Dios Necesitó un Angel ~ Updated April 8th, 2012!

[*Cookie Dough*]

I hope her grandma would give her some good advices from her life's experience like go and take your man from your sis actually i wouldnt be that great grandma, would I? but seriously olalla strats annoying me she should finally back off before its not too late or i will make her do it!

loved an update!

bump soon hun
love ya

[BETTENCOURT]

AWW I HOPE HER GRANDMOTHER WILL BE ABLE TO HELP HER WIT HER NANDO PROBLEMS!

XOXO
~BETTENCOURT~

[Molly_182]

this story is amazing.. its so different! update again soon!

[Lianita]

Here's some morrrre it's a bit different to other chapters, I thought I'd try something different.  Excuse any errors - it's 2 am and i couldn't be bothered editing it
Leave the love!


Chapter Six

She?s sitting lazily on the couch, her legs tucked under her, her fingers playing with the fraying material of the blanket underneath her. She?s biting her lip anxiously, bites it so hard there?s little crescent-shaped marks beneath her pink lips.

People around her are talking, her mama?s fiddling around in the kitchen, pots and pans clinking and clanking against each other and the tap is flowing rapidly. Her papa is having a meaningful discussion with her grandmother, and Olalla isn?t here, much to her relief.

But she sees nothing, hears nothing. Doesn?t see her mama?s back moving right and left, doesn?t see her papa?s animated hand gestures as he speaks. Doesn?t hear the pots and pans, doesn?t hear any voices.

Except him.

She?s staring at the television, and her eyes are squinting slightly as if that would help improve her vision or hearing. She?s only watching him; running up and down the pitch, the red and white stripes of his jersey mixing and blurring and meshing together along with a sudden flash of blue shorts, and sometimes a dash of dark messy blonde hair, and he?s running so fast she almost feels dizzy.

But then she sees a brilliant flash of white as another player jumps in front of him, taking the ball away possessively, and god. It?s all so fast she can hardly keep up. All she sees is him, all red and white and blue. But she can tell he?s upset; his eyebrows are creased and his lips are tightened, forming a thin straight line.

But she doesn?t notice his frustration, not really. Because there?s just one little image that?s stuck in her head, replaying again and again.

That one moment when he had the ball, when he was running forward with it bouncing happily between his feet, that one moment when it was just him and the silver sphere.

His face was on the little silver ball, his tongue slightly sticking out of his tightened mouth. And his eyes, god, his eyes. His eyes were dark and wild, untamed, completely focused and unwavering, not even a flick or glance to anything or anyone around him.

She?s never seen him like this before. So passionate, so focused and concentrated on what he was doing.

She?s mesmerized. There?s those annoying little ripples in her stomach, that little flutter of her heart, but she's too enthralled at the images playing on the small screen in front of her to try and shake them off.

He was beautiful. Her breath was literally gone from her lungs.

She never knew a game like this could be so? entrancing. The way they moved, jumped, leaped, ran and turned with the ball at their feet, the way he himself moved, purposefully, confidently as if he was afraid of nothing, as if he could conquer anything.

It was magic. There was no other way of describing it.

Watching him play was magic.


***


This isn?t good. He?s frustrated, unnerved and slipping up. They?re down 3-1, and they shouldn?t be. It should be the other way around. He looks up at the score board and blinks his eyes, once, twice, hoping the numbers would magically swap, and when they don?t, well that just angers him further.

They shouldn?t be losing. This was meant to be one of their easiest games, yet here they are, down by two goals.

He runs up and down, leaps away from one player, leaps away from another. Curls his feet around another?s ankles and yes, finally, he has the ball. He keeps running, because that?s what he has to do. Just keep running.

Ignore your burning lungs and your aching feet and your throbbing head. Block out everything. Ignore them all. Don?t let them unnerve you. You can?t afford to let them get to you. Because, well, you?re not exactly the best actor, so they?ll see your frustration all pent up inside you, inside your flashing eyes and heaving pants.

