Let Me Go

The sunlight spilled in through the window, gracing her wheat-colored locks in a golden glow. He stared at the sight, then let his eyes trail down to her pale face. She was perfect- her skin seemed to radiate in the sliver of light that had the fortune to touch it, making her seem almost otherworldly. She looked as innocent as an angel, as unreal as an apparition- he was afraid that, if he reached out to stroke her soft cheek, she would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Her lips were full and pink; two pillows of soft flesh that beckoned him forward, ones that he dare not touch. Her long, dark lashes created shadows across her almost childlike face, and if you looked close enough, you could see the small mole that embellished her pastel flesh, right below the corner of her eye. She was flawed- if you looked close enough, you could see that her nose was slightly too big, and the scar that decorated the skin on her neck. And yet to him, she was perfect. She was everything.

Under her restless eyelids, he knew that her eyes were a bright green- he had spent many hours staring into them, hoping that maybe someday he could drown in them. But unfortunately for him, he hadn't- he was still here, still in this situation. He was still leaving.

He closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He wished that he could just be absorbed into the moment. He wished that time could stop, that he could stay there forever. But he knew by now that things didn't go quite as you wanted them to; he knew that wishing amounted to nothing. That didn't mean that he couldn't try, of course…

He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes again. His angel was still there, unspoiled and undisrupted. She seemed peaceful, so content. He wondered how she would look if she was conscious, if she really knew what was going on. Would she scream? Would she hit him? Would she curse his name at the top of her lungs, and tell him to leave, to go away forever? Because that's what he was doing, right?

Something about that almost made him wish that she were awake to punish him. He deserved everything she would do, he knew- at least, anything that her anger fueled. But if she cried, if she begged him to stay, he knew it would break him apart. He wasn't even worth her tears.

He remembered the night before, how she had seen him outside and crawled out of her window.

"What are you doing here?" she had asked.

"I had to come here…" he had said, stuffing his hands into his pocket. "I had to tell you…" he choked back the word "goodbye". He couldn't let her know yet. He couldn't have brought himself to say it if he wanted to.

She had given him a quizzical look. "What? What did you want to tell me?"

He had sighed, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "I wanted to say that I love you. That's all."

She smiled, and he doubted that there was a more breathtaking sight in the world. "You know that I love you, too."

He did know that, actually. He had known that last night, and he knew that then. And something about that was killing him inside.

He sighed and stared out the window at the early morning. He could see the grass glimmering with its daily dew. The sky was a soft blue, one that looked as though it were ready to embrace you in its gentle warmth as soon as you stepped out into the fresh air; pale sunlight was painted across it, glittering across the perforated clouds. The day looked so brilliant, like something only the most talented artist could ever paint; and yet, he was going to ruin it. Somehow, this knowledge made the day's natural beauty so much more haunting.

It was strange- when you thought of the worst of days, you'd think thunder storms or hurricanes, blizzards and tornadoes. And yet, it never worked that way for him. Why was it that the most beautiful days were always the worst?

Memories rushed to his head, and he barely had time to suppress them. In his mind, he could see the face of his mother; it was so hurt, so battered and bruised and painful. He could see his father, a handsome young man; and yet, in the midst of all his youthful charm, there was something there- something haunting. His face was a mask that was meant to allure, yet it also covered a thousand secrets.

He could remember when he was ten, and he had come home to his mother's sobs.

"What's going on?!" he had cried desperately as soon as he heard his mother's cries for help.

"Please… Go away!" his mother sobbed, and he hadn't been sure if she was talking to him or to someone else.

"Mom?!" He ran to the kitchen, where his mother was slumped over the stove, her head in her hands. "Mom, what's wrong?"

She shook her head quickly, then shook her hands in a weak attempt to shoo him away. "Go to your room," she said, her voice shaking and broken.

"Mom…"

"Please!" she spun around, and he was shocked at what he saw- her eyes were puffy with tears, and a large bruise was forming on the side of her face. "Just… Go away."

He had nodded slowly, backing out of the room. And when he had turned around, everything suddenly clicked.

His father was sitting on the couch, drinking his whiskey and smoking a cigarette, his face red with anger.

He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of such recollections. He didn't want to remember. But how was he supposed to forget?

He thought about all of the times he had come home, his mother bawling, a new mark or bruise brandishing her skin. He remembered the day that he had finally confronted his father, ready to stand up for his family. He remembered how his father had simply laughed.

"Don't laugh at me!" he had yelled. "Listen to me!"

His father had rolled his eyes. "I'm listening," he had said. "I just don't care."

"Stop hitting mom!"

"You don't tell me what to do, young man," his father had said, immediately becoming serious. "You're mother deserves everything I give her."

"Stop," he had said slowly, "or I'm going to tell someone. My teacher, the pastor, the police, someone. And you'll be sorry."

But his father had merely laughed. "You think you have it all worked out, don't you, son?" he asked, then smirked. "Who do you truly think they'll believe? You? Or me, an businessman who's an avid patron of this city's politics?"

He had simply glared at his father, because he knew that he was right. "I hate you."

