My Angels

My mother died, and for a while after, much of my family mourned. My uncle used to say that the angels lifted her from her deathbed themselves, escorting her to the riches of the kingdom above. He also would say that she would never admit to being worthy of such a gift.

Her humble nature, as I matured, began to disgust me. Selflessness infested her organs and ate away at her bones. She never left enough for herself — or for me. Always walking the thin tightrope of choice, siding with the struggling man over us.

“There will always be someone less fortunate.” I couldn’t believe the words that left her mouth. She had a son to love, and yet, others were granted such love instead. I cursed and spat venomous words to the skies above, wondering with fury what others had done to deserve the graciousness of her pure heart. I was hers in blood, not them. If all her earnings, all her hard work, was kept to aid ourselves, our lives could have been plentiful, no struggle, no strife, no pain, only bliss. Did her son not deserve bliss?

I grew a hate for her. A toxic rage, one that felt a sense of indifference at the realization of her death. My wicked heart yearned for freedom, a drive to make a good — no, perfect life for myself. It’s what I deserved. Part of me wished she would be able to bear the fruits of it beside me, but her values were set, her choices were made, and my heart chose to look forward.

I started from nothing, and used a clever tongue, wits, and a determined soul to gain plentiful riches. Not just the riches, did I find, but power. I convinced the masses to follow my word, to worship me, to trust me. I was their salvation. I had never seen an angel like my uncle had described, but in the loyalty, in the servitude of man, that is where I found my own angels. Like the angels, men would lift me to my kingdom, keep me protected, cleanse me on demand, feed my swollen appetite. I had what my mother worked to achieve here — now, without any limitations and obligations.

What a fool that woman was in my eyes, a fool that forced her flesh and blood to limp along beside her. Even at the height of my authority, it never was enough. It could never be enough. Nothing was ever saved for me as a child, only given to the world. I felt, for many years, it was time for the world to repay. So they did.

The masses would pay me with whatever scraps they had left, barely able to survive themselves. I saw myself in them at times, empathy scratching at my conscious. “They deserve this,” I would remind myself, “Others gave to them, like your delusional mother.” Many died under my reign. I didn’t care much to see the impact for myself, and for a time, I wasn’t aware of the scale of suffering. The people I surrounded myself with feared me, too afraid to steer me in a more positive direction. They were right to fear me, at times, my actions made my soul fearful. I was a true monster.

Here I lay now. My health has been declining for some years now, finally leading me to a bed-ridden life as of recent, just like my mother. Men still feed me, but I know they do this as a sort of obligation. There is no more fear of me. It’s hard to fear a man in this state. Men still cleanse me, but not of my command, rather, for their own senses, limiting the stench of rot within these castle walls. No more do people grant me the last of their food or riches. I am in no state to make demands. My heart is too tired to scream to them anyways.

The people are led by a new regime now. I have not seen them, and they have not seen me. They have kept me in isolation, hidden from the world. I would not be startled if they have told the masses I am dead already. They have moved to the next vessel of greed. One that could deceive and steal the way I could.

I have no loved ones. All of them are dead or have abandoned me. I blame them not. I abandoned them long before. I abandoned everything.

My mother, as I look now, helped the world with everything she could afford too. I never starved to death, or died of sickness, or froze. Inconveniences ate away at me. I let them, too.

Wickedness has eaten at my soul.

I am tired.

I am drenched in shame.

I am nothing.