MY ANGEL
The line between salvation and sin is thin.
This story was supposed to be long, but I already have enough projects on my plate. Clearly, the goal here is to finish writing these long-form projects. So I’m posting this here, see if I would want to pick it up in the future.
© 2026 Annieguile Bentulan/Through Words Be Guiled. All rights reserved.
MY ANGEL
By: Annieguile Bentulan
It was mid-May, three days before the weekend. The sun hung high, spilling gold across the campgrounds.
And yet her smile outshone it. If the sun god were real, he’d be jealous of her.
She was bumped
in passing, chestnut waves tumbling loose. I half-hoped she’d flip her hair, roll her eyes, snap back, show me a crack—a flaw, to see a dent in character for this beautiful girl, a modern-day Helen of Troy, she was.
Instead, she smiled, soft and angelic, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“It’s alright.”
The moment she turned toward me, we both realized I wasn’t the only one staring. I expected her to shrink beneath the sudden attention—head bowed, shoulders folding in—she glowed brighter. Her voice rose, loud and a little absurd, yet beautifully so:
“BucksTub Camp, Rock!”
Instead of being side-eyed for how cringey she was, the whole camp erupted in cheers, echoing her chant, and even the counselors clapped.
Pretty does that, unfair—true, but that’s the currency of beauty.
A beat passed, and a man in a brown trench coat sighed across from me.
*****
“Miss Hitchcock, we appreciate and understand…” Detective Seymoure enunciates each word before trailing off and clearing his throat. “The poetic way that you’re taking us through the whole story, but time is of the essence here. So if we could please get right to it.”
The young lady in red curls that’re cut short and jagged—a mop dipped in blood—stared only at the detective.
For a moment, Det. Seymour almost doubted his 25 years of experience. For years, police officers have revered him, fearing his tenacity in solving crimes. Yet here he was, sitting inside one of the small rooms of the shabby cabins of the camp.
With a teenager who doesn’t seem to recognize his authority other than her own. Seymour stared at the red-headed girl. He didn’t just see a witness; he saw a nuisance—the kind of pesky vermin that had cost him his marriage. He checked his watch. He already missed a call from Bernadette’s lawyer.
A sixteen-year-old girl had been found dead in the lake. Unfortunately for Seymour—and the killer—she wasn’t just any camper. She was the long-lost granddaughter of a man powerful enough to drag him down the lonely stretch to the highway that led to this camp.
The freckled girl across from him remained staring at Seymour.
“Are you planning to speak any moment now, girl?” he asked, not letting any ounce of indication that this moppy-haired girl had somehow struck a nerve. Nerve that’s been itching him to light a cigarette, a habit that he’d supposedly let go of for three years but immediately picked back up after his divorce.
“As I was saying, the morning stars shine through the leaves of the sycamore tree—”
The girl, Lucy, started again maintaining the poetic character she’d started.
Det. Seymour had to run his palm on his face before putting two fingers on the bridge of his nose, fed up with the girl’s bullshit.
“ And if we could cut off the theatrics, please…Lucy, right? Right, thank you!”Det. Seymour interrupted, slamming the table between them with held-back force.
The girl paused, hand gestures suspended in mid-air. If one were to snap a picture, this supposed interrogation would look more like an audition for a declamation piece. Mocked, this whole thing felt like a mockery of Seymour’s repertoire. The thought burrowed deep enough to turn habit into hunger.
Seymour had already marked Lucy Hitchcock as a difficult eyewitness. As far as Seymour could tell, the girl kept to herself—despite everyone knowing her name. The only thing people knew was Lucy—the moppy red-haired girl who never seemed to leave her side.
The girl finally broke her statue-like state and looked at the detective with so much annoyance in her eyes, “Excuse me, detective, would you really like me to tell you the story or would you like to do it instead?” she asked, her eyebrow raised in challenge. “Except you wouldn’t be able to, because you don’t know her… You need me. I am the only one who knows my angel.”