His father had rolled his eyes. "You're just a kid. You don't understand. Wait till you grow up."

"When I grow up, I'll never be like you!"

"You seem so sure about that, don't you?" His father gave him a long, hard look. "You think that you can just grow up and start your whole life. You think you can disconnect yourself from this family. But you're wrong, do you know that? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, kiddo. You'll be just like me someday."

"No," he had said, but he suddenly sounded a bit discouraged. "No, I'll never be…"

His father had simply looked back at the television. "Believe what you want," he had said. "But someday, you'll wake up, look into the mirror, and see me staring back at you."

And now, ten years later, he didn't doubt that. Because he could see it happening- he could see himself transforming. He could hear his father's voice in his own. When he looked into the mirror, it became even more obvious. His dad was everywhere- in his dark hair, in the set of his jaw, in the prominence of his chin. He could see him in his dark eyes, something that wasn't pleasant lurking beneath the surface of his corneas- he had the eyes of a monster.

And somehow, he knew he would end up just like his father. And he knew that someone as amazing, someone as brilliant and compassionate and beautiful like her could never deserve trash like him. But she didn't know about his past- she didn't know about the evil that crawled underneath his skin, boiling in his blood. He hid it well, just like his father had- she believed every second of it.

He sighed again, and stared down at the girl with his tormented eyes. He had wanted to leave the night before- he had wanted to kiss her one last time and disappear forever. But she had asked him to stay. As if she knew what would happen, she had asked him to come in and hold her as she murmured to him, her voice speaking a lullaby of thoughts. He couldn't have said no, no matter how much he has wanted to. She hadn't known it, but she had been killing him, slowly tearing him apart. Then, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to leave.

And yet here he was, torturing over her, yet knowing that he could never stay. Knowing that he should depart immediately, knowing that he should grab his shirt and run…

And yet he couldn't. A sudden urge made him lean over her, setting his hand lightly on her cheek. He was surprised when, on reflex, the sleeping girl brought her hand up to cover his own. "I love you," she murmured.

He was shocked, to be honest- he was surprised beyond belief. And yet, even with the astonishment, he was able to mutter, "But you don't know who I am."

In her unconscious state, she didn't seem to be able to hear him- instead, she muttered incoherent thoughts to herself, statements that he couldn't even fathom the meaning to.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he whispered after a moment, trying incredibly hard to hold himself together. "But I have to. You have to let me go…"

It was true. He had to go, before he became a true demon. He wasn't going to let her turn into his mother, the poor woman who loved her husband enough to care for him in every way, yet scared of him enough so that she wouldn't leave, despite that fact that he tore her apart into tiny pieces that could never be repaired. He loved her too much to do that to her. If he ever touched her the wrong way, he would go crazy inside. And yet, he was afraid. He was terrified that it'd happen anyway. Even if it killed him, he couldn't stay. For her… Always for her.

It was a funny thing really. The abuse, the hate, the lies; it was all in the past now, and yet, at the same time, it wasn't. The past was never truly over, he concluded. It followed you throughout your whole life, hiding in the shadows until it was ready to pop out again. It molded you into who you were. You are your past.

The man tried to pull his hand away from the young woman's face, but her small, pale hand seemed to grasp him tighter. "No…" she muttered, then rolled over so that she was laying on her back.

He carefully pried his hand out of hers, and then took a step back. He stared down at the girl, his angel- no, he reminded himself. Not his angel. She was too pure, too sacred to belong to someone like him. She deserved someone who could take care of her, someone who could give her a shoulder to cry on. Someone who could treat her right and love her unconditionally.

"Please, please stay. You could take care of her," a voice inside of his head whispered. "You won't turn out like dad- you never could. You'd protect her, you would love her forever… Please don't make me leave her."

But he simply shook that thought away before he could let himself even consider it- he didn't need to have something convince him otherwise. He was afraid that, if he let himself listen to that voice any longer, he would suddenly agree with it, that he would decide to stay and ruin her whole life.

He sighed, grabbing his shirt, yanking it over his head and onto his naked torso. Then he turned back towards the girl, stepping closer once more.

"Goodbye," he said quietly, and that simple would made his chest ache. It was really over- this was really it. There was no going back now. There was no stopping. It was finally time to bid her farewell, once and for all.

The girl sighed in her sleeping state and, to him, it sounded almost as though she were pleading him, "No."

He grimaced, brushing her shining hair out of her face and, impulsively, he leaned down and kissed her soft lips one last time. "I love you…"

"But sometimes, that isn't enough."

A/N: Yes, this is an extremely long oneshot. I KNOWWWW!!! It's kind of the first one I've ever done... I just wanted to try it out! And sorry if it's kind of crappy- it's also the first real romance thing I've written (though it's not all that romantic, I suppose). I kind of didn't mean to write it- I was actually working on a story, but then the song Let Me Go by 3 Doors Down (the acoustic verson, for the record) came on, and I suddenly started to write something that was... well, not my story. It was strange.

Anyway, the point is that I'm quite insecure about this piece. So, um... tell me what you think? Thanks SOOO MUCH if you do!

~Imminent Paradox