They?ll see and then they?ll know. And then they?ll smile knowingly, and then you?re really done for.

He seems lost in the moment: there were no attacking players surrounding him, there was no cheering crowd. There was only the thud of his feet on the worn grass, only the thump of his heart against his chest and the bounce of the ball against his aching feet.

His eyes flash angrily, that temper slowly surfacing through the heat prickling his skin.

But it?s okay, because he?s got the ball. It?s okay.

He passes it once, runs alongside another, waits anxiously as the ball is kicked swiftly back in his direction, and he?s almost there. Just a few metres or so away. The dirty white posts standing tall and menacingly, daring him to come closer. So he does. Just keeps running and running. Okay, maybe it was more than just a few metres or so. But he was never good at math.

Keeps running, more passes, more dribbles. Keep running. Keep heaving forward. Focus, focus, focus. Just one more heave and then ? now he?s certain ? the goal posts are just metres away. He could kick the ball and then he?d get the goal.

But that was being selfish? Garcia is just across from him, and his feet are really killing him.

His conscious is telling him to pass. Pass it; Garcia can take care of the rest. But his heart, that was a different story. It craved the moment the ball would hit the back of the net, it craved the moment the crowd would erupt and stand and cheer. Cheer for him.

So he dodges another defender, and he has 3 seconds max before the other comes at him. And in those three seconds he does what his heart told him to do.

Cursing and praying at the same time, he steals another glance at the goalkeeper, his knees bent and his arms in front of him. He sees the flash of knowing in the goalkeeper?s eyes, that snarl of his lips, daring him to kick the ball.

But he saw the hesitance in the keeper?s step, that awkward little jerk of the hip and shoulder. And as soon as he sees that little spark of fear on his spiteful face, Fernando steals another glance and kicks the ball with everything he has.

He watches the dirty, worn grass kick up beneath his feet; he watches the ball jerk upwards from the sudden impact, flying up and up, hurling further and further away.

Those agonizing seconds of watching the damned ball almost kill him. Adrenaline, fear, doubt, excitement, hope run through his veins as he watches the ball fly through the air.

And slowly, the ball curves through the air with a graceful swoosh, then a sudden flick on the post as it curles once more past the leaping keeper and behind him, tumbling comfortably into the white mesh, and then innocently rolling back out again.

The fear was gone, the doubt was gone.

Happiness, excitement, hope, joy, rushes through his body.

The cheering of the crowd deafens him, the rise and fall of the sea of bodies in the stands flashing red and white was blinding, his teammates fall on top of him, cheering, shouting, He was submerged in the atmosphere around him. And he was? he doesn?t know what he was. Breathless, but consumed by happiness.

He looks up at the heavens, silently thanking God. Pressing his fingertips to his lips, he also silently prays that Mariangela was watching him, somewhere, hundreds of miles away.

Maybe there was hope, after all.


***

 
Two days after their abuela came, Olalla told her about Fernando.

Their grandmother was sceptical. ?Hmm,? she hums slowly. ?And are you sure about this Fernando??

?Of course,? Olalla says defiantly. ?He?s one of the sweetest people I?ve ever met. Even ask papa-,?

?Olalla, I don?t doubt he?s a sweet boy, and I certainly don?t doubt your father?s judgement. It?s your life; you make your own decisions. I just want you to be careful, querida. Especially with footballers. They can be trouble.?

?Not Fernando, Abuela, trust me. He wouldn?t hurt a fly. You?ll meet him in a few days when he comes back from Seville.?

Their grandmother smiles and nods. Mariangela pickes at her dinner quietly, ignoring the conversations surrounding her. She wonders when she?ll see him next ? she hopes it?s soon. Will he come tomorrow? Will she see him in 2, 3, 4 days? A week? She only wants to see him.

?And what about you, Mari,? her grandmother smiles, ?any new boys that have swept you off your feet??

Smiling, she continues to pick at her food. She shakes her head. ?No, abuelita. Not yet.?

