I tell myself, all the time, that they’re not real. That even if they were, I’d be able to handle it, I know what they are and how they work, and besides, it’s not like they actually kill you. They let you live, really, until you’re dead. Just like any other person, you live until you don’t any more, even if it means that you’ll never see your friends and family again. What they do isn’t painful, isn’t hurtful, isn’t even bad, not really. It’s just inevitable, and that’s maybe the worst part. Knowing that there is nothing to be done is harder than anything else.
They are not scary, and they are not real. They’re just images. But the likeness of an angel is an angel itself, and I can’t help but wonder how it is that they’ve so thoroughly invaded my brain as to make me afraid of something that used to make me feel wonder and joy. It’s irrational, and I don’t want to be afraid. I am afraid of them because meeting one would make me afraid, and I hate fear.
They’re fear itself, really. They are the strange and scary-not-scary figures that linger in my peripheral vision, that make me afraid to look behind me, because seeing it, knowing, would be worse than having it come from no where. It’s better not to know, in the end. Not to have to stare down your worst nightmare and know that you’re going to die before you even got the chance to live. And the worst part? You can’t look away, or you’ll die all the faster. Closing your eyes just lets them come closer, because “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” doesn’t apply to the real world. With them, you can’t look away for a second, you can’t even blink, blink and you’re dead.
I know that they are not real. I know it in the logical part of my mind, but that doesn’t stop me from flinching whenever I see statues with empty eyes, or checking out my window to make sure that there isn’t one watching. It doesn’t stop me from hoping that the Statue of Liberty will always have eyes on it, that there are always lights on in the parts of the world populated by figures of angels. It doesn’t matter that I know that they’re just pictures, just imagination. Because to me, they are creatures of fear, and there is nothing to be done.