Dust Angels

      “When does the reunion start?” Adam asks, looking at his watch.
      “Not ‘til six,” Megan says. “We have time to rest. Besides, I think my grandma said Laura was leaving around five, and I really don’t want to have to talk to her.”
      It bothers Adam that Megan calls her mom by her first name. Neither Adam nor Adam’s siblings call their parents by their first names, and God knows they have reason to. The two lean against Adam’s car and look out at the vast desert. In the distance, thin funnels of sand turn like small tornados. They’re called dust devils.
      Megan smiles. “I remember this one time, when I was five. My dad was taking me to visit his parents. We were driving through a desert on his motorcycle. He was too poor to afford a car, and we only had one helmet.”
      “Who wore it?” Adam asks.
      “He did, most of the ride.”
      “What a jerk,” Adam says apathetically.
      “Yeah,” Megan starts. “I guess. Anyway, we got to a point in the road where this huge dust devil was. I mean, it was HUGE! And it was right in the middle of the road. It seemed like we sat there forever, and it just wouldn’t go away.”
      “Weird.”
      “Yeah. So anyway, at that point, my dad put his helmet on me, and we drove through it! Can you believe it?” Her smile is huge now. “It was so scary!”
      “Wow,” Adam says, not sure whether or not he should believe her. “So it sounds like your dad wasn’t such a bad guy after all, huh?”
      “What do you mean?” she asks. “He was a total loser.”
      “But he let you wear his helmet, didn’t he? He was the one who went into the dust devil unprotected.”
      The accusing look on Megan’s face makes Adam wish he hadn’t said anything.
      “Look,” she says, “you have no idea what kind of a person my father was. You have no idea. He probably put the helmet on me because my mom would’ve killed him if she found out he didn’t.”
      The two sit in silence for a moment, and Adam considers dropping the subject. But he finds he just can’t resist. “Your mom?” he says. “You mean Laura, the workaholic, self-important bitch who doesn’t care about anyone and never does anything for you?”
      “Just forget it.”
      “No,” Adam says. “You’re always moping around, all dark and depressed. You’re always talking about how no one loves you, and how pathetic your life is. Megan, it’s all bullshit!”
      Megan flinches.
      He continues, “I think your parents care about you. At least one of them does. Either your dad put that helmet on you to protect you because he loved you, or the thought of your mom getting pissed off at him forced him to put the helmet on you because she loves you. Or maybe they both love you. You lie so much, I never know when I should believe you.”
Megan puts her head in her hands and leans forward.
      “Did your parents ever beat you?” Adam demands.
      “No,” Megan says quietly.
      “Did they ever starve you?”
      “No,” she whispers.
      “Did they ever lock you in the basement at night if you brought home A minus tests? Huh? Did they?” Adam’s body shakes and he feels like he might throw up. This is the first time he’s ever mentioned the abuse to anyone. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. The words flow from him, and with them, the rage and pain. “Did they ever make you watch while they beat the shit out of your brothers and sisters? No? No, I don’t think so.”
      Megan sniffs and says, “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
      Adam’s body shakes with laughter. He starts to put his head in his hands, then he turns around and punches the hood of his car.
      “Get in the car,” he says.
      “Where are we going?”
      “You’re going to your grandparents’ house.”
      “Where are you going?”
      “I’m going to drop you off at your grandparents’, then I’m leaving.”
      Megan gets in the car and slams the door shut. “You’re leaving? As in, you’re leaving my grandparents’ house to go work on your stupid English project? You never spend time with me.”
      “No,” Adam says, revving the engine and speeding off. “I’m leaving you.”
      Miles pass before either speak again, and finally Megan sobs, “Why?”
      Adam stares at the empty road ahead. He hates the sound of crying. It brings back painful memories for him. Megan’s sobs are especially biting, as there is something inside of him that loves her.
      “Megan,” he says, “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, but you’re exactly the way you say your parents are. You’re completely self-absorbed and immature.”
      Megan is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I think I can change.”
      She can’t change. Adam refuses to believe this, though. His traumatizing childhood has made him dependent and clingy. The thought of leaving Megan scares the hell out of him, and he spends the next hour of the car ride feeling the crunch of unpaved road beneath the car, trying to avoid the incessant glare of the bright sun, listening to the occasional gut-wrenching, melodramatic sob from Megan, and thinking about life without her. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry.”
      “For what?”
      “For yelling at you.”
      “It’s okay, I guess,” Megan says. She wipes the tears from her eyes and draws a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, too.”
      Adam nods. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
      Long moments of silence pass. It disturbs them.
      “Isn’t the sky pretty?” Megan asks.
      “Yeah,” Adam says.
      “I wonder if God is up there, watching us. You know? Like, I wonder if God ever listens to us.”
      “I don’t know,” Adam says, that hard look coming back to his eyes. “Sometimes I get the feeling God is like some malicious writer who takes pleasure in seeing me suffer.”