But there?s something about her grandmother?s knowing silence, about her steady eyes on her that makes Mariangela think that maybe, just maybe, her abuela can see through the façade she had built up around her.



She?s nervous. Scared, almost. She doesn?t know what to say. But she can?t not say anything, either. She can?t sit around, thinking about it until it drives her crazy, trying to find a solution that was near comprehendible to her vacillating mind.

Because, frankly, she had no answers, no solutions to the confounded direction her life was taking.

Another two days slowly crawled by. She hadn?t been feeling well these days. Her immune system was down, her body was weak and she was always unbearably tired, no matter how much she slept. During the day she had blazing fevers and cold sweats at night.

And the constant fears and worries controlling her mind didn?t help make matters easier.

?What?s the matter, dear?? her grandmother asks one afternoon as she placed another damp towel on her forehead. ?Don?t be afraid.?

?I?m not afraid,? Mariangela says softly, staring ahead and watching the figures moving silently on the television screen. ?Just very, very confused.? And I have no one to talk to.

?About what? The treatment??

Mariangela looks up at her grandmother, shocked. How did she know? She considered it, but telling her what was really bothering her was out of the question.

?Abuela, you always used to say ?there is so much ahead of you still. Be patient with life.? Do you still feel that way?? She watched her grave, silent grandmother, waiting for a reply that doesn?t come. ?Oh, Abuelita,? she whispers plaintively.

?My dear Mariangela,? her grandmother sighs, putting her arm around her and patting her knee gently. ?Things have changed overnight in this family.?

Mariangela stays quiet and leans her head on the old woman?s shoulder. She feels the words muffled against her head, ?Maybe you should be less patient.?

Mariangela nods and smiles, ?Patience is an overrated virtue, anyway.?

?But be no less moral,? Abuela continues. ?No less righteous. When you lose those, then you have nothing.?

She wished her grandmother wouldn?t remind her. ?No, Abuelita. When you lose your family, that?s when you really have nothing.?

?Si, that's true, too.? Her grandmother sighs, stroking Mariangela?s damp forehead. Mariangela feels herself slowly drifting away, finally being lulled into a slumber as her grandmother's calm voice surrounds her, bouncing off the walls and filling the quiet room.

?And Abuelita,? she smiles weakly, ?In this family we leave the righteousness to you. Only you.?

Whatever reply her grandmother had given her was a meaningless sound as her eyelids slowly fluttered down and her mind quickly begun to black out.

She was entrenched. She had dug a trench all around herself called Fernando which refused her to leave, she couldn?t leave, didn?t want to leave from. She lived for the afternoons when she would see him, and those few hours would strengthen her, propel her forward and into her barely formed feelings that she could not suppress nor understand.

There was nothing more she could have from him, and she made herself half believe that was all she wanted from him: to see him in the afternoons at the end of her classes when her heart beat miles per hour, and they were alone and she her body wasn't shriveling into a pulp and she was the happiest she?d ever been these last months.

[Ingvild]

Boring?! What are you talking about?! Sweety, this is just brilliant!

I think this story should take a happy turning soon, though I loved how you described everything in this chap. Especially from Fernando's point of view. It was great!

Thank you, Bump soon!

[Corazon]

Like it!

BUMP!

[CatsEyes17]

Awww, man....two updates!!!

Firstly, Olalla needs to stop putting Mari's business out there for Fernando re: the boys in Aranjuez.

Secondly, I like this abuelita......I wish I had a Vava like her! ( I have a huge language barrier with my living one  )


And thridly, I agree with Bia: when will this girl see some happiness in her life?


Bump soon!

[*Cookie Dough*]

Im third wishing some hapiness. you've been evil for too long! let girl be appy even for short time! but anyways it was another amazingly great chap. i love her grandma already

as usual i LOVED it and now im waiting for appy things to happen

love ya

[Lianita]

Awww

I promise promise promise it'll get better! I'm sorry for making it depressing - blame my bitch of a mood swing lol.

