Lately, I've been drawing angels. It's strange, really, as I don't believe in Heaven. And I don't believe in God, either. Not the way you used to talk about Him, as some ruthless high-and-mighty overseer who created humans for his own amusement. No, I don't believe in that God at all.
I do, however, draw angels. Always the clichéd, haloed, winged kind in long white dresses, a child's image of an angel. I draw so many of them, in the margins of maths homework and on torn pieces of refill and any scrap paper I can lay my hands on.
Happy angels. Sad angels. Angels dancing with joy. Angels sitting on clouds, carefree, harp in hand. Angels watching. Angels listening. Angels arguing. Small, plain, innocent angels, hands clasped in prayer, sweet smiles upon their faces. Tall, proud, haughty angels, with beautiful faces and terrible eyes, part of a corrupt kingdom of Heaven, brought low by power and infamy.
All kinds of angels. And I draw you as an angel. Oh, yes, you are my angel often. I draw you as you used to be, wicked grin and untidy hair, but with shimmering halo and graceful wings. I draw angels that seem nothing like you on first glance, but if you look a little closer you will see something in their eyes, in their smiles, in the way their hands hang at their sides, in that slight sadness of stature, something that betrays them. Something that could only ever belong to you.
I showed one angel to Dan, once, a good friend of ours. He glanced at it. "Good."
"Good? That's all you're going to say?"
"I'm used to your drawing," he said, with a slight laugh. "Nothing I say can really do it justice."
"At least look at it," I said quietly.
He sighed, and took the paper back. I watched as understanding entered his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, careful, soft. All the laughter had gone. "Why did you draw this?"
"Because…" I said, struggling to find the words for something I could barely explain to myself. "Because I don't want to forget."
"Bullshit," he said shortly. "You've always been like this, you just want to get a reaction." His voice rose. "You're just making people feel the pain all-fucking-over again. Just leave it. He's dead and burning in Hell and no fucking scribbles on a piece of paper are going to change that. Get over him."
"I loved him," I said softly, too softly, too late. Dan had already gone.
In a way, I'm glad. I hate it when people look at me with pity. Anger, well, it's something normal, something I can get used to. It doesn't bite the way pity does.
As much as I loved you, as much as I still love you, I have long forgiven you for such a betrayal. I will never understand, never, but forgiveness does not come from understanding, it only comes from love. And with this forgiveness, I can forget the horrible way you died, and remember only the wonderful way you lived.