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Philippians 2:3 (NIV). “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.” Calvin’s mother used to read that verse aloud before tucking him into bed, back when they still prayed together. He could recall the way he hung onto every word, how he let this quote pave his earlier years. Now every syllable rang hollow like an empty promise.
Cal admired the way his double-edged blade dully reflected the bathroom’s tinted light. A few months prior, he had carefully disassembled a dollar store razor to retrieve the same metal sliver he now fidgeted with. With how close Zero Day was approaching, Cal couldn’t help but return to his old, ruinous habit. The same one that has left him with puckered keloids he would have to carry with him to his grave. The same one that made his mother wail and sob about how her baby’s body was now littered with these god-awful “scratches”. The same one he found himself returning to nearly every night to cope with his impending Day of Retribution.
He carefully dragged the sharp edge across the inner of his pale forearm, teasing the blue threads that he was dangerously close to snapping. Tiny red beads quickly formed over the thin line, clotting as soon as they appeared. Cal often found himself reminiscing about the first time he brought a blade to his bare skin. He remembers the first time he watched the crimson trickle out of a shallow cut he impulsively carved. He was entranced. Cal had always suspected his true beauty was hidden underneath his fleshy surface. Something he had to search for, scrape for, dig toward, and uncover like gold buried beneath layers of earth. In a few weeks, he would be forcing this very beauty out of his fellow peers; only this time, it would be done with brass capsules.
With the same frightening calm, he dragged the blade a second time right below the first cut. Another bloom of pain traveled up his nerves as blood began to seep out once again. He passed over the same spot again and again before the adrenalized thumping in his head could subdue. Cal felt a warm rush rise up to the fat now shyly peeking out of the wound, a sickening but familiar sight. Nausea twisted his stomach into tight knots. Not because of the pain, but because of the cruel reminder of his fragility that was no different from the people he despised. The thought plagued his head: “If I’m this easy to break, so are they”. Every cruel snicker, every hushed whisper, every shove… underneath all of it was the same weak softness he possessed. He wondered if his classmates were even aware of how easily it would be to carve them open too. Not with some old razor, but with chaos and fear. The kind that would peel away their ignorance and replace it with pure dismay. The kind that ripples through a community and persists as a dull hum even after the grieving period silently ends. Everyone would finally recognize the weight of what they’ve dismissed.
The quiet hum of the air conditioner turning on dragged him out of his trance. Blood dripped rhythmically into the drain, staining the white porcelain surrounding it. He brought the razor up to his skin again, letting himself rip deep into his dermis again and again and again. Older, white scars were reopened along with younger, inflamed ones. Cal lightly dragged the razor across the sole vertical cut pridefully puffing out from the middle of his wrist. There’s a similar one on his right arm. He’s careful not to reopen those ones. The ones that had been cut deeper with a different goal in mind. That’s a closed door now. One he had almost stepped through once. He doesn’t look at them for too long.
Surviving wasn’t a miracle, it was a correction. God doesn’t save everyone. Cal knows that all too well. Being left alive meant he was being kept to serve a purpose. There was no confusion about it. Andre always talked about how they would be akin to God Himself, but Cal always knew angels were a much more accurate comparison. It wasn’t a metaphor to him. The word comes from the Greek angelos; messenger. That was their role. That was their purpose. They would spread His divine word through the pull of a trigger. God’s angels weren’t always beautiful and gentle. They were chilling. Powerful. But, most importantly, they were believed.
Angels weren’t promised rest. Not in the scriptures, not in the story. They appeared, delivered, and then they vanished. They weren’t meant to linger in the aftermath to witness the weight of their actions. That burden belonged to humans. Angels are only given orders. After Cal fulfills his, he’ll fully step through that same door once again for the last time.
Cal let the blade slip from his slender fingers in favor of pressing a nearby towel against the new gashes. He waited for the familiar wave of relief. It never came. Instead he felt empty, drained. It was as if whatever was left of his will seeped out of him with his blood. He felt worthless and piteous, even after playing as a heavenly servant in his head. He couldn’t grasp on to the fury it fueled, not in this state of exhaustion.
“Value others above yourself,” he muttered under his breath, tasting the bitterness of each word. He wanted to laugh. What had years of humility earned him? Understanding? Compassion? A sense of belonging? No. Just emptiness and silence. He wondered what God would say if He could see him now; or worse, if He ever truly saw him at all.