The insipid seraphs have left a mark on me—I can feel it. Even this one, who I thought could or would do nothing of the sort, will not evade culpability. How lovely. What a crude amalgamation of scars. Inside and out. How charmingly profane. How charmingly cliché.
I have reached that point, Clay. I am there. I hate them so much I want to cry. I have made my faithless reflection its promises...I have lost the day I died inside—but if I forced myself to guess, it was the day that my Eve left, all those years back beyond fond memory. October, 2003.
That's when I died inside. And I don't want to blame her, but how can't I? Could I? I do. She was the first one to take something from me and never return it, the first one to teach me what it meant to cut out a part of yourself to stop it from screaming in agony. She was the first Mia, I was the first Thaddeus. I wrote all of my stories into existence before I put them on paper.
-M
