isthisreal
New Member
Firstly, a little about the plot;
Mark Scott is obsessed with angels. Ever since he first spotted one when he was a child, he has been convinced that angels exist, and he wants to prove it. He spends every waking moment thinking about angels. However, Mark will soon learn that following this obsession so extensively can only lead to misery and danger. All in all, this is a story about how one man's fixation, obsession and addiction can turn him insane and put his entire life in jeopardy.
This is the prologue;
When Mark was twelve, he saw an angel.
It hovered above his bed at first, dancing , bobbing and weaving around the beams of sunlight that cut through his window and pierced the otherwise dark room. It taunted him, invited him to come closer. His mother always told him that the medication he was taking made him drowsy, and therefore he was still half asleep , half-dreaming, when he first laid eyes on the figure.
Yet he knew different. Nobody else knew what his migraines felt like. They severely hampered his eyesight, rocked his senses, made him disorientated and put him into a constant state of pain, a pain like no other. Mark often imagined what the pain would look like if it was embodied – he visualised a black creature, with long gangly arms and a hideous, contorted face, something more at home in a comic book – and whenever a migraine took hold, he would imagine this beast on top of him, smothering every limb to the point of not being able to move, able to breath, able to function in the slightest. He thought of the monster inside him, attacking his brain, his heart, his soul. Such thoughts scared Mark. They scared him because the migraines would never go away. Because they were constant, infinite, always there, always attacking. Sometimes they would lessen, and be nothing more than a nuisance, and in these instances Mark would play, or read, or learn. But when they took over, he could do nothing more than lie, and wait for the storm to pass.
But when Mark opened his eyes on that hot July morning, and wasn't greeted by a numbing pain or a blinding flash of white light, and was instead greeted by the delicate little figure of an angel, he knew something was different. It took him a while to realise – the pain was gone. He was fine. No headache, no migraine, nothing. And at that moment, Mark knew this angel had saved him. From then on, he believed that he was close to death, that the pain was going to swallow him once and for all, but instead, just when he needed it, this beautiful angel had arrived and stopped all the suffering, all the pain. He wouldn't get another migraine for many years.
The angel had saved his life.
**
When Mark was sixteen, he felt an angel.
He, along with some other local lads, would often sneak up onto the roof of the local housing flats, about 3 storeys above the ground, and play football, or basketball, or hockey. On this cold Novembers evening, they had just finished an overly long game of football, and Mark was exhausted. When he sat down for a breather, he thought about how he hated this – how he didn't like being inside with his mother, how he felt forced to come out and play with people who were barely more than strangers, how he should be somewhere else doing something bigger, something better, something exciting. He always felt that he was destined for greater things, but he just didn't know what those things were yet. A great frustration was building up inside of him, and he knew it wasn't healthy to live with such a deep unrest.
It was this same day he decided to let out some of that frustration. He stood up, ready to play, or battle, again, and called for the ball. The ball found its way to Mark, yet he had barely started running with it when he was rushed by one of the bigger guys, Jimmy. Jimmy had a reputation for being rough on the field, and this day, he seemed intent to prove it. He crashed into Mark, knocked him down to the ground and sped off again, the ball between his feet.
Mark could never piece together exactly what it was that happened next – it all seemed to occur in a series of pictures, rather than one long sequence in which we typically view life. He knew he got up, ran behind Jimmy, threw his legs out to trip him – then there was blood. Shouting. Screaming. More blood. The angry, red face of Jimmy. He felt a punch in his gut which robbed him of air, then one to his face which knocked him back. He felt more punches, pushes, kicks, the frantic rushing of schoolboys to break up this chaos and restore some normality – but it was too late. Mark had tripped Jimmy, and Jimmy was pissed. He still couldn't picture it to this day, yet whenever he thought back to this moment, he felt another punch amidst the rush. He slipped on the gravel beneath him, and then, in that spit-second, suddenly came to his senses. He was right next to the edge of the roof, and one misstep here, or one slip, or one more punch, would surely knock him off to his death.
