Twenty-Four Hours
TWENTY-FOUR
HOURS
By
Sherrie Henry
Twenty-Four Hours
Copyright © 2012 by Sherry Henry
Cover design by Allison Cassatta
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
… And the Elders watched, and listened to the silence ….
Michaelia darted between two cabs, up the stairs, through the turnstiles and onto the train platform, running late as usual because her high-society, richer-than-Donald-Trump boss has his own driver and no clue about train schedules. She bumped past two hand-holding lovebirds who were taking their own god-loving sweet-ass time getting on the train. As she bounced on her toes, hoping to shove through the train’s doors before they closed, she had the uncomfortable sweating, breathless feeling from the run, even if it was a late cold gray February afternoon. She found her seat just as the train started to move, averting her eyes from the young couple she nearly mowed down. She faced the window, away from the people around her, away from reality. The dirty, snow-covered train yard merged into the miles and miles of dry scrub brush broken up only by the back of buildings, alleys, overgrown paths and crumbling roads. Perfect nothingness to allow her mind to wander.
Today was nothing unusual; nothing new really to see, nothing out of place, but staring at the urban decay was something to do during her hour-long commute to and from work. It wasn't so bad; when she was tired she could sleep and never had to worry about traffic jams, road construction, car maintenance or the price of gas. But it was melancholy days like this, with grey skies threatening rain and dark thoughts taking root, that she hated it all; her life, her job, the never-ending commute. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, willing the tears back, as she thought, “if only …” but there were no more “onlys” in her life. That is, until winter turned into spring and spring turned into summer. Life changed, if only for twenty-four hours.
Life had never been easy for Michaelia; she wasn't a "looker", attractive did not describe her. “Plain” was more the word, mixed with overweight, dumpy, homely, with lifeless brown hair usually pulled back into a pony tail, skin that refused to stay pimple-free, eyes that needed glasses even after eye surgery. Smart, really the brains of the family, but not brilliant, not smart enough for the Ivy Leagues, but smart enough for a graduate degree from the state university. Existing in a dead-end accounting job, one of a dozen at a mid-ranked accounting firm, with no chance of advancement and only periodic cost-of-living increases. All-in-all, she was just ordinary. Ordinarily plain enough to be overlooked no matter how hard she tried. Ordinarily plain enough to blend in to the walls, the ever-blooming wallflower.
When she was younger, she had hopes and dreams of the perfect future; a future with her very own Prince Charming who would sweep her off her feet and take her away from the drudgery that her life had become. That's what the fairy tales said, right? So she waited, and waited, and waited, and no one ever looked her way. The dream of having a husband and children had slipped away. Now it was too late. Over forty and never been kissed, no Prince Charming coming to rescue here and definitely no happily-ever-after. Even if Prince Charming showed up at her door tomorrow, she would have no clue what to do, what to say. She doubted any Prince Charming would want to teach a forty-year-old virgin how to kiss.
Winter turned to spring, spring to summer, the same routine day in and day out, heading to work, heading home, every weekday, but now she had a new hell. One of her co-workers, one that went out of her way to make Michaelia’s life miserable, had gotten engaged, showing off her huge rock to anyone who walked by her desk, talking about her wedding plans, thumbing through bridal magazines instead of doing her work. Of course, no one minded; Tracie was beautiful and the beautiful people got whatever they wanted. And this was just what Michaelia needed, a reminder of her failures, a reminder of what she could never have. A reminder she would never be pretty, never be the size two that all the men wanted.
It was Friday, finally. The end of this horrendous workweek brought a hot, muggy, humid day, with gray skies threatening rain. She was late for her train, per the usual, but she made it, sweat dripping down, soaking her clothes, including the awful sensation of sweat between her legs. Nothing was worse than sweating there.
The sights outside the train’s window hardly ever changed, with the exception of weather; instead of snow, there would be mud, or dust, or piles of leaves, all depending on the season. Today, it was dust, thick, coating everything along the tracks. The click-clack of the wheels lulled her into an almost trance, Tracie’s wedding and the monotonous routine of her days took a back seat to day dreams, silly dreams of winning the lottery and retiring, or hell, winning the lottery and having plastic surgery so she would be beautiful. Being able to walk into any store, buy what she wanted, look gorgeous, have men falling at her feet. Dreaming of the places she would go, outside of the city, the world her oyster … whatever that meant.
The cessation of movement and the whistling of the train told her the train had stopped at her station, just like it had the thousands of times before and undoubtedly, will do thousands of times in her future. She headed home, grateful that the gray skies hadn't opened up quite yet. Greeting her at the door was her faithful companion Bodie, her ever-loving mutt. She dropped her bag, grabbed his leash so he could do his business, getting back to safety just before the rain began in torrents. She quickly read her mail, picked up the few things she hadn’t gotten to before work, started laundry.
Ah, another scintillating Friday night we have here, don’t we?
