Guardian Angel(the prologue)

May 6, 2010
I was never a nerd. I mean, I’m smart, but I’m not the kid who would stay up till midnight to watch some marathon about the top largest storms in the world. But I wasn’t ever “one of the guys” either, or the jock. Basically, I’m a loner, always on the outskirts of the crowd. Do I ever get lonely? Nah, at least, not anymore. I’m used to it. At least, I was the lone kid no one wanted to hang out with. However a few weeks ago, Hadrian came up to me and asked if I’d like to join his gang, Hellcut. Unfortunately, if I refused, they would have beaten me to a pulp. Why did they want me in their gang? I think it’s because I live with my uncle. He’s my only relative still alive and he’s head of the police station. Maybe they think they’ll catch some slack if I’m with them. Yeah right! If my uncle recognized me. We never hang out he’s always working. He doesn’t know me at all. My dinners are leftovers from microwave dinners. How sad is that? He even forgot my birthday 3 times! I have to go.

Whoa! I just found my old journal. It’s got some water stains on it so I can only read the entry above. All the other ones are illegible. Anyways just to be clear, I was 12 in the last entry. I’m now 21. The reason I haven’t been writing is because Hadrian threw the journal in a dumpster because it was “wimpy.” Whatever. After a few years with the Hellcut gang, my uncle got me out of there by grounding me, at the police station! The old man kept me in jail like a real prisoner! He probably thought he was teaching me a lesson. When I turned 18 I left him, been on my own ever since. I need some money though. How am I gonna get it you may ask? The Jolly Candy Shop. Tonight.


It was midnight during a black July night. All the stores and houses were closed. All the stores and houses were closed and locked up. All was quiet, nothing stirred. All except, a man in an ally. He was crouched low, peeking into the window of a candy shop. The neon sign out front glowed Jolly Candy Shop. The sign was famous for glowing all the time, even when the shop was closed. With great care, the man slipped a lock pick out of his pocket and slipped through the shadows to the back door. After a few seconds, the man was tiptoeing through the shop and made his way to the cash register. Sweat running down his face, he inched over to it. Slowly, his hands reached out towards the cash register. As soon as his fingers made contact with the metal, an alarm began blaring. The man cussed and sprinted to the back door he had entered from as it slowly began to swing shut. Probably programmed to do that, thought the man. Giving one last ounce of speed, the man slipped through the door with centimeters to spare. The man straightened up and caught his breath in the alley. Suddenly the air was filled with police sirens. Cursing his luck, the man sprinted through the dark alleys. A few seconds later, bullets were whizzing at him. The man ducked and crammed his body into a notch between 2 crumbling buildings. The man listened as the gunfire ceased. The man was about to get up when the sound of rock scraping caught his attention. He turned his head and found himself looking into the face of an old man. No, thought the man, a priest.
“My my,” exclaimed the priest, “You’re bleeding!”
The man looked down to discover that the priest was right. One of the stray bullets had lodged itself into his side.
“You better go to the hospital,” said the priest.
“I’ll be fine,” rasped the man. The priest looked the man straight in the eye.
“If you don’t go to the hospital,” he said, “You will die.”
“How do you know?” asked the man, “You’re just a priest.”
“You’re losing too much blood,” explained the priest, “And for the record sonny, my name is Father Patrick. What, may I ask, is yours?”
“John,” he hesitated, “John Evans.”
“Well John Locke,” continued Fr. Patrick, “I must insist we get you to a hospital.” John struggled to get up. He got to his feet, tottered, and fell.
“I think I’ve lost too much blood already,” he moaned. The priest knelt closer and pulled out a bible. John stared at it.
“What is that!” he asked.
“It’s called the bible,” replied Fr. Patrick, “It’s a book God’s love for us and how he gave up his only son so that we may one day be with the Father in His kingdom.”
“He can’t love everyone,” John retorted.
“Yes he can,” insisted the priest, “He loves everyone in this world, including you.” John hesitated.
“Even people who commit crimes?” he asked.
“Even people who commit crime,” confirmed Fr. Patrick.
“How do you know that?” John questioned the priest.
“Because God sent His Son Jesus to die for us,” he explained, “He sent His Son to pay for our sins. But most of all, He sent His Son to gain our love.”
“Are you saying that…God…loves everyone no matter what they do?” asked John.
“Yes,” replied Fr. Patrick.
“And that He would give people second chances?” continued John.
“That’s correct,” said the priest.
“I sure wish I could get a second chance,” John whispered to himself.
“You can receive that second chance by asking for forgiveness from the Father,” Fr. Patrick hinted.
“I’d like that,” John gasped. His eyes were barely opened by now. Fr. Patrick laid his hands on man’s hands. He was about to start praying, when he felt a shudder go through John’s body. The priest looked at John’s face and was saddened to see his eyes closed. The dying man had been unable to hold on any longer. Fr. Patrick gazed up to the lightening sky. Morning was beginning. Soon the city would be bustling with people heading to work.
“Father,” he prayed, “I ask thee, have mercy on his soul.” As if in response, a light breeze ruffled Fr. Patrick’s white hair.

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