It'll get 'appier, I give you my word.

[*Cookie Dough*]

okaaay, i have to believe you

[Ingvild]

I'll make sure you don't break your promise hun. Don't worry lol

The important thing now is to update. A S A P!

[Mindy]

aww update asap

[MrsCR7FaSho]

Oh my good Lord, I LOVE THIS!!
Update please?

[Molly_182]

update!! =)

[Lianita]

Okay finally an update! woot! Sorrry for taking so long... I haven't been in a writing mood lately, so that's probably why this chapter sort of sucks
Thank you everybody for reading it!!


Chapter Seven


She?s getting better again, slowly, slowly. But she?s used to it, so she knows it?s not going to be the last time. It always happens every once in a while. That?s just the way it is. She?s accepted it. As much as any person can accept something like that. But it?s okay. It?s okay.

But no matter how long she?s had it for, no matter how little or how much it affects her, there?s till that little nagging fear in the back of her mind constantly whispering its dreaded tune, whispering and purring what will happen to her. Whispering about death, and non-existence and darkness, and everything unknown to her.

But she?s getting better. So that black, dusky veil is slowly being lifted off her again, for how long she doesn?t know.

It?s been five days since Fernando left, and she?s silently hoping he comes back soon. Did he always take this long to come back after games?

She hopes he?s alright. She saw the Seville match. Saw the hope on his face when he scored that astounding goal. Saw the anguish that twisted his beautiful features when the final whistle blew and they lost by one goal. Saw how the hope was cracked, split apart like broken glass, hope that was backhanded coldly in the face.

How can anyone be that cruel? If there is a god, she doesn?t think he is very fair. How can anyone give a person so much hope, only to snatch it cruelly away as if it meant nothing?

She never really did believe in God. Only people who believe in miracles, who believe in people walking on water and moving mountains and Virgin Mary?s believe in god.

Miracles don?t happen in her world. There?s no use praying for something that will never happen. No use praying for the impossible.

Hope, yes. She always hopes. Hopes for everything, and when she receives nothing, well that?s just a reason more to believe there is no God. Because God grants your hopes and dreams, doesn?t he? Makes everything better, brings peace and happiness and love and brightness.

There?s not much of that in her home.

But she won?t ever stop hoping, whether there is a god up there or not. Because hope is the one thing she has left. The one thing that keeps her going as each day passes. It?s the only certainty she can believe in, unlike god, who raises more questions than answers in her mind. Hope is the only thing left.



She tries to hide the happiness and excitement and pure delight that covers her entire face and body when she sees him. She has to hide it though, because Olalla and mama and papa and abuela are all here.

So she looks away from his face as he quickly kisses Olalla, when Olalla excitedly introduces him to their anticipating grandmother, turns quickly away when she sees that little nod of approval from her abuela.

She?s watching him, sitting at the table with everyone swarming around him, fussing over him. He looks tired, really tired, and she just feels like screaming at everyone to back off.

Can?t they see he?s about to collapse? Probably not. They hardly ever know when she?s about to collapse unless they?re looking really, really carefully, and it?s been years; and now they?re not doing too much of that.

They?re just hovering on top of him like annoying flies, asking him questions, does he want something to drink, something to eat, and he played fantastic against Sevilla ? oh, he lost? That?s a shame, but don?t worry, there?s always next time.

She feels a sudden urge overwhelm her to take care of him, to snatch him away from their prying hands to a quiet, comfortable place, a sanctuary where he can be peaceful and calm and happy.

But she can?t do anything, can?t say anything. They don?t listen to her, never really do. And besides, she doesn?t have the energy. There isn?t much of that these days, either.

She wonders where all his went. All that energy that was steaming out of every pore, energy that made him glow and made him seem undefeatable.

He didn?t look undefeatable now.

Olalla?s voice brings her back down to earth.

?Mari, don?t just stand there, get Fernando a glass of water, will you??

