Heaven Sent

I woke up around noon and decided it was time to once again spend some quality time in front of my easel. And of course I was painting another picture of Cephi with very muted colors.

As I painted I couldn’t stop thinking about the story the man had told me the other day. He had just seemed so angry so victimized by the tale, as if he had been the one to experience the pain and suffering of the angel. Almost as if he were an angel. I quickly dismissed that idea.

It was absurd. Angels couldn’t be real. If they were real that meant fairies and witches and ghosts and werewolves and vampires… uh… right.

Maybe there was more to the story than I thought. I mean, I knew vampires were real. Was it such a stretch to believe in angels? I tried to imagine it. And couldn’t so clearly the answer was: yes.

I finished slopping the paint on my canvas and took a step back to look at my work.

It was different in style than a lot of my previous pictures. Obviously the subject remained unchanged. Where the other paintings were thinly applied with acrylic, this one was very much raised. There was a lot of paint on the little canvas. A lot of paint.

It was Cephi hunched over in pain, his eyes darkened by thick shadows. I still had an aversion to drawing his eyes, I didn’t want to screw them up. They were too beautiful. A beautiful pair of wings sprouted from his back. I know I painted mangled wings before, but these were far from mangled. They were intact and a creamy white with a golden glow of light on them, either from the setting sun or a blazing fire. Nothing was seen of the background that gave a clue to the lights origin. Actually, nothing was seen of the background at all. The whole picture was just the angel. And I had to admit, the wings looked so natural on Cephi, so much like they belonged on the man that I really wondered, really wondered if Cephi had told me a true story. If he, in fact, was the angel he spoke of and had chosen to tell me about his past. I mean his name was Cephi. The angel’s was Cephirial. It wasn’t much of a stretch.

And then I felt like a jerk. If the story was true and I had so blatantly told him I didn’t believe in angels… well he probably regretted spilling his guts to me. Still, the only way to know for sure if he was the angel in the tale was to ask him.

Well, I could probably go on the internet and do an extensive search on everything dealing with angels and God and all that jazz. But, I’d rather go straight to the source and risk asking a stupid question than research in private and have the man find out about it later. And if I was being completely honest with myself, I really just wanted an excuse to see the guy again. Maybe this time we’d actually get to eat dinner together. Maybe watch a movie… or something.

I decided I’d stop by Cephi’s place after taking my painting to Tim’s. And with any luck the man would be in his apartment.

I went over to look at my painting. Yup, still wet. Probably take at least an hour for the paint to dry. Why did I put it on so thick? Oh yeah, it looked good.

Wanting to make sure it was going to be dry as fast as possible, I went into my room and pulled out my rotating fan from under my bed and positioned it in front of the easel. Plugging it in was the next step, and then I turned it on.

While it was drying I decided I might as well take a nap. That way I might be able to stay longer at Cephi’s. Hunkering down on my armchair, I slept.

I woke up and pulled out my phone. Two hours had passed. Glancing over at the picture proved that it was finally dry. I put my fan away and left my apartment, painting in hand.

I had the painting out in front of me on the way to Tim’s store, still scrutinizing it. For some unexplainable reason I really liked it. Considered keeping it. If I didn’t need money so bad, there was no way I’d ever dream of selling it.

It was in the middle of this intense scrutiny that I ran into someone and lost my grip on the painting. I made a hasty grab for it, but the person I ran into was quicker. He grabbed the piece and turned it around. Giving it I judgmental look over. I sucked in a breath and shoved my hands in my pockets waiting for the guy to give some kind of feedback. It was obvious he wanted to say something about the piece. No one looked at something that long and said nothing about it.

While the guy was busy scrutinizing my painting, I was looking at him. No matter how much I loathed the thought, because it was just so cliché, the man looked like a piece of art. Like real art. He was the personification of Michelangelo’s David, save the awkward proportions that were used on the statue. And obviously the man was clothed. Usually people don’t walk around cities naked. Towns, yes, but cities never. He was smartly dressed in what had to be the latest fashion. His hair was an almost platinum blonde and, of course, curly and his face had a light dusting of freckles.

This man was pure sin. But I still found myself preferring Cephi’s ethereal appearance over this guy. His eyes found their way to mine and I was unable to breathe. The man had yellow eyes. Like buttercup yellow.

“It’s a rather striking likeness,” the man spoke and I found myself able to breathe again, thank God. Jesus, even his speech was classy. And did I hear the hint of an accent?

“Wha?” I said intelligently.

“The painting,” the man explained, “it looks just like him.”

My heart jumped to my throat. This guy knew Cephi. In my experience when people knew him, bad things happened. So I decided it was the perfect time to act like I had no clue what he was talking about. “Who?”

“Oh, come on kid, don’t play dumb, it’s not cute,” the guy huffed still seemingly looking at the painting in his clutches.

I gave him my best “I don’t know what you’re talking about” look.

The man rolled his eyes clearly not buying my clueless act, “Tiearyu.”

The panicked look in my eyes made the man laugh. I was immediately struck by how much I like the sound. I wondered if it was possible to make Cephi laugh. I know it happened once, quickly when I asked him a stupid question, but I wanted to hear it more. I was so much more familiar with that sardonic chuckle of his.

“I see you have met others whom know Tiearyu,” his eyes sparkled, “ghastly sorts. I’m not like them. I’m much more... sophisticated.”

He reached his hand out around the painting, offering it to me to shake. “My name’s Theo. I’m an old acquaintance of Tiearyu’s.”

I reached out my hand and accepted the greeting. The man’s hand’s were surprisingly cold. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, all politeness. I would be as polite as a princess as long as he had my painting in his arms.

The man dropped his hand and smirked at me. A chill ran down my spine. For how kind the man spoke, that smirk told of a very different person. It spoke of a man who wasn’t afraid to manipulate and step on those around him. But just as quickly as it appeared it was gone and I wondered if I hadn’t made up such a malicious facial expression.

The painting was thrust back into my arms and Theo walked past me.

I watched as he walked away.

“Oh,” the man threw over his shoulder, “be a dear and tell Tiearyu that Theophilus said ‘hello.’” Then the man ambled down the street and out of sight.

“That was weird,” I muttered to myself before walking into Tim’s. It was time to see how much this painting was worth.