══════════════════

I hate the colour white. It's bland, unassuming, and doesn't give me anything. At least the colour green elicits emotions, even if they are bad. Camo green, not light green. Light green just means I'm in Angel's house, which gives me a sense of peace.

The pill is white, round, and unassuming. It's meant to be a good thing, because it'll help with the anxiety and depression, apparently, though the doctor told me to wait four weeks, and I could get worse before I get better. But the thought of getting better right now doesn't fill me with the hope it should. Maybe because it's encapsulated literally in a little oval pill.

It looks like a practice bullet. A 'BB' is what they call it; we use them in training, and they leave tiny circular bruises everywhere if you get hit anywhere where you're not covered. Little bitches are what some soldiers call them.

I take the thing before my brain talks me out of it. I wash it down with a sip of coke and sit back with the controller in hand. It's Wednesday, which means Warminster town is going to be littered with army police while the boys have their weekly night out. I remember the one and only time I joined them going down the local pub on the high street, and I vowed never again. The number of scare stories of soldiers getting convicted of some awful shit because they simply got too drunk was just too much.

That kind of shit is the thing Charlie used to tell me about, the so-called fun side of the army. It would save them from getting shit like I have. 'Bottle the shit up too much, Bry, and you end up on happy pills because you let it get to you.' In other words, it was happy pills or punching and assaulting people every single Wednesday night, so much that they send armoured police out with them.

I suppose taking a pill every day is better than having a criminal record because I had too many vodkas.

It's just one reason I hate being in my family, and why I hate being in the army. They say to hold our soldiers above everyone else in this country. The army is honoured, loved, and respected. Little do they know the shit that goes on. Behind the fighting for King and country, the delivery of Covid vaccines and tests, and behind training others and being organised, is a sordid and horrendous canvas.

"How're you doing?" Angel appears at the top of the stairs. She's now in pink-purple Winnie-The-Pooh pyjama trousers and a long matching top with a fluffy white robe on. "Sorry, I really can't stay in proper clothes inside. Gotta be pyjamas."

I smile and shake my head. "Understandable."

She sits in the armchair opposite. She's still wearing makeup, and her black hair is now in a bun. "You took the first one?" She nods towards the box of pills in my hand.

"Yeah. Just... I don't know, feeling weird about it," I admit. Why does it feel easy to talk to her about everything? Half the shit I've admitted to in the past twelve hours I haven't told anyone, so why her?

"You will, I imagine. I remember my ex telling me once about the first time his brother took antidepressants. My brother took them after my dad died, as well. They both said that it was like taking liquid courage in a way but also shame. But then they got it over with and they started to believe they would get better. I kind of liken it to an antibiotic. Might not help straight away, but it needs to get in your blood before it can, right?" she says. "And who even has to know? It's just a small tablet you take before you even have breakfast... no one will know unless you tell 'em."

I put the box on the table in front of me. "I suppose so. You have a brother?"

She smiles. "Max. He's seventeen, so five years younger than me. I'm twenty-two."

"I've just realised you're a year older than me," I admit. For some reason, that makes me feel a little better. Angels are meant to be older, right? Older and wiser.

"A whole year. I feel old!" She's joking because there's a tiny glimmer in her eyes. "Yeah, he was only thirteen when Dad died. Old enough to understand, but he never really took it hard like I did. He knew what suicide meant; he just didn't quite have that anger. I guess because he's younger, he empathised more. I don't know. But he just accepted it."

The pain is etching on her forehead, her eyebrows pinching together. I want to cross the gap and hug her. But I can also tell she doesn't want that right now.

"People grieve in different ways. I've seen so much of it; I can understand all kinds of reactions. Children are more accepting of it. Though he was a teenager, I guess he just... dealt with it the way his brain told him to."

She nods. "He's also way more mature than me, despite being younger."

I laugh. "That would help."

"Do you have anyone else other than your parents? Other family, girlfriend, or anyone?" she asks.

The question takes me by surprise. I don't know why I'm not expecting it, or whether I half-expect her to know this. She wouldn't, though. I'm also intrigued by why she's interested.

Is she interested in me as a human being, more than just something to fix?

Am I just that to her? Someone to fix, something to fix her, a distraction?

I don't think I am, or at least I don't feel like that to her.

"No, just my parents. I have a few friends, but everyone just checks out when they realise you can get called on at any moment to get shot at, you know?" I admit.

"That's really sad."

I shrug. "Just life. My family is pretty lonely, anyway. Just army friends and whatever. It's just the way, you know? What about you? You mentioned an ex."