That one more punch came. But the fall did not. In all of the madness that had occurred in the past couple of moments, one thing was certain, clear, concise. Because as Mark toppled back, and saw the sky above him suddenly come into view, and heard the gasps of his team mates and the cursing of Jimmy, he felt a pair of arms underneath him. A pair of arms that held him, lifted him, bought him back to the roof. The arms, as suddenly as they made contact, filled his whole body with a warmth, a warmth that immediately soothed him, calmed him and sent him into a deep sleep.
Some people said that it was Robbie who grabbed Mark and stopped him falling. Some people said it was Alex. The two boys argued about it for days - maybe even weeks - on end, both wanting to be known as the local hero until some other story caught the attention of the group. Mark always knew the truth. It was an angel. An angel had caught him, brought him back to life, back to consciousness. Everyone else ridiculed this idea, argued that the erratic combination of punches to the head, lack of air and fear of falling to his death would've made him disorientated and confused. But Mark didn't care what they told him. He could've been blind, deaf and dumb on that day, and he would still know that it was an angel. It was the truth, his ultimate truth, and no amount of dispute or discussion could change it.
The angel had saved his life.
**
When he was nineteen, Mark met an angel.
It was late, and the rain outside had turned the city into one endless stream of murky grey water. The neon lights were an ironic addition to the city streets – they were supposed to attract, to blind, to dazzle – but in the rain they appeared cheap, tacky, ugly. Mark's friend had recently moved into a new apartment, and was holding a party to celebrate the occasion. It always struck Mark as being odd that anyone would want to spend the first morning in their new home clearing up half-full cans of lager, finding used condoms down the back of the sofa and opening the bathroom to a dry puddle of vomit. Maybe he was being too negative – no one at the party had behaved too outrageous so far, and spirits were high. However, alcohol had run out and Mark, in his infinite wisdom, had volunteered to fetch some more supplies.
In all honesty, he was glad to get out of the place. He just wasn't a fan of parties, celebrations, festivals – any social gatherings. He wasn't a fan of society in general. He still felt at odds with the world, and he knew that everyone, even his mother, thought him to be strange and unsettling. He was an outcast, a loner. He didn't even consider the people at the party to be friends – at most, they were acquaintances. They would share the odd pleasantry when passing on the street, but Mark knew they wouldn't understand him. He didn't feel a connection to any of them. He was surprised when he found the invite, and only turned up out of politeness.
He found the shop. It was quite small, and had those horrible white lights that made the place feel more like a hospital than a grocery store. Mark had already consumed half a bottle of vodka, and wondered if he could fetch all the items, find the right amount of money, pay the cashier and get back to the apartment without puking, or at least making himself look like a fool. It was the first time he had ever drunk a large amount on alcohol and he felt dizzy, light-headed and nauseous.
He pushed the shop door open and staggered inside. His plan was to grab all that he needed, drop it off at the party then head home and get some sleep. He took a few deeps breaths, waited to regain his composure, then headed towards the back of the store. There was a woman with long blonde flowing hair in front of him, looking at dog biscuits and chocolates, and suddenly, Mark lost his footing.
He fell forwards and slammed into the woman, sending her back a few paces. He took a moment to collect his senses, then he began to usher an apology when she turned round, smiled at him and told him it was fine, she understood and he didn't need to say sorry.
But Mark didn't even reach the word sorry. Because when the woman turned around, and when her eyes looked into Mark's, he was overcome with a pure happiness. Simple, pure joy rushed throughout his body, and while she carried on with her shopping, he was rooted to the spot. He was breathless, excited, and for the second time that night, he lost complete control of his legs. He crashed into a pile of cereals stacked against the wall, his head bouncing of one of the wooden crates used to hold them in place. The woman was getting further away, and he suddenly found himself crying.
“You! Angel! Woman!” His voice was little more than a meek gasp, yet he continued to scream.
“You! Hey you! Angel! Angel!”And then, all was dark.
Predictably, the people at the party blamed it on the alcohol. They put it in the simplest terms, the easiest conclusions – that the alcohol caused Mark to hallucinate, to dehydrate, to pass out. But they were wrong. Mark knew they were always wrong. He knew they would never believe him, and he knew that he would be mocked and laughed at. He knew they didn't have the power to believe, they didn't have the strength. But he didn't care anymore. Because he knew that, in the confines of a little shopping aisle, right between the chocolates and the cereal, he had come face to face with an angel.
