(I'm still a little confused as to where this actually came from. I sort of just touched the pencil to the page and it sort of erupted out. A few things became conscious, like the religious imagery, but very little else resembled anything you might call "planned." I hope that doesn't translate into a bad story, but I shall let you be the judge of that. -B.B.)

With a quiet smash, I thrust my shoulder up against the brick wall. A cautious grunt, I don't want to be too loud, but I can't hold back the expression. It hurts. Not much to do about that. Just got to make it a little bit longer. The way it goes.

I stumble along, scraping against the cool, brick surface of the apartment building's outer wall. Am I dying? If I am, then I can think of worse ways. No shame. Pride, even. No shame. I ache 'heart and body ' but feel no grief.

Because I did it all for an angel.

To that extent, my actions, my death, are and were noble. It allows me to face my own blood with a smile. I did it for you, love, my joy. Remember me to your children because I did it for you. I have given this up so I might have more in you. For that, I am thankful. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.

Now it begins to darken. I blink the sweat and tears. I cry not for me, angel, but for you; not sorrow, joy. No shame.

In my dying moment, I pull out your picture ' I have kept it near my heart since the day you gave it to me. Remember that day? We shimmered together in that shining moment. That made this worth it. I swipe the blood off the edges. My life essence no longer matters, serves only to diminish you. Corruptible flesh, melt away! It has served its purpose.

You look so peaceful in this photograph. A warm smile on your lips, full life in your eyes. It flares my heart. So this is why men die for treasure, die for love. This blood sacrifice'¦given to you, for you'¦This is my body, this is my blood, given for you. Remember me.

A coldness grips my chest. The air comes slowly. A cough, a flash of red. Wine spilled on the pavement. Life wine. Mustn't let the sacrament touch the ground. Dirty in comparison, it is the symbol of something clean and perfect. That's a sacrament, to me. A common, profane thing in place of something holy. Time ticking. Into thy'¦into thy hands I commend my spirit

Out of the grasping palm'¦the photo falls out. Your face shines from the gloss, radiant smile pierce the air. The photo lands face up on the ground. I struggle to reach for it, but I lack the strength. Lack the power. Not the will. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

No way out but the way I've taken. I would walk this path all over again if it would give you another day, hour, another minute of joy and life.

Darkness. Shroud. No way out. Gasping. Clutching. No way out. Peace. Peace. No way out. Except this.

Father, into thy hands.

It is finished.

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