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picture_prompt_funTitle: Angel
Fandom: Jeremiah (TV)
Characters: Mr. Smith
Words: 987
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Of course, I don't own Jeremiah nor the characters
. 
. 
With shaking hands Smith stared at the picture in front of him.
Since he had found the old camera and the photoalbum in an abandoned house months ago, it had been his biggest treasure. He had kept it secret, hadn't even told Kurdy about it.
It was not that he didn't trust him. Maybe Kurdy was the only friend he had on earth. Most people called him a freak, laughed about him, beat him up because of his strange behaviour they couldn't understand or that even scared them. He couldn't remember his past; he did know anything about his parents, his siblings or anyone else from the old world. Everything was erased out of his head.
„You don't need to remember the past,“ God had told him once.
„You are the messenger of the future.“
First, he had tried to fight the voice in his head, all in vain. No chance to escape. But sometimes it almost drove him crazy; all the mysterious phrophecies he mostly wasn't able to understand before it was too late; all the people, men, women, children even, he hadn't been able to safe. Sometimes the nightmares got overwhelming. And even God seemed to realize that he needed a rest and kept quiet for a while.
Then Smith used to leave the Mountain, looking for shelter in an old shed in the woods. Here he could find his inner peace again. The walls covered with photos he had discovered in the old photoalbum. Black and white photos, blurred and tattered. Pictures of a long gone time when the world still had been okay.
Most instruiging a picture of a wedding. A man and his wife; he was dressed up in his best suit and she was wearing a white wedding dress; a bunch of flowers in her hands; she was smiling at the guy shyly, he looked very serious. And another image of the same guy, wearing an uniform this time, and a big gun. Obviously he had been a soldier during the first world war.
Smith often looked at these pictures, wondering what might had happened to this couple. Did he come back to her? Had he been seriously injured, maybe lost a leg or an arm, like so many soldiers? Was he killed in action, or maybe missed? And his wife, she had been still so young, had she nursed him? Cried about him? Did they have children? Did they love each other?
Maybe they did grow old together. Sometimes Smith tried to picture them as an old couple on a porch. Both of them with gray hair and wrinkles on their faces; they had gone through a lot during their life together, but they had made it. They were still together, and she still smiled at him slightly shy, as she had done on their wedding day.
A reassuring thought which always gave Smith back some hope and confidence.
:::
Today though, everything was different. The moment he entered the old shed he had felt it. Today he would not find what he was looking for so desperately, some rest and peace. His arm, where the bullet had hit him, still burned like fire and he still wasn't able to move his hand. The pictures he tried to forget flared up again with a clearness that he doubled over and needed to look for a hold.
His hand touched one of the pictures, tore it off from the wall and it fell onto the floor. Smith gasped for air. He was sure that he had never seen this picture before.
The picture of a young woman in a church. She was wearing a black dress; her hair was falling over her shoulders. The head slightly bowed, her eyes seemed to look at him. Full of sadness, despair and denunciation.
Reluctantly Smith bent forward to pick it up. His well hand was shaking wild while the pain in his hurt arm increased even more.
Libby. The woman he had killed last night. At the old church of Inverness. Because God had send him there to do what needed to be done.
He still remembered her as a friend. She had never laughed about him, nor about anyone else. Everyone in the Mountain had loved her. No one had seen the truth. Only God had warned him.
„She is not what she seems to be,“ he had told him only some days ago.
„Soon enough you will have to make a decision.“
Like so often he hadn't understand to meaning of his words. Maybe, if he would have come here into the shed earlier, maybe, if he would have find this picture of her before that night...
Smith couldn't take his eyes away from the dark shadow behind her figure in the picture. Big, black wings. A dark angel. Beautiful but lost, dangerous. She had managed it to deceive everyone around, had hidden the dark side of her.
The last evening, when he had sit outside together with her, on the stairs. He had had this disturbing vision, and she had listened to him. Her hand was resting on his arm encouraging.
The arm he couldn't move anymore now. Because she had shot at him. Back then he hadn't sensed anything bad but had felt comfortable as ever when she was around; she knew to make everything a bit easier to endure.
The truth had been within his grasp. God's message and this picture. Parts of a puzzle he hadn't been able to read right. Would he had been able to change things if he would have seen the truth earlier? Would he have been able to save her?
For a split of a second the picture in his hand changed. Sunbeams were falling through the windows of the church, bathing Libby's figure in bright light. Her eyes so live-affirming, her smile so open as ever. The dark wings gone, turned into sparkling white ones. The angel she had been for everyone in the Mountain.
Only for a split of a second, then the illusion was over. Shudderingly Smith dropped the picture and closed his eyes in pain, tears running over his face.
He had done the only right thing in that night in the church, and he had probably saved many lifes. But he knew, he would never forgive himself that he had killed an angel.