But this angel did not save his life. In face, it was quite the opposite.
Mark Scott is obsessed with angels. Ever since he first spotted one when he was a child, he has been convinced that angels exist, and he wants to prove it. He spends every waking moment thinking about angels. However, Mark will soon learn that following this obsession so extensively can only lead to misery and danger. All in all, this is a story about how one man's fixation, obsession and addiction can turn him insane and put his entire life in jeopardy.
This is the prologue;
When Mark was twelve, he saw an angel.
It hovered above his bed at first, dancing , bobbing and weaving around the beams of sunlight that cut through his window and pierced the otherwise dark room. It taunted him, invited him to come closer. His mother always told him that the medication he was taking made him drowsy, and therefore he was still half asleep , half-dreaming, when he first laid eyes on the figure.
Yet he knew different. Nobody else knew what his migraines felt like. They severely hampered his eyesight, rocked his senses, made him disorientated and put him into a constant state of pain, a pain like no other. Mark often imagined what the pain would look like if it was embodied – he visualised a black creature, with long gangly arms and a hideous, contorted face, something more at home in a comic book – and whenever a migraine took hold, he would imagine this beast on top of him, smothering every limb to the point of not being able to move, able to breath, able to function in the slightest. He thought of the monster inside him, attacking his brain, his heart, his soul. Such thoughts scared Mark. They scared him because the migraines would never go away. Because they were constant, infinite, always there, always attacking. Sometimes they would lessen, and be nothing more than a nuisance, and in these instances Mark would play, or read, or learn. But when they took over, he could do nothing more than lie, and wait for the storm to pass.
But when Mark opened his eyes on that hot July morning, and wasn't greeted by a numbing pain or a blinding flash of white light, and was instead greeted by the delicate little figure of an angel, he knew something was different. It took him a while to realise – the pain was gone. He was fine. No headache, no migraine, nothing. And at that moment, Mark knew this angel had saved him. From then on, he believed that he was close to death, that the pain was going to swallow him once and for all, but instead, just when he needed it, this beautiful angel had arrived and stopped all the suffering, all the pain. He wouldn't get another migraine for many years.
The angel had saved his life.
**
When Mark was sixteen, he felt an angel.
He, along with some other local lads, would often sneak up onto the roof of the local housing flats, about 3 storeys above the ground, and play football, or basketball, or hockey. On this cold Novembers evening, they had just finished an overly long game of football, and Mark was exhausted. When he sat down for a breather, he thought about how he hated this – how he didn't like being inside with his mother, how he felt forced to come out and play with people who were barely more than strangers, how he should be somewhere else doing something bigger, something better, something exciting. He always felt that he was destined for greater things, but he just didn't know what those things were yet. A great frustration was building up inside of him, and he knew it wasn't healthy to live with such a deep unrest.
It was this same day he decided to let out some of that frustration. He stood up, ready to play, or battle, again, and called for the ball. The ball found its way to Mark, yet he had barely started running with it when he was rushed by one of the bigger guys, Jimmy. Jimmy had a reputation for being rough on the field, and this day, he seemed intent to prove it. He crashed into Mark, knocked him down to the ground and sped off again, the ball between his feet.
Mark could never piece together exactly what it was that happened next – it all seemed to occur in a series of pictures, rather than one long sequence in which we typically view life. He knew he got up, ran behind Jimmy, threw his legs out to trip him – then there was blood. Shouting. Screaming. More blood. The angry, red face of Jimmy. He felt a punch in his gut which robbed him of air, then one to his face which knocked him back. He felt more punches, pushes, kicks, the frantic rushing of schoolboys to break up this chaos and restore some normality – but it was too late. Mark had tripped Jimmy, and Jimmy was pissed. He still couldn't picture it to this day, yet whenever he thought back to this moment, he felt another punch amidst the rush. He slipped on the gravel beneath him, and then, in that spit-second, suddenly came to his senses. He was right next to the edge of the roof, and one misstep here, or one slip, or one more punch, would surely knock him off to his death.
That one more punch came. But the fall did not. In all of the madness that had occurred in the past couple of moments, one thing was certain, clear, concise. Because as Mark toppled back, and saw the sky above him suddenly come into view, and heard the gasps of his team mates and the cursing of Jimmy, he felt a pair of arms underneath him. A pair of arms that held him, lifted him, bought him back to the roof. The arms, as suddenly as they made contact, filled his whole body with a warmth, a warmth that immediately soothed him, calmed him and sent him into a deep sleep.
