There was a time when you believed in angels. If I were to ask you now, you would probably smile at me, your eyes spelling murder and your teeth glinting against the blood red backdrop of your lips... No, I do not believe in angels. Not anymore.
It is about now that I wish a thousand condemnations upon myself. But I can't... because you are no angel, and I was never a sin. I wait quietly for this moment to pass, eyes roaming the room, expecting to find something, but afraid to expect too much. I don't know what it was that I was looking for, but I knew I had found it as soon as my eyes paused. An armband, the fading remnant of a black and white photograph.
I feel as though I have lost so much, but what I lost were mere trinkets. Trinkets are merely a means to different ends: one for the seller, and one for the buyer. We all need to survive... we all need to remember. I tell myself, in sangfroid matter-of-factness, it is what we let those memories do to us that count.
It is a matter of time before I resume training. I will wear your marker on my glove. A dark green band that carries so much, for an object so small. I wear it, a part of me as much as the cross-shaped necklace on my neck. But it's so heavy... heavy with the memories ofheartbreak and lossyou. Sometimes I envision it is a feather; the feather of an angel. Perhaps that's another thing I've learned. When your heroes fall, the heavens come crashing down, and there is only darkness. You feel as though everything is a lie, and you find yourself sinking rapidly, as though you are standing in quicksand.
But heroes, you see, are humans too. And by god, even angels fall.
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