The devil filled in

the blanks in his memory:

pain and murder,

blackness and terror.

The man is alone.

The body is lifeless.

Tears of remorse are

useless now.

The knife's on the ground.

Unstoppable tremors

shake his hand;

blood spatters the wall.

The devil smiled in

anguished satisfaction.

A deathly silence in his mind

more terrible than the

torture committed moments

before.

There is no dirge.

No elegy, no heavenly

choral

marking the end of this

life.

Just a man.

Just a boy.

Just a darkness, still and

calm as a memorial.

No way of bringing back the dead.

No wish to save the

life; to be Pygmalion and

Galatea.

The room shines bright

with reflected headlights.

A fluoro wash that

ripples like the pools

on the floor ripple.

The devil washes his

hands,

and walks away an angel.

The wings are stained

no more,

and the man remains to

take

the Fall.