It took a beat for the whole scene to register in Seymour’s mind. A sixteen-year-old girl is challenging his authority. He should put her in her place and assert dominance. But Seymour has never been the same since his divorce, if he were being honest. His therapist had told him to take an indefinite leave, but he, as always, has been as stubborn as a horse.
All he wanted to do at that moment was either wring the neck of this girl before him or silently leaving the room, getting his car, and getting back to his now bachelor’s pad in Manhattan.
He did neither; he slammed both hands on the table between them, not holding back this time. Lucy Hitchcock jumped in shock while staring wide-eyed at the detective.
“That’s it! Listen here, kid! This isn’t a Netflix special; your friend is in a body bag, Lucy. And the longer you play poet, the colder the trail gets,” he burst. Seymour took a couple of beats before he calmed down and added. “She’s dead,” Seymour said flatly. “And if you keep up with your theatrics, instead of actually helping us find your angel’s killer, you’ll stay in this room until reality catches up with you. No food and water.”
Seymour knew it would raise questions later. He didn’t care.
Without so much as a glance, Seymour left the room, slamming the door behind him. One of the brown-wearing marshals with a badge jumped to his feet in full alert and eyed the detective with anticipation. As if, should Seymour order him to bark, he would.
Seymour only eyed the startled young officer back and said, “Leave her there until I get back, no food or water.” When he turned toward the door—the only way out of the humid, shabby shack—the crew went quiet, eyes lifting from their ledgers and murmured talks to follow his movement.
He could’ve just left in silence, but he shouted his parting words instead as he made his way out.
“I’m going to get a cigarette. If this room isn’t exactly as I left it when I return, God help the person who moved it. This is my crime scene. And it stays that way!” He spat, then let the door slam with a heavy wooden thud.
*****
LUCY
My angel is dead. I couldn’t believe it. My angel is dead. Her beautiful body is now being placed inside a body bag. Like trash being taken out.
Her body is now likely being transported to the nearest funeral home or a morgue. Where strange men will touch her now, beautiful, cold body, and lay their filthy hands on them.
“NO!”
The image of men hovering over her made me nauseous. I’d only glimpsed it once, when I was at the girls’ lavatory—steam filled the girls’ lavatory, blurring the mirrors until the whole room looked like it was holding its breath. I knew she was there before I saw her—the lavender of her shampoo always arrived first, soft and unmistakable, like a ghost of her drifting ahead.
Her Pikachu bag sat on the bench, bright and ridiculous in that grey little room. It felt like a clue left in the open, beckoning me in.
I stood still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter whatever fragile miracle had placed us in the same space.
The shower curtain was half-drawn. Not closed. Not open. An invitation or an accident—I didn’t know which, and that uncertainty made my heart throb.
Through the fogged plastic, I could see her silhouette. The curve of her shoulders. The gentle tilt of her head as the water traced its way down her skin. She looked unreal, a painting came to life.
She made a small sound, soft, fragile, and my breath caught. I stepped closer without meaning to, my bare feet whispering against the tile.
“My angel,” I thought, with the kind of devotion akin to prayer.
I heard a voice, not hers, another person’s voice.
A woman’s voice, close to her, murmuring something I couldn’t make out over the hiss of the water.
The world tilted then. My hands reached for my mouth before gasps of betrayal escaped them. I backed away into the nearest stall, my pulse roaring in my ears. Through the thin wall, I could hear them—two people occupying the very universe I had built for her in my head.
A few moments passed, and the curtain slid fully open. They stepped out together, wrapped in the steam and closeness they’ve shared. Whispered giggles shared between their smiling faces, moving with the easy familiarity, only I should know.
The ache that bloomed in my chest was sharp, like a freshly cut wound. How dare the world take the only pure thing in this damning dirt?
How dare she make a mess of her purity?
I mulled through these questions as the night settled into a dead silence. As if in agreement with the resentment that bloomed in my chest.
