A letter to angel

FICTION posted by Rica

The image I have of you in my mind is that of an angel – an angel with red wings.

You were never the type to settle things calmly, always resorting to violence. And if you could, you’d definitely annihilate anyone who was in your way. You were never the type to write either. You know, even if you only knew how to write about rage and anger and killing, I would still read them all, your letters. Because I know that’s the only thing I can do for you. That’s the only thing you would’ve let me do for you. If you only wrote, you know I’d have read them.

After you left for your war, I always imagined you returning with a big uncharacteristic smile on your face. You’d knock on the door, and when I tell you to come in, you’d wipe your soles clean first on my Welcome Home mat. And then you’d say, “I’m back”, or something more out of character like, “I’m home.” And I’d tell you, “Finally.”

But like you said, the war lasted longer, and you could not come back right away. Three years, four, five. On the eighth year (I counted), I finally conceded. Maybe you weren’t coming back. Maybe you died some eight years ago, right after your war started. You were the type to battle head on. If they needed a cannon fodder, you’d be it, but a bit smarter. You were a heat-seeking cannon fodder. You knew where the enemy was.

Or maybe during your war you got injured, lost your memory, was nursed back to health by an attractive woman, fell in love with her, and decided you’d live happily with her rather than find out who you were before and what got you in the war. I must agree that would’ve been better, for you not to remember your own cause.

But you didn’t die eight years ago, and no-one nursed you back to health and loved you enough for you to wish to forget everything. I heard you roam the lands looking for something, or someone, or some place. A few people will attest that you walk around as if you were walking on foreign ground, with your head full of thoughts no-one can ever figure out, as if your war was still on.

That’s what they tell me at least.

They don’t tell me how you look now – how your face must have changed with the years, how your clothes have not been mended properly for the past eight years, how your skin must be ashen or burnt after your war. They don’t tell me if you still have rage in your eyes because they don’t look at you anymore; they only look away when you pass by them. They don’t tell me how much you’ve slimmed down because you don’t eat properly anymore. Before you always told me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day – I wonder if you still eat insatiably as you did before. And they don’t tell me what they see on your back, because it reminds them of your war, and what you had to do then.

But I know they’re there, those red wings. I don’t have to see them to know that they’re finally out of you. You walk around town with those on – I’m not surprised no-one meets your eyes anymore. Only if they did, they’d see what you’ve become. They’d understand.

Dear, maybe it was time you came back. Your war has been over for eight years now. It’s time to go back home. Finally.