Beneath the colossal clouds that deeply hug the mountains edging the city of Monterrey, Mexico, inside a chalky box-like house a few minutes out from the bustling down-town, and down the creaky staircase, we meet Miryam Garza. Hands caked and hair dusted in white clay, her delicate fingers mold an amorphous blob into the image of an angel soaring through the air.
One side of the basement held mementos from her childhood, from scattered, worn stuffed toys to an old, broken down bike parked next to the staircase; the other side served as a haven for creation, with silverware, brushes, and assorted picks as her tools, and rows of drying head sculptures, and a shelf for completed masterpieces for her house guests to marvel at.
A startling banging on the front door sent Miryam’s fingers through the angel’s stomach.  From the depths of the earth we come and go, such is the nature of life and of its representations. All permanence is an illusion, isn’t it?
As Miryam’s fingertips touch the door handle, a heavy kick forces the door open. With a sneer plastered over his face, an older man grabs her by the shirt collar and shouts, Dime dónde está tu padre!
No lo sé, No lo sé, she cries, refusing to look him in the eye.
In a fit of rage, he cracks her skull against the wall.
*
Pressed against the cool tile floor, Miryam regains her consciousness to the sound of shattering glasses and screams. Opening her mouth lets out but a gentle, raspy whisper for help, a word that becomes softer as all once again turns to darkness.
*
A calming brightness descended from the cerulean sky, embodying the silhouette of a winged angel while landing on a nearby cloud. The angel’s smile was as brilliant as a thousand suns.
Miryam smiled back, a new sensation passing over her spine as she fluttered her wings.
The angel spoke, “You could create the most beautiful sculpture in the world, yet that would make it all the more vulnerable to breakage. The world is your own here, however. Do with it what you wish.”
“What happened to me? Who are you?”
Sorrowfully, “Misfortune. At times the world can be unpredictable beyond my comprehension. Sometimes the innocent are slaughtered, and the talented taken from the world. And the name I was given is Angelique.”
The clouds cleared from view, revealing a small island surrounded with a bright, azure sea, kaleidoscopic fish jumping to and fro. Angelique held her hand as Miryam descended to land on the hot, white sand, the tide lapping at their toes. As a young child, Miryam and her best friend Carlos had dreamed of having a small island all to themselves. Free to live and create without judgment, without expectation, without obligation, they would forge a future never thought possible. Her only gateway to her utopia resided in crayon-based sketches and backyard role play—until this moment where it stood before her eyes.
Carlos emerged from behind the palm trees with his signature grin and medium-length dark hair pulled behind his ears. He placed his warm hand into Miryam’s as the sun began to set.
Tears ran down her cheeks in memory of her sister Clara, her warm parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. Carlos wiped her tears with the edge of his thumb and held her in an embrace, a darkness passing over the sky, the sand blackening to coal around their feet.
Pulling her fingers through his dark, curly hair, she jumped into his arms to kiss him for the first and last time. Starved of life and love, she felt the sun pass beneath the horizon as pressed against his lips for a hot second and let herself go into the darkness.