My thoughts went still when I heard the door groan on its hinges, the heavy wooden thud echoing in the small, airless room. It was followed with soft steps, unlike Det. Seymour’s loafers have an intentional and authoritative click, but the rhythmic jingle of the utility belt and the scuff of work boots.
Deputy Miller entered, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He was local, thick-necked with a face reddened by the sun and a mustache that covered his top lip entirely. I scanned his outfit for his sunglasses and found them tucked into his left pocket—a small, strange deviation from the way one would normally wear them—a cliche town deputy, trying to go off script. I fought off the smile that threatened in the corners of my lips. He held the clipboard like a shield to his chest as he leaned his right shoulder against the door frame.
He surveyed the room I was in and only allowed his eyes to look at me briefly, as if I were the least interesting thing in this dingy room. Instead, he looked at the water-stained ceiling, then at the scarred wooden table, and finally down at his own boots. Swiped something off of it, but we both knew there was nothing there.
He’s performing. I thought. Well, then, Mr. Deputy, two can play this game. I maintained my cool demeanor and didn’t budge. Remained in my “audition” pose, as my mother would loathingly call it, and gave this deputy no mind at all.
“Detective’s gone for a smoke,” he grunted, still wiping the invisible dirt on his boots. His voice was gravelly; it lacked the character I loved in Det. Seymour. But what would one expect from an extra attempt to be a main character? His voice carried the weariness that comes with a mundane job like his. A voice who’d dealt with unnecessary and repeated noise complaints and stray cattle, not dead angels found floating in this lake.
“He’d said no food or water,” he continued, finally glancing at her. There was a softness that appeared in the corner of his eyes, just a fraction of a second—the way one looks at a wounded animal that might still bite. “But the man’s got a temper like a brushfire. Don’t mind him too much.”
Seeing as he is not getting a reaction from me, he shifted his gaze to the clipboard he’s holding. “Lucy, right? Lucy Hitchcock?”
I just nodded at him. As a star would, interacting with the minor characters of this play, especially those who are desperately trying to get off script. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled peppermint candy, then threw it onto the desk that sat between them.
He only shifted in his stance. Moving from his leaned-in posture to placing both his arms on the door frames. “You don’t talk much, huh?”
I tilted my head and gave him a deadpan look. He left the door frame and took confident steps inside, grabbing the chair where Seymour sat across from her. But he flipped the chair so that the back of it faced Lucy.
“You see, kid, I think you did it. I think you killed her,” he said, light glistening in his eyes.
******************************
Seymour lit his third cigarette, the smoke curling into the damp pine air. He eyed the honeyed strewn of lights through the trees above him; it was beautiful, yet all he saw was grey. Smeared, only by red from that clown-looking kid and her theatrics.
He checked his phone. As expected, it was filled with a dozen missed calls from his soon-to-be ex-wife. He shook his head at himself for ridiculously thinking that he’d much prefer to receive angry phone calls from his chief than to be reminded of Betty.
The only break from Betty’s calls, aside from his lawyer, was from his partner. Whom he fucked only once, in a drunken stupor after receiving the divorce papers from Betty’s lawyer.
And now the bitch, refuses to work with him unless he names what’s going on between them. If Seymour is being honest, he’d say, as it is, it was a fucking one-night stand. But he’d learned from Betty that doing that will only worsen the situation, and he really is not in the mood to deal with yet another bitch.
Nearing footsteps pulled him out of the hazy memory of Betty’s perfume and back into the damp pine-scented air of the camp. He didn’t turn around. He knew the gait—the heavy, purposeful stride of someone who wanted to be noticed but lacked the grace to do it quietly.
Seymour only tucked both his hands in his pockets. The approaching footsteps cleared their throat, and Seymour turned to their direction, finally granting them the attention that their footsteps demanded but did not get.
There stood another deputy of BuckStub County, whose sheriff is yet to show his face before him. “What can I do for you, deputy?”
