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The bell rings. Again. Or at least I thought it did. I’ve been hearing bells ringing randomly, I convinced myself that it was all in my head, that I was traumatized. Sometimes they were just so real.
Why must I hear bells? Why must my sanity be broken? The man who killed my family was quite fond of his charm bracelet, which was fashioned with many bells. I was blinded at the time so I didn’t see him kill my family even though they were right in front of me. That didn’t stop me from hearing their screams mingle with his bells. Where ever I go, the sound has no mercy for me and continues to ring when I least expect it. As if it was for my own death.
True I was in a mental facility after the event, but no real progress was made. The doctors finally deemed me fit to live in the real world despite my condition so there I went. Of course I wasn’t very popular. No one really saw the point to talking to someone who freaked out every they heard a harmless bell.
After I heard the bell again ( I was walking down the street from work to my apartment) I spun around searching frantically for the source of the horrid sound. My face contorted in pure fear and I could feel my face get warm. Then my eyes darted to a boy ringing his toy bell with an innocent smile on his face.
“STOP THAT!” I didn’t mean to yell. He was only a little boy. He didn’t kill my family. The boy then jumped off his bench and came to me with a confused face.
“I didn’t mean nuttin’ by it. I was just tryin’ to help you.” My attention had now run away from the bell and went to what the boy was saying. “How were you trying to help me?” Now my emotional self had shifted to merely curious and not the frantic mental case I was before.
The boy scratched his chin and said thoughtfully, “I saw on a movie once that every time a bell rings an angel gets it’s wings.” “What makes you think I’m an angel?” I was touched at the pure innocence of this boy.
“I saw you go into that church.” He pointed right across the street to St. Peter’s Cathedral, the town’s very own landmark. “Not everyone who goes into a church is an angel.” I said too bitterly, knowing that the house of God had done nothing for me and my sanity.
“Well, I think you are. Or at least I think you could be close to one, You’re just afraid of bells, that’s all,” and with that he ran away.
I stood stock still for a whole minute thinking about what he said. Close to an angel? What did he mean by that? I doubt there are any crazy angels, or even orphaned ones. Why? Because the Lord created them and provides. I guess that means the Lord doesn’t provide for the lesser beings. I knew I shouldn’t be mad at Him, but what did I have? Little boys telling me I could be an angel. That’s all I have.
I began to take step forward and when my foot touched the cement the church bells began to ring. One half of me expected the other half to run away like it always did when I heard any type of bells. It didn’t run. Neither half was alarmed in any way. Then I understood. The Lord hadn’t forgotten me. The sound of the bells filled the whole in my heart caused by my family’s death and the whole in my mind caused by my the man with the charm bracelet. Why did I ever doubt?