“Never let ‘em get you down, Xee. Don’t you ever give in.” That’s what my dad always used to say when the local gang came around our neighborhood. I can still see his stern face and hear my mother’s nervous voice as they passed by. Everything was so vibrant and eloquent in those days, but not anymore. Now it’s all drugs, money, and turf wars. Of course, I remember the good days of playing in my parents’ yard. That was before I turned twelve and joined the gang. That was before I gave in.


Someone was calling my name; Xero, Xero, Xero over and over again. Opening my eyes, I groaned as I sat up. My hand went over my chest to the coarse fabric of the bandages over my ribs. I reached over to my shirt hanging over the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming man,” I grumbled as I pulled it over my head, “Can’t you let me heal a little on my birthday?” My shout to the other room echoed through the ramshackle house. I knew I had been roused to make an early morning drug run.

About half an hour later, I was in the park, sitting on a bench away from the public’s eyes. I had already handed off the drugs and now I thumbed through the bills in my hand. My share of it would be small and not enough to pay my rent. Letting out a sigh, I dropped my head into my hands. My fingertips brushed against my white bandana that was wrapped tight over my forehead. Nothing is going right, anymore. I thought to myself ruefully.

A commotion across the park caught my eye and I recognized my gang brother, Ziggy, getting in our rival gang member’s face. He was extending his body upward towards the other guy to seem threatening (and to make up for his short build). Jumping up, I sprinted across the grass just as the man took a swing at Ziggy’s indignant face. I glimpsed more members, about our age, pour out of a black Nissan. Stepping in, I knocked away someone’s arm that was trying to grab Ziggy. A tattooed fist flashed before my vision and impacted my jaw. My body twisted away from the blow and my bandana was flung from my head.

Throwing my weight back into the brawl, I clipped a man in the head and heaved another one off of Ziggy. Another blow landed right on my sore ribs. The hit knocked the breath out of me and I saw my attacker was the one Ziggy was threatening. I mentally cursed Ziggy for being so ignorant.

“Xero, let’s go!” Ziggy’s voice roared over the confusion. I stumbled toward his voice and we took off down a side alley. Throwing ourselves behind some dumpsters, we watched the other gang run by and turn a corner.

“Don’t you ever do something like that again.” I hissed threateningly to Ziggy as I rose to my feet. Ziggy just shrugged and wiped blood off his face. Typical. We made our way home and I put my arm around his shoulders. He may be an idiot, but he’s still my bro. I thought silently.

A week later, I was tired of being eighteen. My rent was months behind, drug deals were cheaper elsewhere, and I was tired of my “gang family”. You’d think I would have known better after six years in this business. I thought to myself as I sat alone on that park bench again. My life was a train wreck and I was just an unlucky passenger that got skewered to the seat. After staring blankly at the stems of grass at my feet, I noticed a pair of purple sneakers approach me.

My head shot up and I beheld who was standing in front of me. It was a girl, nearly my age, dressed in jeans and a white hoodie that covered her head. Her warm brown eyes searched mine for a moment, and then she confidently laid a package in my hands. I glanced down at it, then tore it open. My white bandana that I had lost in the fight lay in the brown paper. My eyes shot back up questioningly to the girl. She just shoved her hands into her jean pockets and smiled. It was a perfect smile that took my breath away. With some difficulty, I spoke to her.

“Wh-What’s your name? How did you know this was mine?” I inquired as I gestured to the bandana in my lap.

“I saw the fight and saw you lose it a few weeks ago. I always come to this park, so it was easy to find you again.” She paused contemplatively for a moment. “I also know what you do. Call me The Angel, I suppose.” My mind clung sluggishly to her words. She knew what kind of person I was and still was kind to me? The Angel slowly reached her hand out and placed a note with a phone number on it in my outstretched palm.

“That’s my number. It seems like this isn’t where you belong. Call me if you ever need help.” Those were her last words before she departed, carrying her scent and smile away with her. Tying my bandana back around my head, I looked at her number thoughtfully.

It was nearly a month before I actually risked calling her. I had witnessed my gang murder a young boy and I had been evicted. This was the last straw. Sitting on a bus bench with a duffle bag of my belongings, I checked over my shoulder multiple times before dialing her number. It rang twice and my heart nearly stopped when I heard her voice come on the line. I poured out my whole story to her and she listened compassionately.

“I’m so glad you called me, although I’m still a stranger to you. There’s a house on South Knoll Avenue that will gladly take you in. A missionary owns it and he knows me.” The Angel gave me the details and I boarded the bus with a hopeful heart. The house was far enough away that my gang would probably never find me again. When I arrived, the missionary and his wife shook my hand like I was a gentleman and told me they had been expecting me. The room I was given was cozy and the food was exquisite. The missionary man gave me a bible and helped me find a job at the local pharmacy. When I heard where the job was, I nearly died of shame, but the man said he trusted me.

Life was finally going good. By January the next year, The Angel came around more often and we became quite close. I wrote to my parents for the first time in years and even sent them some money, in case they were struggling. The Angel was as sweet as ever, but she never removed her hood and she always had dark circles under her eyes. When I interrogated her about this, she just brushed it off and never gave me a straightforward answer. The months flowed on in an exuberant rhythm until The Angel missed her visit with me a week from Valentine’s Day.

“Son, I think there’s something you ought to know about The Angel.” When the missionary broke the news to me, everything clicked into place. The dark circles, the hood, the pained grimaces; it all made sense! I thanked the missionary grimly and drove the family car to her house. Her father answered the door and told me how her Chemotherapy had made her too weak to visit today. He invited me in and pointed to a door down the hall.

My visit with The Angel that day made me appreciate life more. She said she had been ashamed to tell me about the cancer. When I asked if she would ever get better, her answer was a simple shrug. After this meeting, I visited her constantly and even brought her flowers once when her Chemo had been particularly exhausting. Valentine’s Day came around and I wanted to do something cute for her. I took time to write her a letter, rent a movie, and get some take-out.

When I arrived to The Angel’s home, her father met me again with a solemn face. He said she had been moved to the hospital and she was losing the battle. He handed me a small Valentine’s card with her handwriting on the back.

Dearest Xero,


I’m glad I met you that day in the park. I wouldn’t have been able to hold on as long as I did if I hadn’t had you. I felt like I was supposed to help you, since no one else was going to. The missionary told me you have brought light to his family’s life and mine. Don’t worry, Xero, this is not the end. Enjoy life while it’s here and don’t be afraid of your gang. God is watching over you. Another angel told me today was my day. Ironic right? I’m not scared to die, so please don’t mourn for me. I’ll see you when you get here.

Yours alone and truly,


The Angel

When I arrived at the hospital, there was no Angel anymore. She was far away. I never saw her again, but I kept her letter until it disintegrated from age.