“Well, sir… it seems we may have found an additional lead. One of the girls we’ve interviewed mentioned that the dead girl was seen a few times hanging out with a camp senior,” the deputy said, feigning confidence in his stance, as he faced Seymour.
How typical for this to turn where a man is involved, Seymour thought. “What’s the lad’s name?”
“Well..uhh” the deputy scratched his head. “ It’s one of the camp seniors, a girl, sir.”
“Christ!” Seymour exclaimed. ‘Well then! What’s the name?”
“It’s Ophelia Bateman, sir.”
“ Okay, arrange another interview for the girl. I’ll talk to the batshit one now and mention her, perhaps then that’ll stop her from going all loony.” Seymour turned on his heel and walked towards the cabin.
*******
LUCY
I already heard Seymour’s footsteps, way before Mr. Deputy right here grabbed for the chair across from me. But Mr. Deputy was busy with his performance. He sat astride the chair, his chest pressing against the steel backrest, trying to look like a hard-boiled interrogator from a TV rerun.
“You see, kid, I think you did it,” he said again, and I heard Seymour’s footsteps halt inches by the door opening. Somehow, letting this ridiculous scene take place. The young detective wannabe leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial low. “See, I think… You followed her to that lake. I think you were jealous of her, and that’s why you drowned her in the lake!”
I didn’t blink. I let my eyes drift to the crumpled peppermint on the table, then back to his face dripping with that try-hard attitude. I felt a surge of intellectual superiority. He was so obvious in his performance of wanting to be a lead detective. What many people fail to admit is that there is a huge difference between wanting to and actually believing you are one. And this deputy right here desperately wants to be one.
“You’re reaching with those theories, deputy,” I said with a smirk beneath my plain, straight mouth. “I guess it’s easy to blame it on the odd kid, huh?” I pivoted the conversation, switching the narrative, and added air quotes for emphasis. “Why? Because I don’t fit the camp brochure? “I scoffed. “Is this what my parents’ good money is paid for with their taxes? A lame excuse of a deputy?”
The young deputy, before he opened his mouth to respond, eyebrows furrowed in fury. But Seymour’s loud clearing of his throat cut him off.
He marched in, head down, yet the room felt heavy, oozing with his authority. Suddenly, I’m in a 1860’s opera. He didn’t approach the table further; he just simply walked a couple of steps inside, and the room became his. He didn’t look at the deputy, who scrambled to stand up, the chair screeching in protest. He cast me a look, I couldn’t read, and it was too quick for me to register.
“Out, Deputy!” Seymour barked.
“S-sorry, sir, I was just—”
“I said OUT. Take your candy wrappers with you and go find me a coffee that doesn’t taste like piss.”
The deputy scurried out, and that’s when I noticed two sets of astonishing blue eyes, peering at me by the door.
“You!” Seymour called the attention of the deputy who tailed him to this room, my stage. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Deputy Miller, sir,” he said, confident in his voice. Yet something about this man’s voice is familiar.
“Make sure your captain, and I mean your Captain Johnson, knows I’d like to speak with him, specifically about his crew not knowing how to follow a simple order.”
With that, Seymour closed the door, surprisingly gentle to the deputy Miller’s face. He took a minute to pause by the door before he took deliberate steps towards the chair, flipped it backwards just like the other deputy, head still bent down, as if mulling over a thought.
I tilted my head to the right, studying him.
“Ophelia Bateman,” Seymour said.
The name hit the air like a stone dropped into a well. I felt the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. If any emotion went through the tiny crack, it was just a fraction. There’s no way this old detective may have caught it in time to notice.
But my head is swimming with memories, the lavatory—the lavender shampoo, the steam, and the woman whose silhouette had ruined my heaven.
“Does that name ring any bells for you?” Seymour then leaned and rested his chin over the arm laid on the top of the backrest. Eyeing her closely. “Does she sound familiar to you, Lucy?”
