Thursday, July 23, 2015

a story

i was born to be a devil. i know it. you can see it in my bone structure, like the grandfather i never met, a worser devil.

he was born to be an angel. you could see it from the start. he had the cutest cheeks and fairest eyes of a golden child. i remember his cub like hands, brown tan skin, blonde white hair. in the summer he would wander the hills barefoot with his shirt off and everyone loved spotting him, kissed by the sun.

while i fought my own fate. and suffered for it. i would not surrender to the pleasure i'd surely know from taking and harming at the prewritten costs. instead i acted kind, grew compassion, and bled inside out for it.

but he wasn't contented being blissful. he tore off his halo. shredded his harp on ocean rocks i never saw. and he lashed out at the earth. for it had betrayed him, he thought. it had given him less than some, more than most, but never enough to know what to gain from any of it. so he blamed everyone and lay within jagged bottom pools of lava until coated in substance.

but i never forgot. i was born a devil who loved an angel. i dream about him all the time. like it's him, how i know him. then i awake in the middle of the night with the phantom creatures who know me. they dash about the imperceptible folds, leaving traces that could drive a lesser devil mad. but me, i bite and claw at them, then lick my wounds like a wolf pretending his best, to pull the sled.

but sometimes they don't come around, and that's when i know they've gone away from me to visit him, the angel, and have taught the boy their language.