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Description
I was a little girl when I first saw my guardian angel. My parents were having an argument, and I was hiding in my closet, clutching a stuffed animal- a dog I'd named Sugar Sweet- and crying. Suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. I watched with wide eyes as he placed a finger over my lips. "Shh," he murmured, "It's okay. "You're safe with me." He was a lot older than me, but at six years old, everyone seems a lot older.

I learned that his name was Mark, and when I looked at him I saw that he had black eyes, and black hair that was longer than I'd ever seen on a man. While I was hiding in that closet, he let me braid a lock of it, tying it off with a pink hair tie that had giant plastic beads on it. He just smiled when I proudly showed him my handiwork.

I was quick to learn that no one else could see Mark, and even if I couldn't always see him, I knew he was there. The way a child knows, I knew Mark was taking care of me. When the other kids didn't want to play with me, when my parents were fighting, when my teachers told me how well I was doing in school, he was always there. Sometimes, he was the only person I had, and he always had that first braid in his hair.

As I got older, I saw less and less of Mark, until I was in high school, and I didn't see him at all. I had ceased to believe in him. An imaginary friend, I thought, a coping mechanism. One day, in art class, I started working on a new drawing. Even if he had been an imaginary friend, I could remember his face clearly. I sketched in detail, and when Mr. Oliver came by, he stopped in his tracks. "Violet, this is beautiful," he said, "And without a model, or a photo? It's amazing!"

I hoped so- I had slaved over the sketch- it had taken forever to get the straight nose right, or the hair. One of the jocks who were only taking the class because they needed an elective looked over my shoulder. "The dude looks like a fag," he said.

I whirled around, holding a sharpened pencil inches from his throat. "Keep your trap shut, asshole," I growled.

"Both of you clean up your language," Mr. Oliver said severely, "And Brian, show a little respect."

'Brian' sneered at me and disappeared. I glared after him and turned back to the drawing. It did him no justice, really. How does one draw forgiving and patient eyes, or a kind smile?

Of course, soon Brian was telling everyone that I had some kind of fag boyfriend, but that I was able to ignore. For some reason, every time I looked at the drawing, it called up a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. Whatever I had had with my imaginary friend, I wanted it again.

After that day, I started what Mr. Oliver called a series. I painted Mark perched in a tree, watching over a younger me as I and another kid climbed- but I painted him with large, black feathery wings. White ones wouldn't have fit. I painted him talking to eight year old me at a fountain, one wing around my shoulders. I drew him comforting six year old me while silhouettes of my parents argued in the background. I couldn't stop and Mark found his way into all of my art, his kind black eyes seeming to pierce me to the core, that one braid calling up a lump in my throat.

Mr. Oliver watched my progress carefully, and whatever he thought of Mark's advent in my artwork, he praised my work. "It's very touching," he told me, "I've never seen anything quite so beautiful." Then he asked me if I was telling a story with this series. The idea struck a chord, and so I painted a thirteen year old me walking away, while Mark sadly watched me go, and then I painted a view of me from behind, working on that first drawing with Mark watching from a distance. For the first time in a long time, I felt his presence, and painted a portrait of myself at the easel, with Mark just behind, watching my progress.

I think it was these paintings that made Mr. Oliver realize I was the subject of my own series. "Heartrending," he murmured, looking at the canvases. "You must have lost someone who meant a lot to you."
I didn't reply.

Mr. Oliver displayed the entire series at the student art show, and I even saw Brian's girlfriend dragging him over to look at it. I won the People's Choice ribbon, and second place for the series' entries. I was bested by a series about a kid while his parents divorced. My parents, by now divorced, even acted peacefully while they looked at my work. When I caught them looking at me as if just realizing what my childhood had been like I rushed out of the school, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat.

"Violet," murmured a voice. I looked around, but there was no one there. I sat on a bench, hugging myself. "Violet," the voice murmured again.

"What do you want?" I asked, bitter tears coming to my eyes.

He materialized before me, exactly as I remembered him. Dressed all in black, kind black eyes, long black hair and the one braid I had put there. No wings.

"I was surprised," he murmured, "That you remembered what I looked like."

"Everyone seems to be surprised about me these days," I growled. "Where've you been?"

"The same place I always was," he answered simply. "You simply didn't look."
I rubbed at my eyes, angry at my own tears. "I look like a fool," I muttered.

"Violet," he said, kneeling in front of me, "I've always been with you, and I always will be."

I looked away. "Why can't you be something I can touch, someone everyone else can see?"

"Because I'm dead, Violet," he snapped.

I looked at him in surprise.

"I killed myself because the woman I thought I loved left me." He smiled bitterly. "Worst reason to kill yourself, if you ask me. But you needed me, and so that's all that matters." He shook his head. "Violet, all you have to do is believe in me."

I looked at the braid. I had been able to touch him. I kissed his forehead. "I love you," I whispered.

Something changed, then, but I couldn't say what- until my parents came out and asked to be introduced. I stared.

They could see him.

"I told you," he said with a smile.