I felt a lump in my throat. Suddenly, my saliva seemed to have pooled in the base of my mouth. But I manage to maintain my porcelain mask, “No, who’s she?”
Seymour drummed his fingers on the backrest before making a clicking sound with his mouth. Then, bringing that same hand to his mouth, brushing his mustache.
“See…I find that hard to believe,” he said, still mulling over some information, information I don’t know anything of.
I felt a drop of sweat that dropped from the base of the back of my neck. “Why?”
“Well, it’s just that. Something doesn’t add up,” he said, flipping the chair again and leaning all the way back. He looks too relaxed for my liking.
A smile tried to break free from quivering lips. A quiver, I’ve been trying to calm down. “Well, you got me, detective. I am clueless as to who that person is.” I said, shrugging, “I haven’t heard of that name before, until now.” My throat suddenly felt dry, too dry.
“Is there a chance I could get some water?” I asked, as I took a huge swallow of the lump forming in my throat.
But the detective doesn’t seem to hear me. The quivering of my lips seemed to have travelled down to my hands, and I placed them between my thighs. “Please, detective, I need some water.”
“I will in a bit. See, riddle me this, according to the records of this camp, you’ve been its regular attendee, and Ophelia has been here for at least two years; she’s a camp counsellor at that.” Seymour actually said. “ So I find it curious that you claim that you haven’t met her or at least heard of her name.”
I felt the walls closing in, and a ringing suddenly drowned Seymour’s voice in my ears. My breathing became heavy, too heavy to mask.
Seymour is now eyeing me, victory somehow glistening in his eyes.
*****************
Seymour got excited, not from the certainty of cracking this case, as the young girl before him was breaking. But about what it means if he breaks the case.
He makes his way back to the old city. Back to the usual throng of people in that old jungle. Smelling of urine and desperation. Back where he can finally figure out if he should sign the goddamn divorce papers.
Lucy was hyperventilating, so he stood from the chair and called outside for a paper bag to be brought over. Not out of concern, he frankly doesn’t care, but he does care to finally get down to business and know who actually killed the girl. Her angel, as she likes to call her.
He hurried back to the table, picked up his small notebook, grabbed the pen from his pocket, and positioned himself ready for writing. Just then, Detective Miller came in and handed him the paper bag.
Seymour opened the paperbag himself, smelled the inside before handing it over to Lucy.
“I’m ready for answers now, Lucy. I am patiently waiting.” He said, eyeing her, “As patient as I can.”
Lucy, who’s still heaving, looked at the detective Miller, standing by the open door. Seymour followed Lucy’s eyes and waved to Miller.
When Seymour heard the door click and Miller’s footsteps drift away, he cleared his throat, crossed his legs, “Now, you ready?”
Lucy took a deep breath, shaking her breath before her thin lips broke into a soft smile. “ I’ve told you, I am the only one who knows my angel. Ophelia Bateman isn’t one of the leads and should not be mentioned in this story.”
Seymour fought himself from rolling his eyes. He had to ride this nonsense, at least until he got his answers. The sooner he gets his answers, the sooner he can get out of this town.
“So who killed your angel, Lucy?” he said, humoring her, for the first time since they met that day.
Lucy smiled again, but only the left side of her corner lips lifted.
“Boy, am I gonna blow your mind, Detective Seymour,” she laughed, nearly cackled.
“Then blow me away, Lucy.” He answered, eyes deadpan, set on Lucy.
“Let me take you to the beginning. And I promise, it’s not like the last time. This time, I’ll be taking you to the beginning of last night.”
********
The night was sticky with humid air. I was sitting outside my angel’s cabin for god knows how long. The moon was nothing but a pale, silver-thin ghost in the sky, barely fighting against the thick canopy of the sycamores.
My back pressed against the rough bark of a pine tree that bit into my shoulder blades, as I watched her door. But I didn’t mind.
Inside her cabin, the light was soft and buttery yellow. Mocking me for warmth and secrets that I wasn’t a part of. Her usual slightly open window curtains are now tightly closed.
