Feet of Clay

Relief

That's your primary emotion, although there are others warring for their say. The small room that you had been ushered into with its drab curtains and mottled grey walls with patches of damp. The bed is low to the ground, probably set on inexpensive crates and you dread to think what you will observe if you examine the mattress. These things however unpleasant you pay no more attention to than a casual observer, you will not be here long. The short pock-faced man had told you that transport was being arranged before he left you here alone, with nothing more to occupy yourself than counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster.

As you pace the ten steps it takes to cover the length of the room you allow your thoughts to run at a frenzied speed. The biggest question is Why? But when you try to shift out an answer your head becomes fuzzy and black and white television static buzzes before your eyes. Your knees are beginning to buckle so you slide down the wall at the foot of the bed preferring the grimy linoleum to the threadbare patchwork quilt on the bed.

Your body aches with exertions that are beyond your reach of recollection, there is a small gash on the side of your head that can be no more than two days old. A fight of course is the logical answer, too close a brush with people who would be only too happy to kill you. But this is the world that you live in, an endless procession of fights, narrow escapes and deception.

Dark thoughts assail your mind: pain, lies and grief all of which you are familiar with. Faces of friends, co-workers and family spin round and round faster and faster until they merge into a terrifying cacophony of accusation that overwhelms you. Muffled whispers reach your ears, although with the roaring in your head it is hard to determine if they are whispers at all.

As the makeshift curtain that serves for a door is pulled to one side you focus all your attention there. Hoping that it is not another visit from the man who brought you here, but someone else that has monopolised your thoughts since you regained consciousness. The person takes small tentative steps into the room letting the curtain flap closed behind him. You clearly see a head of haphazard spikes and perpetual bed head that can never be calmed before you are on your feet and rushing to him.

Your arms are quick to encircle his waist pushing your body flush to his, a welcome warmth settles on your skin as he wraps his arms around you. You place chaste kisses to his temple infusing your kisses with gratitude at his appearance. When you pull back sufficiently to meet his eyes the swirling torrent of emotions that you see settles a lead weight on your heart. For while the man in your arms looks the same as he always has his orbs have never held so much sorrow as they do in this moment and they have never flashed with such abject despair that you have to pull away from him.

There is a distance between you; somewhere he has been that you were not permitted to follow. This dramatic shift in him, whatever has happened has fundamentally altered who he is, this is not the man who spoke to you over comms; guiding you through missions. This is not the man that would sit on a cold tile floor for hours as you replenished your strength in bubble baths and this is not that man that has cradled you in his arms like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

This is a stranger.

The sweet relief has left you now leaving you cold in its wake, instead an icy dread flows through your veins numbing you to the revelation that is going to come. It is a habit that finally exposes him, a stress relieving hand comes up to pull at choppy strands of dirty blond hair. A flash of golden fire catches your eye as you watch the progression of his hand's journey and as comprehension dawns you stumble back against the wall as your heart shatters.

My angel has fallen his feet have turned to clay.

The End