?Sure.? She quietly gets up and obeys, letting the surrounding conversations overtake her mind. Because that?s easier than letting her mind think its own thoughts, thoughts that are unbearable.

She avoids his eyes as she hands him the glass. He acknowledges her like he would a stranger, an acquaintance: a polite meet of the eyes, a little smile curving his lips. But the sudden flash of his eyes lets her know otherwise, reassures her that? that what? That he?s just acting? That it?s all some twisted charade, that he?s not doing it on purpose, not really.

She doesn?t know what, but she feels some kind of reassurance. And that?s enough. Just one little gesture to let her know that she does mean something to him, that their afternoons mean something. And that?s enough to keep her going for another day.



She returns back to the university the next day. It?s the same old routine: lectures, classes, murmuring voices, droning professors. It?s all routine, day in day out.

But she hadn?t been expecting Fernando waiting for her at the bus stop again.

And as she bolted out of the campus and practically ran to him, she didn?t hide the happiness and excitement and the pure delight this time.

?I?m sorry about the game,? she says as they started walking. ?You really did play brilliantly, though.?

Fernando smiles grimly, turning his head and looking at her. ?It?s over now. There?s no use tearing myself up over it. We just gotta work harder to make sure we play better next match.? But then he pauses, peers into her face and then breaks out into a boyish smile that brightens his face. ?You mean,? he draws out slowly, ?you mean you watched the game??

Mariangela lets out a laugh that only broadens his smile and blushes a little. ?Yeah, I did. Had nothing better to do. Just wanted to see for myself if this Fernando Torres really was as good as everyone makes him out to be.? She laughs again and nudges him with her shoulder.

?Oh? And is he?? Fernando nudges her back.

?Is he what??

?Is he as good as everyone makes him out to be?? there?s a twinkle in his eyes, a playful twitch of his upturned mouth which causes another wave of butterflies to invade her insides.

She wants to tell him to hide that soft, smiling look in his ice cream eyes ? it?s getting too hard to resist. ?No,? she says quietly, looking ahead.

?No?? more playful twitches, another nudge on her small body.

?No. He?s even better.? She grins and pushes his shoulder as a deep, throaty laugh rings in her ears and that irrestistible smirk is pointing at her.

?I?m glad you think so.?

A comfortable silence fills them as they continue to walk, and every so often her bare arm would touch his, just a flutter of honey skin against darker, freckled skin.

?Let?s go for a walk.? Fernando says suddenly.

?In case you haven?t noticed,? Mariangela smiles, ?that?s what we?ve been doing every day.?

He pushes her head playfully. ?I know that. I meant a walk around the city. I?m getting tired of passing the same buildings every day.?

?Then don?t come,? she teases, not really meaning it. She would hate it if he doesn?t come anymore. It?s almost unbearable.

?Do you mean that, Angelita?? he asks quietly, his ice cream eyes on her.

She shrugs timidly, unable to look at him, to say anything.

?Come on, let?s go visit the royal palace.? He sighs.

Soon afterwards they pass the vast grey and white palace looming over them, its immaculate stone structure standing tall and proud and menacingly beautiful, its old world beauty emanating from every abraded column and every scuffed stone.

The palace had been there ever since she was born, just another structure to the backdrop of blue blue skies and green green trees. And this time, she looks at it. Really looks at it, as if she?s seeing it for the first time.

?I?ve lived here all my life, and I?ve never once visited this place,? she smiles in a breathy voice, shaking her head slightly.

?Mmm, neither have I. We have all these beautiful buildings and palaces and gardens so close to us yet we never visit them. Most tourists that come know more about our country than we do. It?s a shame.?

?It is,? she says softly, watching the countless windows spread evenly around the imperious walls.

She wonders what it?s like inside. She imagines rooms, so many rooms you could easily get lost as if in a labyrinth; gilded throne rooms with rich, embroided velvet carpets and curtains and carved gilt furniture, elaborate floral frescoes and tapestries created by masterful artists adorning each wall, room and hallway.

