Angel

Turquoise supernovas blossom behind oxygen-starved eyes. Legs pumping lactic now as they carry me through the acidic surf away from you. Fatigue. A tricky undercurrent carrying me towards treacherous sands. I can smell your breathy alcoholic overtones, taste your salt sweat on my skin. A final spurt carries me past your front door. I slow. Let my feet slap a martial rhythm past the green cracked paint of No. 10; past the cardboard and parcel tape holding the windows of no. 12 in place and into the piss-smeared alley that leads home. I stop in anxiety halfway. Your silhouette appears.

Connie

Two o'clock. That daughter of mine still ain't home. I get the ironing board out, play Motown, tell myself this is normal. Nobody has been lucky enough to develop a teenager who obeys curfews. Nobody else has Angel for a daughter. The ticking clock drives daggers through my head as I sit waiting. Ironing long done. I douse the oven in bleach and scrub, forcing blurred vision to focus through sagging eyelids as 3 o'clock turns into 4 o'clock, stretches towards 5 o'clock on tiptoes as I sit on my sparkling kitchen floor and wonder what my Angel has done.

Richard

It was harmless fun. Who hasn't dabbled where they shouldn't? I wouldn't again. She lured me in. Fluttering eyelashes. Wide brown eyes that draw the gaze to her too-small white shirt and too-short school skirt. What an angel. Who wouldn't be flattered, wanting her? I took her out, showed her how to have a little fun. She followed me home and ran when I noticed so I chased her. I knew what she wanted. In the alley, trousers around my ankles she told me, 'This is for Julia' as she tied my hands and left me spreadeagled, ribs like wings.