Michael A. Fischer

Maybe Angels have to die

Sun rises like a giant flower blooming.

She spreads her leaves all over the horizon.

Her golden blossoms fill my heart with joy.

In the distance the clouds are galvanized by her red-gold, until they glow like the onion domes at Red Plaza in Mosque.

All in all a morning which could be taken from a poem.

Slowly the icy sea begins to reflect the gloom and the sunflower's black soil turns a slight brighter. Turns a slight more blue. Millions of small mirrors form a fascinating kaleidoscope.

My eyes are chained to this miraculous dance of light and colour, although the bright needles sting them like tiny splitters of glass.

The cold, rising tide reaches my bare feet and makes me shiver. I bury my feet in the cool, wet sand and inhale the fresh, salty morning air.

Suddenly the majesty of the moment strikes me like a hammer in the chest. I cough, I tumble, I fall, I laugh. I spread my arms like wings on the ground and imagine, I could fly with those bleeding clouds.

 

But suddenly my laughter dies and everything falls back on me. Again I have trouble breathing. It feels as if my lungs were squeezed and twisted by the hands of a giant. The air seems to have become some hot, thick liquid, like burning oil. I try to fumble the little spray out of my pocket, but I can get a hold on it. My feet start dancing in a riddle of spasms.

This is it. This is the moment I die.

But no tunnel with light at its end appears. There is no stream of pictures reflecting my whole life. So I cling myself to a fading spark of hope.

Maybe heaven can wait a little longer. Maybe my time has not yet come.

And then I remember her and I can see it clear.

Hell awaits me. It must be hell.

But death appears to be a to great relief for me, as long every day on earth is more torture than a year in hell. You simply can not escape your past.

Every year, every month, every week, every day, every hour, every second, torture.

It hurts as long as you remember.

Her eyes.

Oh what a relief those seconds of oblivion had been. Was it really only minutes that they were real? It seems to me as if it were decades or even centuries. What a relief. Although a undeserved one. But now those seconds of awaking on the beach are forever gone.

 

I remember everything again. I remember what I have done and I never will forget.

 

It was two years from now.

She was as beautiful as the summer night or maybe it was the night who was beautiful like her. She had been sitting right where I stand now.

The sun was slowly sinking in the crystal waves, the horizon lit on fire by her death. The fading light played with her hair and made it burn in brown and red. Her alabaster skin began to glow and it looked as if she had a halo round her head.

She was calm, breathing slowly. The sand was still warm, the day's heat still pulsing in it's depts, but already cooling and so was her body.

She lay in my arms, smiling, while the blood was dripping to the ground. She made no attempts to stop the flow. She just looked into my face with those eyes. I kissed her. Her lips were cool, but still a deep red.

In my right hand I still held the knife. I cannot remember when I had stabbed her or why. I loved her. It was our wedding day.

 

As the sun finally disappeared in the ocean, she took her last breath and whispered:

“I love you.”

Then she closed her eyes.

I buried her in the sea and the waves kept the secret well.

 

The last two years I lived in a never ending trance. If I just could understand why, but I never was angry with her. She was a real angel in my live.

 

A year after I murdered her I came to the beach again and as the waves took her, by the last light of the day, I wanted them to take me. But with the sun being reborn the next day, so was I.

 

I tried again one year later, which means yesterday. And again the waves have spit me out again.
So I will now walk up the dunes to our honeymoon hotel, unlock my car and drive home. But it will be back same time next year and try again.

 

Until then I will live on. Restless, remembering.

 

Every second I will spend thinking of her and wondering why...

 

...maybe angels have to die.          

 

Alle Rechte an diesem Beitrag liegen beim Autoren. Der Beitrag wurde auf e-Stories.org vom Autor eingeschickt Michael A. Fischer.
Veröffentlicht auf e-Stories.org am 15.09.2011.

 

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