Only Angels Become Demons

"Have you ever noticed how life is sometimes the mirror image of death?"

"No."

"I do. Everyday. It's sad to see someone so dead when they are convinced they are very much alive."

"I don't think I understand."

"No. Neither do I." After quite a while, "Doctor, why is life so unforgiving?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You know how when you do something you shouldn't have done, and it's almost as if it's etched into your bones?"

He shakes his head.

"I do."

"You mean when Isabella died?"

"I'm not talking about Isabella. I'm talking about everything one can do, and has one."

"Mmhmm." He writes something down on his notepad and leans back in his chair. He shivers slightly at the untouched metal brushing against his back. "Would you mind telling me about that day?"

"I do mind, actually. I mind so very much. It was such a hard day. You'd never understand" He leans forward and drops his head into his hands, his dark shaggy hair hiding his fingers.

Silence. I t was eery, yet comforting. It reminded him of how when dreaming is so quiet yet you can hear every word uttered, and every sound for years after. After a moment he stood up suddenly and violently, with a look of pure anger and hatred on his face.

"Ivan, please sit down."

"No." He sounded like the cold shivers down one spine when they know something isn't right.

"Ivan, please. You must calm yourself."

"You don't understand what it's like to be me. You think I'm just some kind of toy to poke at until every bone in my body breaks into a new person. I am not your game. Get out."

The doctor scoots his chair back into the corner of the room and leaves after gathering up his things. He turns back around and looks through the small window in the door and speaks to him once more. "Let me know when you are read to talk, Paul." He turns and walks away slowly with one hand in his left trouser pocket, and the other one carrying his small black briefcase. He whistles a tune that the man remembers, but he doesn't know why.

In the dark night, there is a tree. This tree has a trunk so rough and mangled with age, and the wind gives it a lovely voice to sing with. It's long repulsive branches reach for life in the mist. He can't stand to look at it. But he mostly can't stand not to. It's a mirror of his soul. It's the shadow of his heart, and the memory in his blood. It's exactly as he is today. Old, ready to die, but begging to live somewhere inside its heart. It's him in another time.

It's a sad story really. It's a story of the most deep kind of love you could ever imagine. It's a story of death, and sadness. And every time he thinks back, he kind of cries. It's the thought of losing that makes him feel so deep inside like the last second of a dying wave in the ocean. He spends his days wishing he could just go back for a moment, regretting what happened, and begging his soul to just die. He can't stand the pain. His heart breaks even more with every second he lives. He can feel it crumbling inside, and bleeding as he breathes. He doesn't know why it happened. He doesn't know how it did. He doesn't even believe it half the time. But it's done, and he can't do a thing about it but cry and bleed inside for the days he longs to have back again. He regrets. And he falls.

©