Free Unwelcome by Michael Griffo

their trade, quietly ornate but supremely functional. Things should be beautiful, but they should also have purpose. He especially loved the anteroom to the office. The forest green walls were the perfect counterpoint to his red hair, and standing now in the center of the room, he was reminded of the holiday season that had just passed. “I am like Father Christmas,” he said, laughing along with his reflection. “Revered, immortal, and the giver of so many gifts.” He laughed harder, making his reflection distort even more than usual. In the mirror, his blue eyes were a ghastly shade of charcoal, his formidable frame hunched and lopsided, his creamy complexion stained and, in some areas, burnt. “What is reality and what is perception?” he asked himself. The only response that came was another laugh, this time sinister and without any suggestion of a light heart. “And how have you angels survived without me for all these years?”
    David’s eyes traveled around the mirror’s elaborate, carved oak frame, from archangel to archangel. He was filled with a glut of emotions, not all of them good, and one by one he surveyed the spiritual creatures, casting his eyes upon their likenesses as if they were long-lost relatives. David glared at the figure of Gabriel, his lips forming a sneer to express his rejection of the archangel whom he condemned as loud and ostentatious. His eyes then fell upon Uriel and Ramiel, whom he thought of as more resourceful angels since they used fire and thunder as their weapons, and Raphael, whom David viewed as weak, but allowed his eyes to linger long enough to admire fully the splendid curvature of his muscled arms.
    Next he focused on Sariel, whom he appreciated for protecting the dead but acknowledged that he was nothing more than a collector of bones that were the spoils of someone else’s victories and, therefore, a disappointment. And then he stared at the one he truly loathed, the thing known as Michael. So much glory, so much recognition, and why? Because Michael was a narcissist, God’s pet, a minor player who demanded praise for one questionable conquest. The fact that Michael had outshone them all for eons in the courtroom of public opinion enraged David, but all that anger, all that resentment was forgotten when his eyes landed upon Zachariel. His reflection softened and for once appeared vaguely human as he looked at the carving of the deity who was, according to David, the true sovereign of the archangels.
    He was astounded. Even while resting against a wooden replica of the sun, that magical orb, Zachariel’s face shone brighter than the others. He exuded warmth, wisdom, and incomparable power. Power that was given to him by the great sun itself. His upturned chin, sharp eyes, and unsmiling mouth were a welcome to those who were worthy and a warning to those who were not, a notice that their time had come to an end. “I am the embodiment of you,” David said with reverence. “And I have taken your name out of honor and in sacrifice.”
    David traced the outline of the sun that framed Zachariel’s face, gently, cautiously, afraid the wood might disintegrate from his touch. But he was unable to resist. He commanded his courage to rise and he let his fingers fall across Zachariel’s hair, his cheek, his eyes, the eyes that had witnessed more beauty, invoked more fear, than David could ever hope to. “I have returned here to uphold your commandments, your principles,” David whispered into the one small wooden ear that was visible, and then abruptly pulled back from the sculpture and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the beautiful blue irises were gone; so too was any indication of white. All that covered both surfaces of his eyes was black.
    As David stared into the wooden eyes of his namesake, it was unclear whose were more lifeless but obvious whose were more consumed with vengeance. “And I