A Short Story

By: Yvette Jessen

Andrew sat on his bed, his back was leaning against the headboard, his nose was deeply delved in his reading, and he was frowning. What was he reading that made him so nervous? Was it printouts from the newspaper with catastrophes or natural disasters? No, but he turned the page, the color draining from his face as he stared down at it.

Oh Father, he groaned as he stared down at the printout. Somehow someone had gotten his email address and overloaded his account with fan fiction. He sighed deeply as he pulled out the first page of a new story. He had just read 'The Greatest Human Form of All' and although it was a well-written story, he was not pleased that he ended up with bulimia. This just doesn't seem fair, and binging and purging is not an extremely angelic thing to do…in fact, it made him feel sick when he thought about it, yet, humans suffered from this every day, but why him?

At any rate, after recovering from that, he started reading another story, this one about him being accused of molesting a child. This was more tragic than the last one, and he could feel the tears streaming from beneath his compassionate green eyes as he read. He finally had to stop reading and put the pages down because it was affecting him too much to read this one. Life was just as hard as the stories depicted because somehow every story that he read, he had also experienced these things.

He reached for a third story, this one taking place on Halloween, his least favorite day of the year, but he smiled weakly as he began to read about the little boy named Matthew who had visited him that one year when he had worked a case with Monica and Tess. This story was sweet, and he smiled as he remembered the small boy and the friendship they shared.

Finally, he took a deep breath and covered his face with his hands. Many of these stories were very nice, they were depictions of his everyday life as an Angel of Death, but 'the misadventures of Andrew' had become the biggest hobby of Androoler fan fiction writers since his alter ego, John raised a ruckus with that green shirt photo. Now he realized that many of the writers he knew could not even say the two words without getting sweaty palms and baying at the moon, or worse still, calling the plumber and complaining about the drool problem at their homes.

"Oh Eva," he moaned, "now I'm at fault for your marital problems." He sighed deeply as he read a story about a woman named Eva Jensen and how she had gotten into trouble with her husband after having dinner with him.

Sighing sadly, he looked at the clock and pulled the covers even further up until they were lodged right under his chin. If truth be known, this didn't happen very much, in fact Tess always told him that it did not become the Angel of Death to whine. However, enough was enough and that was precisely what Andrew was feeling and anyone who would look at him could tell that he was not happy, in fact, he looked nervous. A pile of papers were still at his side, and his eyes closed as he tried to block out the images his curious mind led him to.

"Andrew," Monica's voice emerged and he glanced up to see her coming into the room, her bright brown eyes met his own and she was smiling as though she had already drank twenty mocha lattes and was ripe and ready for number twenty-one.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw the scowl covering his handsome face. He looked so annoyed that she almost didn't recognize him. "Why so glum, you look like you just lost a ginger ale drinking contest with Adam?”

"Have you seen some of these stories?" Andrew whined. "These fan fiction writers are totally brutal, Monica. I have been so busy in their stories; I barely have time to actually be someone's Angel of Death. I mean; Adam's been taking my workload because I've been so busy in these stories. So, I have decided that I'm not getting out of bed at least until the next millennium because I need an extended rest. Maybe if I don't get up, these girls won't write anymore about me, and maybe they'll make you, Tess or Gloria the main angel in their stories and you can see how it feels to get all this attention. I need a nap!!!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Monica asked.

"Just look at some of this," Andrew moaned. "In this one I have bulimia, and in this one I'm strung out on drugs, here's one where I'm in a fire, and one where I'm blind or deaf, or…" His voice trailed off and he looked at her as though his dignity had been squelched. "I just can't take any more, Monica. These humans are more brutal than Tess when she cops an attitude, and usually I can handle Tess, OK.”

Monica looked at her friend, he looked exceedingly nervous. "So, let me get this straight, you are intending on staying here, and not going anywhere just because a bunch of talented writers have seen fit to write stories about you? Come on Andrew, you should be honored that these talented people care enough to write about you. But, you'd rather stay here and mope?”

"That's right," Andrew crossed his arms over his chest and tried to give his friend his best 'injured puppy dog' look. "I am exhausted, Monica, I was just sent to protect a girl from a murderer, and was nearly accused of murder all in one story. Then I was in an earthquake and was kidnapped by a demon. I just can’t take anymore, the buck stops here.”

"There are going to be a lot of fans disappointed that you aren't willing to do anymore, Andrew. After all, you're the hero, and they all love you so much," Monica tried to persuade him. “What would their stories be without their favorite Angel of Death?”

“Well, Adam and Henry are still around,” Andrew grumped.

"Yes, but only Yvette and a few others have been using Adam in stories, but you're needed by the whole lot of them, Andrew,” Monica said softly.

"No," Andrew said softly. "Besides, what's the chance of a meteor falling on this building or me getting stung by 500 killer bees if I stay right here and not move at all.”

"I don't know, but if you stay here, you will find out," Monica replied as she glanced back over at the door where a crop of fan fiction writers were hanging around with buckets of grapes, all the while she could sense that they were wanting to swipe his favorite green shirt. "I guess you know, this is going to be your call, but I think it's a wee bit of a pity simply because it's such a nice day and you promised me a Mocha Latte and you know as well as I do that an angel always keeps his or her promises.”

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Andrew moaned. "Can I come later, I think I'm going to read a couple more of these stories. At least here I can’t have a house land on me.”

Monica smiled and walked out of the room, all the while leaving the door open and three women walked into the room. "Hi Andrew, did you like the stories we sent you?" One of them asked, her smile brightening his otherwise somber mood.

"Yes, it was wonderful," Andrew offered weakly and pushed the pieces of paper aside. He smiled at the three or four girls now in his room, and when he realized that they were really nice people, he could only shrug his shoulders as he made eye contact with them.

"Did you get a chance to read mine?" Another girl asked as she came into the room, her green eyes met his and she carried a hopeful expression on her face. She couldn't have been much older than fourteen, but her eyes were so full of life, and this was, if anything, catching.

He nodded and smiled. "Yes, but please, next time, go gentle on me, that falling off the cliff business just about did me in.”

The girl nodded. “I’m sorry Andrew, I didn’t realize it was such a rocky landing.”

A woman in her early thirties approached and she smiled at him. "I just wanted to tell you thanks. I mean; you give us a lot of inspiration, Andrew, and we just wanted to come by and see how you're doing, as we know that you've been through a lot during these past years. Please understand though, that writing is our way of showing that we love you, and think you're something special. But, if you want me to, I'll hold back on writing my story of you as a kindergarten teacher for a few weeks.”

"Thanks," he smiled and crawled out of bed, his mood much better now. "Would you girls like to have a coffee with me?" He finally asked as he reached for his favorite green shirt and was putting it on. "It's such a nice day and it would be a waste of a beautiful afternoon here instead of spending the day with my friends.”

“Wasn’t Monica here?” One of the girls asked.

"She was, but if we hurry, we can catch up with her," he said smiling as he buttoned the shirt and the four writers grew weak in the knees as he looked at them, his eyes shining brightly and now matching the color of the shirt he wore.

As they left the pile of fiction behind, Andrew smiled…maybe being the object of so much affection was not so bad after all, the fringe benefits outweighed everything else, because he was still doing what he loved and that was helping so many people.

And this was a day in the life of a revered Angel of Death…

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