Some people said that it was Robbie who grabbed Mark and stopped him falling. Some people said it was Alex. The two boys argued about it for days - maybe even weeks - on end, both wanting to be known as the local hero until some other story caught the attention of the group. Mark always knew the truth. It was an angel. An angel had caught him, brought him back to life, back to consciousness. Everyone else ridiculed this idea, argued that the erratic combination of punches to the head, lack of air and fear of falling to his death would've made him disorientated and confused. But Mark didn't care what they told him. He could've been blind, deaf and dumb on that day, and he would still know that it was an angel. It was the truth, his ultimate truth, and no amount of dispute or discussion could change it.
The angel had saved his life.
**
When he was nineteen, Mark met an angel.
It was late, and the rain outside had turned the city into one endless stream of murky grey water. The neon lights were an ironic addition to the city streets – they were supposed to attract, to blind, to dazzle – but in the rain they appeared cheap, tacky, ugly. Mark's friend had recently moved into a new apartment, and was holding a party to celebrate the occasion. It always struck Mark as being odd that anyone would want to spend the first morning in their new home clearing up half-full cans of lager, finding used condoms down the back of the sofa and opening the bathroom to a dry puddle of vomit. Maybe he was being too negative – no one at the party had behaved too outrageous so far, and spirits were high. However, alcohol had run out and Mark, in his infinite wisdom, had volunteered to fetch some more supplies.
In all honesty, he was glad to get out of the place. He just wasn't a fan of parties, celebrations, festivals – any social gatherings. He wasn't a fan of society in general. He still felt at odds with the world, and he knew that everyone, even his mother, thought him to be strange and unsettling. He was an outcast, a loner. He didn't even consider the people at the party to be friends – at most, they were acquaintances. They would share the odd pleasantry when passing on the street, but Mark knew they wouldn't understand him. He didn't feel a connection to any of them. He was surprised when he found the invite, and only turned up out of politeness.
He found the shop. It was quite small, and had those horrible white lights that made the place feel more like a hospital than a grocery store. Mark had already consumed half a bottle of vodka, and wondered if he could fetch all the items, find the right amount of money, pay the cashier and get back to the apartment without puking, or at least making himself look like a fool. It was the first time he had ever drunk a large amount on alcohol and he felt dizzy, light-headed and nauseous.
He pushed the shop door open and staggered inside. His plan was to grab all that he needed, drop it off at the party then head home and get some sleep. He took a few deeps breaths, waited to regain his composure, then headed towards the back of the store. There was a woman with long blonde flowing hair in front of him, looking at dog biscuits and chocolates, and suddenly, Mark lost his footing.
He fell forwards and slammed into the woman, sending her back a few paces. He took a moment to collect his senses, then he began to usher an apology when she turned round, smiled at him and told him it was fine, she understood and he didn't need to say sorry.
But Mark didn't even reach the word sorry. Because when the woman turned around, and when her eyes looked into Mark's, he was overcome with a pure happiness. Simple, pure joy rushed throughout his body, and while she carried on with her shopping, he was rooted to the spot. He was breathless, excited, and for the second time that night, he lost complete control of his legs. He crashed into a pile of cereals stacked against the wall, his head bouncing of one of the wooden crates used to hold them in place. The woman was getting further away, and he suddenly found himself crying.
“You! Angel! Woman!” His voice was little more than a meek gasp, yet he continued to scream.
“You! Hey you! Angel! Angel!”And then, all was dark.
Predictably, the people at the party blamed it on the alcohol. They put it in the simplest terms, the easiest conclusions – that the alcohol caused Mark to hallucinate, to dehydrate, to pass out. But they were wrong. Mark knew they were always wrong. He knew they would never believe him, and he knew that he would be mocked and laughed at. He knew they didn't have the power to believe, they didn't have the strength. But he didn't care anymore. Because he knew that, in the confines of a little shopping aisle, right between the chocolates and the cereal, he had come face to face with an angel.
But this angel did not save his life. In face, it was quite the opposite.