Tonight, I stopped fighting with the Angels inside me. Tonight, I will answer their call.
Sitting cross-legged on the desert floor, my hands resting on top of my knees, I watch and shiver as the last of the daylight dips into the distant abyss and sucks the last of the heat with it. As it does, the final ray catches the only object for miles that could reflect its offering. There is a glint, like a wink from a wise man who is the only one who knows what’s coming next, and the steel of the weapon in front me laughs as though it can see the future.
I don’t remember the exact moment I ran out of fight. I’d spent the last twelve hours dragging my feet through the sands of the desert, convinced I was strong. I knew from the beginning it was futile, but I pushed on, feigning a faith in my own strength.
But I was a fool. Like most men are when up against the kind of foe I was fighting. You never win against Angels, no matter how strong your faith.
When they dropped me off in this God-forsaken desert, I told myself I was strong. I stood, watching the dust settle and cover the tire tracks of the Jeep as it turned into a black speck on the horizon, already fighting my losing battle.
I felt the call immediately, even as the last of the disturbed sand was falling onto my eyelashes and into the tan ocean surrounding me. I heard it, and I answered.
“I’ll fight it,” I told the desert.
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