THE END
Fandom: Jeremiah (TV)
Characters: Mr. Smith
Words: 987
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Of course, I don't own Jeremiah nor the characters
. 
. 
With shaking hands Smith stared at the picture in front of him.
Since he had found the old camera and the photoalbum in an abandoned house months ago, it had been his biggest treasure. He had kept it secret, hadn't even told Kurdy about it.
It was not that he didn't trust him. Maybe Kurdy was the only friend he had on earth. Most people called him a freak, laughed about him, beat him up because of his strange behaviour they couldn't understand or that even scared them. He couldn't remember his past; he did know anything about his parents, his siblings or anyone else from the old world. Everything was erased out of his head.
„You don't need to remember the past,“ God had told him once.
„You are the messenger of the future.“
First, he had tried to fight the voice in his head, all in vain. No chance to escape. But sometimes it almost drove him crazy; all the mysterious phrophecies he mostly wasn't able to understand before it was too late; all the people, men, women, children even, he hadn't been able to safe. Sometimes the nightmares got overwhelming. And even God seemed to realize that he needed a rest and kept quiet for a while.
Then Smith used to leave the Mountain, looking for shelter in an old shed in the woods. Here he could find his inner peace again. The walls covered with photos he had discovered in the old photoalbum. Black and white photos, blurred and tattered. Pictures of a long gone time when the world still had been okay.
Most instruiging a picture of a wedding. A man and his wife; he was dressed up in his best suit and she was wearing a white wedding dress; a bunch of flowers in her hands; she was smiling at the guy shyly, he looked very serious. And another image of the same guy, wearing an uniform this time, and a big gun. Obviously he had been a soldier during the first world war.
Smith often looked at these pictures, wondering what might had happened to this couple. Did he come back to her? Had he been seriously injured, maybe lost a leg or an arm, like so many soldiers? Was he killed in action, or maybe missed? And his wife, she had been still so young, had she nursed him? Cried about him? Did they have children? Did they love each other?
Maybe they did grow old together. Sometimes Smith tried to picture them as an old couple on a porch. Both of them with gray hair and wrinkles on their faces; they had gone through a lot during their life together, but they had made it. They were still together, and she still smiled at him slightly shy, as she had done on their wedding day.
A reassuring thought which always gave Smith back some hope and confidence.
:::
Today though, everything was different. The moment he entered the old shed he had felt it. Today he would not find what he was looking for so desperately, some rest and peace. His arm, where the bullet had hit him, still burned like fire and he still wasn't able to move his hand. The pictures he tried to forget flared up again with a clearness that he doubled over and needed to look for a hold.
His hand touched one of the pictures, tore it off from the wall and it fell onto the floor. Smith gasped for air. He was sure that he had never seen this picture before.
The picture of a young woman in a church. She was wearing a black dress; her hair was falling over her shoulders. The head slightly bowed, her eyes seemed to look at him. Full of sadness, despair and denunciation.
Reluctantly Smith bent forward to pick it up. His well hand was shaking wild while the pain in his hurt arm increased even more.
Libby. The woman he had killed last night. At the old church of Inverness. Because God had send him there to do what needed to be done.
He still remembered her as a friend. She had never laughed about him, nor about anyone else. Everyone in the Mountain had loved her. No one had seen the truth. Only God had warned him.
„She is not what she seems to be,“ he had told him only some days ago.
„Soon enough you will have to make a decision.“
Like so often he hadn't understand to meaning of his words. Maybe, if he would have come here into the shed earlier, maybe, if he would have find this picture of her before that night...
Smith couldn't take his eyes away from the dark shadow behind her figure in the picture. Big, black wings. A dark angel. Beautiful but lost, dangerous. She had managed it to deceive everyone around, had hidden the dark side of her.
The last evening, when he had sit outside together with her, on the stairs. He had had this disturbing vision, and she had listened to him. Her hand was resting on his arm encouraging.
The arm he couldn't move anymore now. Because she had shot at him. Back then he hadn't sensed anything bad but had felt comfortable as ever when she was around; she knew to make everything a bit easier to endure.
The truth had been within his grasp. God's message and this picture. Parts of a puzzle he hadn't been able to read right. Would he had been able to change things if he would have seen the truth earlier? Would he have been able to save her?
For a split of a second the picture in his hand changed. Sunbeams were falling through the windows of the church, bathing Libby's figure in bright light. Her eyes so live-affirming, her smile so open as ever. The dark wings gone, turned into sparkling white ones. The angel she had been for everyone in the Mountain.
Only for a split of a second, then the illusion was over. Shudderingly Smith dropped the picture and closed his eyes in pain, tears running over his face.
He had done the only right thing in that night in the church, and he had probably saved many lifes. But he knew, he would never forgive himself that he had killed an angel.
THE END
