumps remain where his gold-dipped feathers once shone, stripped raw to a hideous purple and blue. His long hair has been pulled out by the roots, whether by himself or those things, I’m uncertain.

Peter’s body is not in much better condition. Scratch marks run down his arms and chest, some gouged so deep that I swear I can see bone. I’m not sure; I get sick if I stare too long. Similar red marks litter his face, ugly things that make my eyes water every time I look at him. Worst of all, he offers me the same devastated look, as if I’m the one branded with the scars of our sins.

Tap, tap, tap.

There’s something outside tonight, and Peter won’t stop staring out the window. Whatever it is, it’s here for me. The sinking in my gut and Peter’s sad eyes are all the clues I need, though the recent attacks should have been enough.

Perhaps I was wrong about why Peter stays; maybe he really is here to protect me. In the end, Peter won’t leave, no matter how much I beg him or ask him to go. I’m afraid he loves me just as much as I love him. Whatever happens, I can't forgive myself if something happens to him.

God, please tell me how to help him! If anyone knows what to do or whom I can contact, please tell me. I will even ask the Lord for forgiveness, only if it means I can save Peter.

I’d do anything for Peter.

Tap, tap, tap.

Anything.