She'll think I'm prying, I'm sure of it. But I'm intrigued to know her story. She seems to give little hints that she's got no one. Maybe she is like me in a way.

She straightens up in the armchair. "Yeah, Zack. My ex-boyfriend. I was with him from when I was sixteen. After my dad died, we were together for four months after that. He broke up with me because he told me he didn't love me anymore. But I think he didn't like the way I reacted to Dad's death. Which, I guess, is fair enough. Like, I was selfish and angry. He just moved into the spare room until I found this place. It was just toxic."

There's more there, I can tell, but it's clear she's uncomfortable, so I don't push.

I cock my head. "I mean, grief does things to you, strange things. Every reaction is valid, including being selfish and angry. That's not fair to break up with you because of that."

She shrugs. "It is what it is. I think of it as a good thing. Him breaking up with me gave me the kick I needed to move, get this house and my job, and now, to help you out when you need it."

That last comment flushes through my cheeks, so I ignore it. "That's fair. I mean, I've only ever had one girlfriend when I was seventeen, but we broke up when I left for the army. She thought she could handle it when we got together; I was upfront with her about it. But the reality is different."

She sighs. "That's awful. But then, I suppose, that is life. I've never really experienced it, but from some stories from work, I hear about husbands in the army, and it sounds difficult. Obviously not as difficult as being a soldier."

"It's difficult for the families more, I think. It's easier for us because we just do as we're told, you know?"

She nods. "I can see that. I think it's sad yet honourable all round in a way. But... in answer to your question, I only really have work friends, you know? Like people I hang out with but aren't really friends with. I guess it's a lonely life, but not solitary."

"I bet lockdowns were tough being on your own?"

She grins. "I got a lot of decorating done. As you can see, I'm not quite there yet though."

Clearing my throat, I stand up and look at the paint splodges on the kitchen wall. "You like green. I've noticed so much light green."

She stands up and giggles. "It reminds me of the forest, and though I work there, I like it. Reminds me of freedom."

I snort and look at her. "Forests are dark green."

"Yeah, I know. But some trees in the forest are light green, and pastel colours just feel free to me. I just like green, but pastel green feels freer than dark. I'm repeating myself a lot," she whispers. Her leg pokes out a little, and she twists her foot on the floor in embarrassment. She's cute, just like an angel.

"I can help you decorate," I offer.

She grins. "That'd be amazing!"

══════════════════

I dish up dinner for us both at the kitchen table and watch her face light up.

"You don't need to cook, Bryson," she insists, as I put the two glasses of wine on the table. Though it's all from her cupboard, it saved her a job.

"It's a thank you for everything. And I'll pay for the supermarket shop tomorrow. I also want to talk about rent—"

She scoffs before sipping her wine. "You don't need to pay rent. I'd be paying the mortgage anyway, whether you were here or not. My dad's inheritance paid for most of it anyway, so I'm not paying much off."

"I mean, fair, but it's the least I can do," I reply.

She shakes her head and tucks into the enchiladas. "I don't want you to pay me anything. If you want to do something, I'd appreciate you getting better, and I don't know, the occasional shop. How about that?"

I shrug. "Seems fair. I'll chip in for the bills as well. And I won't take no for an answer on that one. Your electric and gas will go up with me here. It's the right thing, and I want to."

She sighs. "Fine. Deal."

I eat my food and watch the smile spread on her face.

"If I say so myself, this is pretty good."

"I'm impressed, Mr Hale."

I snort. "Not to toot my own horn, but I can cook some pretty good stuff. I'll get the stuff for paella and curry."

Her eyes widen. "I like the sound of that. We might just make great roommates after all."

I sip my wine. She only had red wine in the cupboard,

so I used that. I remember it's regarded as an aphrodisiac, and with my vulnerability right now, I need to take it easy. Yet she's so perfect. I just want to know if those lips feel as soft as they look.

Not now, Bryson.

"I think we can definitely make this work," I agree.

She picks up her wine and I notice the small marks on her arm, white and healed, but obvious. I know what they are, and as I divert my eyes away, I realise that there is far more to Angel than I thought there was.

When she told me about her ex and her dad dying, she mentioned she came here to escape and lead a quiet life. She mentioned how she can be lonely, but maybe she is affected more by her old life than she told me she is. Maybe she helped me because she saw a little of herself in me, just crying out for help in any way possible.

I wonder if her offer of me staying here was also because she's asking for help, but not in the same way I am, just for someone rather than something to help. 

══════════════════