For Michael, death comes calling unexpectedly one afternoon with a sudden squeezing sensation in his chest. But he soon learns that death is only the beginning of his troubles as he reaps the unpleasant reward of living a lukewarm life and finds himself denied entrance into Heaven. The life Michael once knew is gone. Just when Michael thinks he is headed to the fiery gates of hell, he is offered one last chance at redemption-but at a terrible cost. After he reluctantly forfeits everything from his old life, he is recreated into a guardian angel who must abide by strict rules. Homelessness, hunger, danger, and despair become his world until the kindness of a minister in a homeless shelter provides him with a much-needed purpose. But the danger only increases as he halfheartedly immerses himself in his Guardian Angel duties. Ordered to protect jealous lovers, burned-out police officers, delusional street people, and delinquent youth, Michael only wants one thing-to go home. Michael is about to realize that his path to redemption will be more difficult than he ever imagined.

GUARDIAN ANGEL

Book I of the Guardian Angel SeriesBy Kurt R. Sivilich

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Kurt R. Sivilich
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9120-0

Chapter One

I'm sure you're wondering how I could attend my own funeral. Some people might guess that the entire thing was faked and that I was some sort of celebrity that wanted to get away from the worries of the paparazzi, much like Elvis or any number of dead famous people rumored to have done just that. Others might say that it was a dream and that I would be waking shortly in my own bed, relieved, probably promising myself to take better care of my body so that dream wouldn't become a reality.

But I assure you, it was no dream and this was no Great Escape hoax. I was dead, in that coffin, and I was there to witness it.

How did I manage to attend my own funeral? Well, that's going to take some explaining. Perhaps I should start at the beginning, which is really the point where I—or at least my body in the box—had ended.

Recalling my "last moment" on earth, I remember that I was sitting at my dining room table, taking a break from the work I had brought home and going over the family bills. I had really needed a mental health day—or at least a quiet day out of the office—with the pressures from the bank being what they were in that day and age. The entire summer had passed without us taking a vacation that year—there was just no time—and it was already October, with the holidays looming in the coming months. Coupled with the housing crunch and the credit crisis, it was all piling up and making my job and my life really stressful. So at the end of the previous day, I had grabbed a bunch of paperwork that was piling up so I could work from home and at least get a break from the office routine. With Scarlett, my wife, at work, and Billy and Susan, my children, at school, I had the house to myself and was really digging the quiet stillness that surrounded me. Life was good.

Anyway, I was sitting at the table working on the family finances when all of a sudden my left arm went numb and a terrible squeezing sensation hit my chest. I could barely breathe, and I must have sat there stunned for several seconds. I thought that maybe it would pass, and then began hoping it would pass, and upon realizing it was not going to pass, I fumbled for my cell phone with my numb left hand. My fingers didn't want to work correctly, and I dropped the phone on the floor. I bent over in an attempt to retrieve it, my chest radiating agony, the pain stealing away my ability to breathe, my fingers groping for the stupid phone. I remember feeling the pressure of making contact with its plastic case through numb fingers as my vision started to go black, trying to pull it up to where I could dial someone, anyone. I remember feeling a brief falling sensation with a soft landing, like onto carpet, and then—nothing.

People who have had near-death experiences say they remember seeing a tunnel of light and loved ones beckoning to them, welcoming them home to the hereafter. I have to tell you, I didn't get any of that. The next thing I remember is coming back to awareness, lying on my side on a hard, cold floor. I could barely keep my eyes open from the bright light seeming to radiate from everywhere and everything in the room, washing out all details, leaving the walls, the ceiling, and the floor a stark white. I tried to right myself, to sit up, but I was as weak as a kitten and couldn't move. My limbs just would not respond to any command I sent.

I noticed some movement off to one side, and when I focused on it, I could see two people walking toward me, speaking with each other in soft conversation. When they reached me, one knelt down and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. Warmth coursed through my body from that contact, and I looked up into the face of a very nondescript man. He had close-cropped hair, was clean-shaven, and was wearing what appeared to be white robes. The man smiled faintly as he looked down at me.

"It's just not for you, Michael," he said. "Not right now. I'm sorry. You need to find your path."

And then, sudden darkness again.

The next thing I knew, water was splashed onto my face—well, more like dumped; suddenly I was soaked from the armpits upward, and I could feel my hair plastered to my head. I awoke sputtering and coughing. Opening my eyes, I looked up to see a man walking away from me, carrying a bucket. He reached an old wooden chair, and after setting the empty bucket down, he sat down, hooked a leg over the seat, and leaned back, facing me. I studied him, noting that he was rather average with very plain features—brown hair cut in a business style, lightly tanned skin, brown eyes, and wearing a black suit with a light grey shirt and a dark tie. He had a trench coat neatly folded by his chair on the floor.

"Go on, get up. We don't have all day," he said, his voice immediately grating on my nerves.

Using my arms to push myself into a sitting position, I looked around. We were in the approximate center of an old, empty warehouse. Naked light bulbs hung from the cavernous ceiling, casting islands of light onto the concrete floor.

"Where the hell am I?" I heard a voice speak, and then I realized it was mine. The voice I spoke with was not what I was used to hearing.

"Let's get something straight," the man said, ignoring my question entirely. "You're dead. D-E-A-D. And the only reason you're here is because you've been deemed worthy of a second chance to get into the kingdom."

"But I'm not dead; I'm right here, talking with you," I said, my voice still not my own. I looked down at myself for the first time and saw that I was dressed in clothes I had never laid eyes on before. I had never owned a dark grey suit in my life, and here I was dressed in one, with matching shoes, no less. How stylish.

"Why do you people always have to make it so difficult," the man muttered as he stood up and walked over to me. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a small mirror and tossed it to me. I barely caught it, my hands and arms not wanting to go where I willed them, and then looked at myself in the mirror.

The face that looked back at me was not mine. It wasn't even close.

My hair is blond, or at least it used to be. The hair I saw in the mirror was jet black and styled completely differently than mine. The skin was also different, more of an olive complexion now, rather than my fair complexion. Even the shape of my face was different; it was very square with angular lines, not the rounded jowls and double chin I'd been looking at in the mirror for the past decade or so. But the thing that jarred me out of my skin was that I was not wearing glasses, yet I could see everything quite clearly.

I stood up in horror, which caused me to lose my balance and fall over, barely catching myself with my hands as I hit the floor. I heard the mirror crunch under my weight and felt some shards drive into my palm, but I was too frightened to really notice the pain. Instead, I tried to get away from this stranger, doing my best to roll over and crab crawl backward away from him, my legs and arms fumbling around at even this effort. The net result was that I probably looked like an upside-down turtle trying to flip itself over.

"Are you done?" the man asked, shaking his head in disgust.

I stopped attempting to get away, not because I was convinced he wasn't going to harm me, but because I was too winded to continue thrashing...