“Hey, is Nathanael there?”
“Yeah, he’s doing his homework.”
There was a hiss on the other end of the phone as wind blew into the speakers; probably the phone was being thrown into Nathan’s room. As expected, there was a thud and the noise of someone scrabbling to pick it up. A second later, Nathanael’s breezy voice muttered an apology for his sister’s lack of care for material things other than her own.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Doing chemistry homework.” He said, sounding bored. “I’ve got like, two more problems to do and then I’m done.”
“Oh. Should I let you go then?”
“Nah, it’s alright, Kris. I can spare a moment to talk.”
Nathanael was my best friend since elementary school. It sounds lame whenever I have to explain this to new people, but that’s just the plain fact. Usually this leads to me showing them a picture of him I keep in my wallet, and then of course, they ask why we’re not going out, and of course this leads to me telling them bluntly, that he is gay. Then the usual comment by the other person is, “Aw, too bad. He’s super cute.”
Which is true. Nathanael is the cutest gay guy I’ve ever known, and he doesn’t show it at all. He wears clothes with stains and holes and he walks with the swagger of a football player. Nobody would guess he’s gay, except those with a critical eye like my mother, who say “he’s just got that look.”
Anyway, I called him because I’m alone in the house with nothing to do.
“Let me guess, you’re parents are out again and there’s nothing on TV.” Nathanael read my mind. “And you’re calling me because you’re bored.”
“Yeah.” I admitted, staring out the window. It’s raining. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah it’s fine.” Nathan laughed. “Stop being shy.”
“Sure. It’s just my nature, it’s not like I can get rid of that easily.”
Nathanael laughed again. He’s the confident one, I’m the shy one. It’s an odd mix, but not that either of us cares. He always tries to get me into the loud and noisy theatre and I always tell him to join a quiet and demure writing club. But he goes to all the writer’s club meetings and I never set foot into the drama hall. It’s just like that.
We got into a conversation for about ten minutes now. He always has something to say because he’s just that cool.
“Don’t let the ghosts get you. I heard your street is haunted.” Nathanael said in his mock-scary voice. “They prey on people that are alone in their houses.”
“Be quiet, I don’t believe in ghosts.” I replied, but take an extra glance around my room.
“Oh what’s that, I hear a creaking noise at the end of the line, I bet it’s some invisible person walking on your floorboards-”
Thunk!
“Oh s***!” The cuss word slipped out of my mouth as I heard something slam against my rooftop. I nearly dropped the phone in surprise.
“What was that?” Nathanael asked, panicked.
“I don’t know, oh crap, it might’ve been a bird…” My heart was beating a million miles per hour. It sounded like a really big bird. “I-I’ll go see. Please don’t go.”
Nathanael doesn’t say anything, but he let me wander over to my window and peer out it. I saw nothing. But I heard something scraping against the shingles like a huge animal.
“I think something’s on my roof, I-I’ll leave the phone on my bed, hold on.” I stammered.
“Okay, tell me what happens.” He said and I shakily placed the phone on my covers.
I opened my window and rain splattered in. I stuck my head out and looked.
Then I gasped.
It was a boy, holding desperately onto the roof for leverage, blood running down a gash on his forehead, staining his porcelain skin and angelic face. His torso was bare, slick with rain and blood, but was wearing white cargo shorts and no shoes. He had cuts streaking all across his body, and ugly bruises were wrung around his neck and one of his eyes as if he was beaten. His untouched deep blue eye was wide and frightened, his golden locks tousled.
But what struck me was that the boy had… wings.
They were probably fifteen feet long in wingspan, the gorgeous white wings sticking out awkwardly for him to keep his balance, but were tainted red and had feathers torn out. The boy looked at me both frightfully and pleadingly, wanting me to help him but also afraid of what I might do.
I gaped, standing there utterly shocked for I don’t know how long. Every cell in my body wanted me to run, but it was as if I could feel the sorrow of this angel emanating from him, and it hit me hard enough that I wanted to cry.
“Come here.” I managed out. “Please, I’ll get you help.”
The boy looked at me with his one good gorgeous blue eye and I felt hot tears roll down my face in the rain. He didn’t look like he was going to move, his arms trembling, and I knew I had to go out and get him.
I pulled myself onto my windowsill and crawled onto the roof, the angel’s despair and pain racking me, and I tried not to slip. He let me approach him. He didn’t say a word, but he held out his hand and I grasped it.
“Come, let’s go to my house. I-I’ll find the first aid kit.” I stuttered, and led him through my window and into my room. I didn’t think his wings would fit, but he pressed them tightly against his back, winced, and staggered in.
I raced over to the phone and pressed it against my ear. “Nathanael, I’ll call you back.” And not waiting for him to protest, I hung up.





---
Covered in my crude bandaging, the boy stood shaking in the center of my carpet.
“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.
He wrapped his arms around himself, his lower lip quivering, and looked at me with his good eye. His sadness was making me cry again, I couldn’t help it. The tears just started falling again.
Then his lips parted, as if to speak, but nothing came out. The angel’s hand drew up to his throat, and he opened his mouth wider, trying to say something, but nothing would come. The boy looked panicked, but just pressed his lips together and grimaced, shaking his head hard.
“Hold on, I’ll be back.” I ran out of my room and grabbed some printer paper in the living room, snatching a pen that was on the table, and then ran back into my room. The boy hadn’t moved, just looking morosely at the floor.
“Here, this will help.” I said, unsteadily handing the writing tools to him. I realized how terrified of him I was right them. The boy looked at me, and then took the pen and paper gingerly, walking over to the wall and placed the paper up against it.
He scrawled something and showed it to me.

I’ve lost my voice.

I don’t know where it went.
I looked at the bruises around his neck, and dreaded what happened to him.
He wrote something else.

I’m looking for Mishael Nicolas
“I don’t know who they are.” I said, and winced as another sickening wave of despair radiated from him. “I’m sorry.”

I’m supposed to find him.

Please help me.
He looked at me pleadingly, and that urgency emitted from him made my heart twist. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t say no to this beautiful angel.
“I will help.” I said softly. “Who sent you here?”

My Father.
“What happened to you?” I dared to ask.
The boy’s hand quivered over the paper, and a single tear slid down and rolled down his cheek, dripping onto my floor. He crumpled the paper into his hand and shook his head, then looked at me.
‘Bad things.’ He mouthed.