Her betrayal was piling up. And the woman stepping out tonight was the beginning of that discovery.
Finally, the door creaked, and Ophelia Bateman stepped out. Buttoning her blouse, her movements languid and satisfied. Beneath that ghost of a moon, she glowed—the same one my angel carried—but on Ophelia, it felt stolen.
Rage boiled in me. I felt betrayed and lied to. Made to believe in something… untrue and horrid.
That night, I planned to confront my angel. Demand answers on why Bateman? But moments after Ophelia left. She stepped into the night.
Wearing white short-shorts and a tiny pink blouse.
I was curious where she would go in that ungodly hour. So I followed her, only to protect her. I promise.
We were in the woods after all.
I didn’t know where she was heading. But we started ascending and going deeper into the woods. I noticed that we were going to a clearing spot, up the cliff she fell from.
Through the bush and leaves that covered that clearing, I saw lights, bright lights of white, and another one just pulling in, going red and blue.
My heart raced. Whoever my angel was going to meet will get her into trouble. I expected her to step back when she paused.
That she’ll sprint back down and call it a night.
But instead, she fixed herself, fluffed her hair, and continued to ascend into the clearing.
Beads of cold sweat were forming on my forehead by then. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. That impending doom you feel just as the roller coaster reaches its peak and wobbles downwards? That‘s how I felt as I marched my legs, following her to that clearing.
I hid in the bushes. And what my eyes saw were scenes I did not expect to see, played out in real life.
My angel is pleasuring four men. I felt nauseous. The dinner I picked on that night started knocking at the back of my throat. Yet despite this nausea-inducing scene, I watched her.
I watched them take turns.
“Was it rape?” Seymour interrupted.
“Was it?” I asked, no one in particular. “I honestly don’t know, detective.”
When they were done, she was left there curled in the ground. And they left in a hurry.
“By any chance, did you see the faces of these four men, Lucy?” Seymour interrupted again.
I sighed, “ I didn’t see any of their faces but one.” I said, looking into Seymour’s eyes, not breaking eye contact.
I smiled. “ That wasn’t even the best part, detective.”
I could see Seymour struggle with his patience, see it breaking on the surface of his facade.
“Pray, tell, dear Lucy…” he said, “ What is the best part?”
“I didn’t see their faces, but they were wearing brown uniforms. One of them is the guy you called Miller.”
I saw Seymour’s eyebrow shoot up a fraction. Just a tiny fraction, but I caught it. I smiled triumphantly inside.
He took a long breath before he said another thing, “ So you’re telling me that the person who killed your angel was the deputies here, working on this case, and one of them is Deputy Miller?”
I nodded, “But they didn’t kill her, detective.”
Seymour finally broke loose of his calm demeanor and placed two fingers on the bridge of his nose. “I’m confused, Lucy. You told me you saw them doing ungodly things to that young girl, your angel, as you said. And now you’re telling me they didn’t kill her…which is it? While you’re at it, remember that lying to law enforcement can get you into trouble.”
To that, I giggled, “You are so cute, Detective Seymour.” I let out a long breath, “I did say I saw them with her, but remember I said they left her there on the ground, naked, might I add… but I never said they killed them.”
It was Seymour’s turn to let out a long breath. “So, who then, Lucy? Who killed your angel?”
“You see, I did, detective. I killed my angel.”
The room was silent. Seymour looked at me deadpan. I stared back, “I did. I walked over to her; she was crying, telling me to help her. And I understand, she’s been tainted, she’s no longer an angel. She’s been marked by Satan and brought down to hell. She reeked of impurity. One way to purify someone, a detective, is through water. So I helped her up and pushed her down the cliff. You see this way… she remains an angel.”
© 2026 Annieguile Bentulan/Through Words Be Guiled. All rights reserved.
Cover Photo Photo by Jolien Coryn on Unsplash
Author’s Note: Part two is currently in drafts. I will do my best to post it.