On the few occasions in his life when he had looked into a mirror, he had seen nothing but the devil staring back at him. Yet if he truly were the devil, would there be an angel on her knees in front of him, weeping over his fate?
He never meant for this to happen. He had hurt and tortured and killed people, more than he could count, and he hadn't cared about any of those deaths, because he hated every single one of his victims for the fear and disgust he saw in their eyes when they looked at him, but he never wanted her blood on his hands. She was kind and pure, and for some unfathomable reason she could look upon him without revulsion, even seemed to genuinely care for him. And still he had hurt her, both physically and emotionally, threatened her, forced her into a wedding dress she did not want to wear, all in the name of love. Was a devil really capable of love?
But then the angel kissed him and for just a moment, he forgot who, or rather what he was. All he could think of was the soft pressure of her lips on his, her arms, so much stronger than they looked, wrapped tightly around him, her small, graceful hands clutching at his back. In that moment, he felt an overwhelming need to fall to his knees at her feet and beg. Beg her for the love he so desperately wanted, but could never be worthy of.
'I'll be a better man, Christine,' he wished to say. 'I'll be good, oh I'll be so good for you, I promise. I've wanted to see the world burn for so long, but for you I'll learn to love it like I should. I'll be so good Christine, to make up for all the times that I wasn't.'
The angel's kiss grew more insistent and he wanted nothing more than to lock his arms around her and kiss her back, but then she placed her hand on the naked deformity of his face, and the promises froze on his lips. With her perfect fingers on his skeleton face, he remembered all the bitter years of his past. He remembered the cold, merciless monster he had been. The Angel of Death. He saw the face of every person he had murdered without a second thought, saw the blood on his hands, and for the first time in his life it scared him. Rather than being freed from a nightmare by the peaceful light of day, he was waking up from the most beautiful dream only to realize that this sorry excuse for a life he was living was the nightmare.
Pushing her back felt like shoving his bare hands through his own flesh and ripping his heart out of his chest. He would have done exactly that had she asked it of him. He would have laid his beating heart at her feet and offered her anything else she might desire. He wanted to swear to her that he would let the light in from now on instead of shutting it out. That he would never doubt innocent things again. That he would never again be the cause of bruises or tears, on her or on anyone else. That he would make amends for all the wrong he had done all these years, even if it took the rest of his life to accomplish the task.
He wanted to promise her. But he couldn't.
A devil could not take an angel from heaven and promise her anything better. He could only set her free and let her return to her rightful place in the world up above, while he himself burned in hell, where he belonged.