Part past part fiction 3

 

The morning after

 

I turn on the shower as hot as I can stand it and step into the stream. The scolding water, almost too much to bear, blasts down upon me until I feel as though my skin is sloughing from my body. I’m afraid to look down lest I see my exterior self laying crumpled and empty around my bloodied and blistered feet.

Instead, I keep my eyes squeezed tight and let the water continue its work, hoping against hope that it will uncover a better me below. Certainly something is revealed. Stepping from the shower, I catch sight of my reflection in the half-fogged mirror above the basin and am captured by it.

As I stare unblinking into the glass, a terrible angel gazes back at me. He must be an angel; nothing remotely human could be that raw. His alien intensity fascinates me; shaved head, hollow cheeks, eyes huge and full of all the desolation in the world. His pale, naked body is jagged and bone-thin, a portrait of Belsen, of Buchenwald, painted by Braque.

This is what an angel is, a creature scoured clean of all guile and artifice by the ocean forces of pure incomprehensible loss. It’s a creature that can hold all the pain that ever was in one fragile little shell because that shell holds nothing else. He is quite, quite beautiful. I stare at him for hours.

 

 

00000

 

233 words

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2016

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s