      “Heh. Yeah, I know what you mean.”
      Adam looks at Megan like she couldn’t possibly know what he means.
      “No,” Adam says. “I really do think God is a soulless bastard who gave me life so he could sit back and laugh his ass off at my pain.”
      Megan laughs at Adam like he couldn’t possibly be right.
      She says, “I think that if God really is a writer and we’re just characters is some story of his, then maybe he makes our lives suck so that he teach other deities stuff. You know?”
      Adam laughs. “Teach them what? Teach them that beating their kids to a bloody pulp is wrong? Are these other deities so morally retarded, they can’t figure that out on their own?
      “No, Megan. God is evil, like Jerry Springer. Our story is meant to entertain, not enlighten. If there are other deities… or readers… reading about the horrible things that happen to me, then they’re just as sick as the writer. Even if they don’t laugh at my life, they probably read about it because they’re bored and have nothing better to do. They read about my pathetic life so they can feel better about their own.
      “They say writing should teach something, that it should educate. But how many goddamned different versions of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” do people have to read before they finally get it?”
      “Adam-“
      “My point is, writers are encouraged to come up with different ways to teach the exact same morals and lessons that have already been taught over and over and over again. Why can’t people just read the original story and be happy? I’ll tell you why. It’s because people are sick and twisted. They need to see characters being tortured in new, innovative ways. It entertains them to see characters suffer through conflict. Writers throw in the morals and lessons to make readers feel like they’re not just a bunch of leeches.”
      Adam pulls over to the side of the road, stops the car, and says, “I hate people.” He turns to Megan and asks, “If God is good, why did he create us?”
      Megan chuckles nervously. “Adam, what’s wrong with you?”
      Adam gets out of the car and stumbles toward the barren landscape. He stares out at the desolate, hot land. The dust devils in the distance play with the sand, throwing it high into the air, twisting it, and letting it fall to the sizzling ground.
      “Adam?” Megan asks from behind him. “Adam, are you okay?”
      “Just one sign, God,” Adam says to the sky. “Just give me one sign that you aren’t a heartless jackass and that my life has some sort of purpose.”
      At that very moment, a dust devil confronts Adam and Megan. From this sandy tornado emerges an angel. His massive wings stretch at least thirteen feet across. Bluish black feathers glisten in the sun. They match the angel’s disturbing black eyes, which contrast with his albino skin and hair.
      “I have been sent from God, the writer of this story,” the angel says, “to enlighten the both you as to the reasons you were created.”
      “He… he does exist?” Adam asks, somehow finding the words to speak despite this miraculous and unexpected plot twist.
      “She,” the angel corrects. “Yes, she does exist. She would have corrected you earlier, but she could not think of a believable way to bring up the issue of deity gender in your dialogue exchange.”
      “Oh.”
      “As I was saying, I am here to inform you of the reasons for which you exist.” The angel turns to Megan and says, “You exist because God had to write a story for her creative writing class last year. That is when she created you. This story that we are currently playing out is a sequel for you. Kind of.”
      “What?” Megan asks. She doesn’t understand.
      The angel sighs. “You appeared in another story. You more than likely do not even remember, for it took place when you were eight. That was a year and a half ago in God’s world.”
      Megan still doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t really matter.
      “You,” the angel says to Adam, “were originally created as a side character for this story. You seem to have come out dominating it, though. God sends her congratulations.
      “My mission is complete,” the angel says. “I shall now take my leave.”
      “No!” Adam cries. “Wait!”
      “No. You said you wanted a sign. Just one sign. What more do you want?”
      “Is… is God a good writer, at least?”
      “No,” the angel says. “She is merely an amateur, and for that you should be eternally grateful. Behold!” The angel snaps his fingers and yet another dust devil appears. From this tornado drops a very old man with enormous wings.
      The horribly aged and abused angel crawls through the sand toward the group. “Mata me, por favor,” he croaks.
      “Ah,” the angel says with an evil twinkle in his eye, “I see your writer has finally allowed you to speak.”
      The very old man with enormous wings pathetically reaches an arm toward the group. The angel snaps his fingers and the very old man with enormous wings is swept up in the dust devil and returned to his natural dimension.
      “What was that?” Megan asks.
      “That was the creation of a truly good writer. The character was created so that readers could watch his suffering, thereby quenching their bloodlust.”
      “Really?” Adam asks. “I always thought that story was a political statement about-“
      “Silence, fool!”
      The protagonists watch as the angel beats his wings against the dry air and flies away. “You are lucky,” the angel calls to them. “Most writers are not so generous as to reveal their characters’ purposes to them.”
      Adam and Megan stare at the creature as he flies into a dust devil and disappears.
      “Megan?” Adam asks. “What the hell just happened?”
      “I don’t know.”
      “Me neither.”
      “You wanna go to McDonald’s?”
      “Yeah.”
      “Okay.”