Disclaimer: I do not own The OC.
Notes: The idea for this story was completely, utterly stolen from the song, Angel, by Blue October.
How do you tell an angel
That you don't believe in God?
Why do I feel
Like such a stranger
I look around
I look around
And all my friends are gone
-Angel : Blue October
Telling Seth you don't love him is like telling an Angel that you don't believe in God.
It's like facing Satan on his own turf, with flames and demons licking your skin, looking him straight in the eye, and telling him you don't know the meaning of sin. It's like straining on your tip toes and stretching out your arm so far every muscle turns to glass, cracking inside your bones as you keep reaching, and touching Heaven with your very fingertips, and saying that you've never felt hope. It's like molding gold in between your hands, creating something living and breathing and beautiful, before you throw it into raging seas and pretend you don't understand the appeal of redemption.
It's practically impossible.
But somehow, you manage it.
You manage words that you don't mean, words that cut the inside of your mouth to say and you have to stop to breathe for just a moment, because you are honestly afraid that there's blood on your lips now. You manage eyes that are blank, dead, and even as you stare ahead, you can't stop the shudder, because you're picturing rotting corpses dancing in your irises now, and the thought that there's something inside you as disgusting and twisted as death scares you more than the consequences of being alive. You manage hands by your sides, somehow stationary and silent, and you feel nothing more than enormous gratitude to your will power for being able to keep your fingertips from tracing out the smooth line of his cheek bone.
You think maybe you should be proud of yourself, because you've done something you doubt anyone else on the face of planet could accomplish, and you've done so without the use of mind altering substances or a piece of corrosive metal digging into your gut with promises of spreading poison to your blood stream.
You've achieved a feat greater than lifting the world itself off of it's axis, and the only thing you had to do to gain the power, the inner strength to tear apart imperfect perfection personified, was let your insides turn to acid and your outsides fade to dust.
All you had to do to save him, was break yourself.
And you can only hope that it's better this way.