Description
I was a little girl when I first saw my guardian angel. My parents were having an argument, and I was hiding in my closet, clutching a stuffed animal- a dog I'd named Sugar Sweet- and crying. Suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. I watched with wide eyes as he placed a finger over my lips. "Shh," he murmured, "It's okay. "You're safe with me." He was a lot older than me, but at six years old, everyone seems a lot older.

I learned that his name was Mark, and when I looked at him I saw that he had black eyes, and black hair that was longer than I'd ever seen on a man. While I was hiding in that closet, he let me braid a lock of it, tying it off with a pink hair tie that had giant plastic beads on it. He just smiled when I proudly showed him my handiwork.

I was quick to learn that no one else could see Mark, and even if I couldn't always see him, I knew he was there. The way a child knows, I knew Mark was taking care of me. When the other kids didn't want to play with me, when my parents were fighting, when my teachers told me how well I was doing in school, he was always there. Sometimes, he was the only person I had, and he always had that first braid in his hair.

As I got older, I saw less and less of Mark, until I was in high school, and I didn't see him at all. I had ceased to believe in him. An imaginary friend, I thought, a coping mechanism. One day, in art class, I started working on a new drawing. Even if he had been an imaginary friend, I could remember his face clearly. I sketched in detail, and when Mr. Oliver came by, he stopped in his tracks. "Violet, this is beautiful," he said, "And without a model, or a photo? It's amazing!"

I hoped so- I had slaved over the sketch- it had taken forever to get the straight nose right, or the hair. One of the jocks who were only taking the class because they needed an elective looked over my shoulder. "The dude looks like a fag," he said.

I whirled around, holding a sharpened pencil inches from his throat. "Keep your trap shut, asshole," I growled.

"Both of you clean up your language," Mr. Oliver said severely, "And Brian, show a little respect."

'Brian' sneered at me and disappeared. I glared after him and turned back to the drawing. It did him no justice, really. How does one draw forgiving and patient eyes, or a kind smile?

Of course, soon Brian was telling everyone that I had some kind of fag boyfriend, but that I was able to ignore. For some reason, every time I looked at the drawing, it called up a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. Whatever I had had with my imaginary friend, I wanted it again.

After that day, I started what Mr. Oliver called a series. I painted Mark perched in a tree, watching over a younger me as I and another kid climbed- but I painted him with large, black feathery wings. White ones wouldn't have fit. I painted him talking to eight year old me at a fountain, one wing around my shoulders. I drew him comforting six year old me while silhouettes of my parents argued in the background. I couldn't stop and Mark found his way into all of my art, his kind black eyes seeming to pierce me to the core, that one braid calling up a lump in my throat.

Mr. Oliver watched my progress carefully, and whatever he thought of Mark's advent in my artwork, he praised my work. "It's very touching," he told me, "I've never seen anything quite so beautiful." Then he asked me if I was telling a story with this series. The idea struck a chord, and so I painted a thirteen year old me walking away, while Mark sadly watched me go, and then I painted a view of me from behind, working on that first drawing with Mark watching from a distance. For the first time in a long time, I felt his presence, and painted a portrait of myself at the easel, with Mark just behind, watching my progress.

I think it was these paintings that made Mr. Oliver realize I was the subject of my own series. "Heartrending," he murmured, looking at the canvases. "You must have lost someone who meant a lot to you."
I didn't reply.

Mr. Oliver displayed the entire series at the student art show, and I even saw Brian's girlfriend dragging him over to look at it. I won the People's Choice ribbon, and second place for the series' entries. I was bested by a series about a kid while his parents divorced. My parents, by now divorced, even acted peacefully while they looked at my work. When I caught them looking at me as if just realizing what my childhood had been like I rushed out of the school, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat.

"Violet," murmured a voice. I looked around, but there was no one there. I sat on a bench, hugging myself. "Violet," the voice murmured again.

"What do you want?" I asked, bitter tears coming to my eyes.

He materialized before me, exactly as I remembered him. Dressed all in black, kind black eyes, long black hair and the one braid I had put there. No wings.

"I was surprised," he murmured, "That you remembered what I looked like."

"Everyone seems to be surprised about me these days," I growled. "Where've you been?"

"The same place I always was," he answered simply. "You simply didn't look."
I rubbed at my eyes, angry at my own tears. "I look like a fool," I muttered.

"Violet," he said, kneeling in front of me, "I've always been with you, and I always will be."

I looked away. "Why can't you be something I can touch, someone everyone else can see?"

"Because I'm dead, Violet," he snapped.

I looked at him in surprise.

"I killed myself because the woman I thought I loved left me." He smiled bitterly. "Worst reason to kill yourself, if you ask me. But you needed me, and so that's all that matters." He shook his head. "Violet, all you have to do is believe in me."

I looked at the braid. I had been able to touch him. I kissed his forehead. "I love you," I whispered.

Something changed, then, but I couldn't say what- until my parents came out and asked to be introduced. I stared.

They could see him.

"I told you," he said with a smile.