Confessions of an Angel

He looks at me like he has something sick crawling under his skin, like this grin he's wearing is so unpure that no amount of praying could get him out of the grave he's dug himself. His eyes know. His eyes tell me he is so sure I can take away his sins.

That with a snap and a whistle, he'll be something he never was. You can't do that, angels can't do that, can they? I'm an angel, aren't I? If a sinner like him claimed so, then I must be. He must need me, that's why. I have to save him.

I have to wash his sins away. There had to be something I could do, I was an angel after all. Weren't angels suppose to save people? Baptism or blessings or something. Something to save him. No one was allowed to have that many sins.

He's talking now. His mouth is moving from its grin to form words I either can't understand, or don't want to. There's a ringing in my ears, and suddenly I know. Not just him anymore, I know. I know what he wants.

He's sitting there waiting on my sins. That must be what he's waiting for, confessions from an angel. No, no, no. Angels can't have sins! Liar, liar, liar! No, wait. I'm not an angel. I can't save him.

The smile's back, just as knowing as ever. He knows. He knew it all along. My stomach feels sick. No, he doesn't know yet. He would have left. No, maybe he wants an apology. He must know. He has to know.

My eyes meet his. He doesn't know. He still believes. I don't. I know. I know what I'm not, what he's not, what we'll never be. Sick, sick, sick. He is wrong. He is all wrong, all sins.

Sorry, Pete, I'm not the angel you're looking for.