She mused to herself while she cleaned a few things in her tiny apartment; one thing about a small studio apartment, not much to clean. A simple dinner of a sandwich and soup followed by boring TV was the plan for the rest of the night. After never having said a word to another human being since she left work, she went to bed. Sleep would not come, so she watched the rain run down the window, listened to the storm outside. She lay there in her dark and silent bedroom, Bodie snoring away on the floor next to the bed. The one comfort she had was Bodie, who loved her no matter what she looked like, no matter what kind of mood she was in. After a while the clouds parted and the moon came out, creating shadows through the leaves of the tree outside her window. Staring at the moon, she whispered her one prayer to any deity listening.
Twenty-four hours, that’s all I ask. Twenty-four hours of someone to love me, then I could live out my days happy, living on that one day.
A tear slipped, then another and before she knew it, she was crying, yet again. Something she swore would never happen after the last time, after the millions of last times, the tears came, fueled by the loneliness of nights like tonight. Wanting so much to curl up with someone, or make love while the rain came down. She reached for the tissues and berated herself for falling into the pity party mood again. And what did she know about making love? Just what she read in romance novels and she was sure what those heroines experienced was nothing like real life. But right now, in the dark of night with the smell of fresh rain in the air, she’d take someone just holding her hand. Or someone lying next to her, an arm draped protectively over her. She hugged herself, trying to fool her body that someone actually was touching her, soothing her. After an hour, the tears wore her out and she fell into a fitful sleep, trying to imagine someone comforting her.
… And the Elders heard her prayer and looked upon her lives, then directed the Guardians to choose one of their own …
The buzzing of the doorbell woke her from a deep sleep. She groaned as she glanced at the clock on her way to stop whoever was trying to play Mozart’s Fifth on the doorbell. It was 6 a.m., as in the morning, on a fucking Saturday morning. After the night she had, the dried tears on her face, she had most certainly planned on sleeping until noon, if not the next few years.
"Who the hell could it be at this fucking hour?" She grumbled, wanting to give whoever it was a piece of her mind as she trudged to the front door. She peered through the peephole to find the most handsome man she'd ever seen standing on the other side. Her breath hitched at the sight of him.
This sculpted god was dressed impeccably; neat blue jeans, a skin-tight black t-shirt outlining all the right bulges and a black leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He was at least six foot two, very well built with dark hair and perfectly-styled hair, nothing out of place. His eyes were bright blue and his slight, crooked smile nearly melted her into a puddle. His skin positively glowed, like the permanent tan models had, but this didn’t look fake. He looked like he was right out of a GQ photo shoot. Looking like what she imagined Tracie’s fiancé looked like. The perfect specimen of a male who needs the perfect size two blond bimbo specimen of a female on his arm.
She knew, just by looking at him, he had to be lost. No man like that would ever knock on her door on purpose. No man like
that
would ever want anything from her. Or maybe he was a delivery guy, although with those looks, she didn’t think he’d need to stoop to deliveries to make a living. Whatever the case, she looked down at herself; while she was decent, a pair of sweats with holes in the knees and a t-shirt plucked from a dozen ratty pajama tees, she knew she probably looked frightful after a night of crying. She shook her head … what difference did it make? The guy was probably lost, she’d give him directions and he'd forget about his encounter with this disheveled nobody in seconds. She opened the door. "Can I help you?"
"I think that is the other way around. Michaelia?"
"Ye … Yes."
"Your prayer was heard."
"Huh? What?” She shook her head. “I don't understand."
"May I come in? I'll explain. I promise, I'm a good guy." He beamed a smile at her that would have melted the polar ice caps.
Michaelia blinked a few times, trying to make sense of this perfect idol of a man asking to come in to her apartment. She just knew that he wasn't going to hurt her, how, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to let her guard completely down. She allowed him into the cramped foyer, crossing her arms in front of her. “So, what do you want?”
The god in human form looked around the room, taking in the brightly colored rugs, the immaculate tasteful furniture, simple TV and stereo. "My name is Michael; I'm a Guardian of sorts. We look after those souls that have asked for help from the Elders. I’ve been sent to help you Michaelia. To give you what you wished for.”
Michaelia snorted. “You’ve got the wrong Sarah Connor.” Michael’s expression told her that he wasn’t exactly up on pop culture references. “Okay, I don’t know what you’re on, but maybe you need to take your fairy tales and go.” Her mind berated her left and right, screaming at her to get this lunatic out of her apartment before something bad happened. She went to open the door to show him out, brushing against him slightly as she did so. That lightest of touch, that scant skin-to-skin contact and her doubts vanished. She leaned back away from the door and stared up at him, way up at him. “Coffee?”
“I don’t need coffee, thank you. But I’d like to take you out to breakfast.”
Michaelia tried to smooth out her clothing, her hair. Did she even have anything clean to wear? What the hell was she thinking, going out? In public?! What kind of game was this bizarre man playing? And again, that touch, that slight touch, it sent warmth through her, like she could feel his sincerity.
Michael kept his distance; it was always hard at first, getting a woman to trust him. No one believed in guardian angels anymore, most thought he was a serial killer or something. It didn’t take much to realize her discomfort, no mind-reading necessary. His touches were meant to calm, reassure, nothing else. “All I want is to take you to breakfast. You look fine just as you are. Unless you wish to change?”
How the hell did he do that? How did he get into my mind? Michaelia tried to shake the confusion from her brain. “Um give me a few minutes, at least wash my face and brush my teeth.”