She imagines jewels of unimaginable affluence, and sculptures and armoured knight statues and invaluable paintings of royal families dating back generations. She imagines Spanish marble, gilded stucco, warm mahogany doors and crystal chandeliers.

She imagines such bedazzling beauty within these immaculate walls filled with history, so much brilliant history of her beloved home. Filled with the ghostly souls of kings and queens and princesses and knights long gone, leaving only remnants of their personalities in paintings and hidden letters and scrolls and laws.

?Wanna go to the Sabatini gardens?? Fernando?s deep voice brings her back from her reveries.

She glances at the luscious green and exotic colours blooming from every corner of the gardens positioned at the foot of the regal palace, just one breathtaking beauty on top of the other, so much beauty she doesn?t know where to look.

She looks up at him hesitantly. She couldn?t go, and she knew it. Did Fernando know it, too? That was even worse. Did he know what a bind she found herself in? What unspeakable flux of feeling and confusion?

?Okay,? she says casually, hoping that her nerves couldn?t be heard in her voice.

But her nerves are tortured some more upon seeing the sibilant lovers walking around them holding hands and kissing, sprawled out on the benches and on fraying blankets covering the green green grass.

The gardens were the wrong place for them. But still she goes, because... just because. She doesn?t want to say no to him. So to hide her apprehension and her nervousness, she talks. Chatters away, trying to forget everything and just concentrate on walking and talking.

Really, it wasn?t that hard.

***

Fernando stays silent as she talks. He listens to her soft, sweet voice, sometimes quiet and subdued, and then suddenly excited and animated, her voice rising and falling in breathy tones that flow soothingly into his ears and lull him into comfort.

She doesn?t often talk about herself, so he?s content to walk beside her and listen.

She?s mysterious, quiet, shy. He?s fascinated by her, captivated by her intense eyes and breathtaking smile and silky flowing words and soft voice which hypnotize him into thinking everything he shouldn?t be thinking.

But there was something else, too. A sudden flash of confidence in her tone when she gets excited, the bold intensity lurking underneath her quietly smiling eyes. As if there?s a whole different side to her, a side that?s hidden deep beneath her skin and the only proof that such a persona exists is when she?s walking with him, hidden and unseen by inquisitive eyes and slowly that inner boldness and confidence swims to the surface and emerges bit by bit as she loses herself in him.

Olalla?s stories of their summers in Aranjuez only push him further into believing in this different, hidden Mariangela.

The stories of the boys being infatuated and smitten by an innocent, bold and mischievous Mariangela intrigue him so much, he looks at her closely looking for any disguised sign or hidden trace in her eyes, her smile, her body language and her words.

But it?s as if these traces of a new character disappear as quickly as they appear, just a flicker that leads to something so much more, a flicker that is once again replaced by a lowered gaze, a clearing of the throat and another shy smile.

As if she?s afraid of showing too much, of saying something she shouldn?t. Afraid. Uncertain. Nervous.

As if she?s hiding something deep inside her, a secret that reveals this new or old persona, and he only needs the right key to pull apart the veil she?s threaded around herself, to wash away the mask and reveal everything hidden inside.

It's the sort of secret that stops the traces becoming trails and the flickers from becoming a candle burning brightly. A secret that hides everything inside her, fearing emergence and the sudden spark of discovery from another?s intruding eyes.

He wonders what happened to that bold little girl, the mischievous eight and twelve year old girl who once taught all the boys how to do cartwheels.

Wonders what happened to make the bold little girl hide, to retreat and be replaced by an alluring, timid, mysterious young woman he now stands next to.

He wonders if that little girl is still hidden beneath all those layers, hidden in the deepest depth of her small body. He wonders if she?ll ever be that twelve year old girl again, if this captivating girl next to him who had tied an invisible rope around him which prevented him from ever leaving, will ever laugh and smile and run like she used to.

Andd thank you for the comments! I hope you all have a fantabulous week!