The Debt Collector

05. The Deep of the Waters

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[ trigger warnings: suicidal thoughts, mental spiraling, suicide, alcoholism, other depressive topics ]

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     Why did nothing ever work?

     Eleven bottles emptied, the lingering sting of cheap whiskey burning in his throat, and a half-smoked pack of cigarettes tossed aside, their acrid smoke curling into the air like the fading remnants of his sanity. It should have worked. He should have been numb by now, lost in oblivion, drifting far away from the relentless storm inside his head. But no—nothing ever fucking worked. Nothing could tear those damn thoughts from his mind.
     It was the same ideas, over and over again, looping endlessly like some cruel, eternal film reel. He felt like he was being trapped in a movie theater where he was strapped to the chair and the screen is only replaying every single thing that he kept in the darkest corners of his mind. No escape. No reprieve. Just the same thoughts cycling through, their weight crushing him more with each passing second.

     If I'm killing those who are evil... and taking another's life is evil... His hand trembled and the bottle's contents splashed as the thought spiraled again. Then how am I any better? But that wasn't even the worst of it. No, the worst part—the part that clawed at him like nails raking through his mind—was that it wasn't just the wicked he was taking.
     Sometimes, he found himself standing in those cold, sterile hospital rooms. The air smelled of disinfectant and death. He'd be standing next to a bed where a child lay, alone and weak, their life barely hanging on by a thread. A child. A fucking child. And how, in the name of the Seventh, was he supposed to look into their pitiful eyes and tell them it was time? Time to say goodbye when there wasn't even anyone there for them to say goodbye to, all of their family gone except them?
     He was just as bad as those he had been created to destroy. He was a murderer. A heartless bastard. God, he knew it. He had heard it whispered by the other angels hundreds of times, their words bouncing off the pristine white walls, staining his mind like ichor on silk.

     Cold. 

     Heartless. 

     Apathetic. 

     Emotionless.

     Every time one of those words was spoken before or after his name, it felt like a needle against his skin. At first, a single prick was barely noticeable, just a sting he could brush off. But over time, it became like lying on a bed of needles, each one sinking deeper, sharper than the last, until the pain was no longer something he could ignore. It burrowed into him, carving out pieces of his soul.
     But it wasn't those words that haunted him the most. No, what tore at his mind, what gnawed at his very core, was the thought that if killers deserved to die for their crimes—then what did that make him? He was no different. He was a killer. Not just once or twice, but hundreds of times. He had taken life, over and over again.
     Who was he to be spared? Why should he, a murderer, be absolved just because some divine decree had set him on this path? What made him any less deserving of punishment than those he'd been sent to kill?

     It didn't matter how many times he tried to justify it, tried to tell himself it was for some higher purpose. The faces still came to him, unbidden, in the quiet moments when his mind wasn't occupied—when the world around him grew still, and the weight of his actions settled like a heavy fog in his chest. He could see them, clear as day—their expressions twisted in agony, in disbelief, in fear. He had seen their final moments, the life draining from their eyes, and no amount of divine will could erase that from his mind.

     Maybe if he weren't thinking at all, he could stop reliving it. Maybe if he drowned it out, if he could just turn it all off, he wouldn't have to see their faces. Wouldn't have to feel their pain echoing in his mind.

     Maybe he should stop thinking.

     Maybe he should just stop.

     Auriel let out a broken sound, his body trembling as he hurled the half-full bottle at the apartment wall. The glass shattered with a sharp, violent crash, the noise ringing through the empty room—eerily similar to the sound of his last shred of resolve breaking in his mind. His chest heaved as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms, as if the simple act could somehow erase the memories, the torment that never ceased its assault on his mind.
     But, when he opened his eyes, the world shifted around him. His heart pounded as he realized he was no longer in the apartment he had rented as a safe haven—he stood on the edge of a dark shore, the black waters stretching out endlessly before him, swallowed by the night. How long had he been here? Had he come without even realizing?

     A bitter laugh escaped him. Maybe it was fate after all.

     As he stared into the inky abyss, a small, desperate part of him screamed—faint, but still there, a flicker of life clinging on in the face of the overwhelming despair. "No, Auriel! You can't give up! You have to be strong!" It was a familiar voice, one that had pushed him through countless battles, one that had always been enough to pull him from the brink.
     But not tonight.
     That small, hopeful voice was barely a whisper against the dark tide in his mind, against the part of him that gnawed at his very soul—relentless, devouring, whispering lies and truths alike. It drowned out everything else. The part of him that had been torn apart over and over again, that was so tired of fighting to stay strong.

     "Give up, Auriel. You're no better than those you've slaughtered. You are just as cold and heartless. Maybe if you could've stopped Lucifer, he wouldn't have fallen. If you had been better, you could have stopped Azrael's disappearance."

     "It's your fault everything is wrong."

     "You know it is."

     "You know you should give up, don't you?"

     He did know.

     Fuck, he had to give up. It was the only way to finally silence that damn voice, the one that gnawed at him day after day, the one that wouldn't let him forget. Without a second thought, Auriel threw himself into the dark waters. The inky water, cold and suffocating, swallowed him whole, pulling him down into its depths without hesitation, its black waves wrapping around him like chains.
     An angel's body couldn't be harmed by mortal weapons, but water... water was God's creation, wasn't it? Pure. Divine. It had always held a certain power.
     The cold bit at his skin, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he wasn't thinking. He wasn't reliving memories of the lives he had taken. He felt the weight of the ocean pressing down on him, forcing the breath from his lungs, and yet—strangely—there was peace in the pressure. It was quiet down here. No noise, no thoughts. Just silence. Perhaps it could finally just kill him.

     For a split second, he clawed at the water as it pulled him under, as if even the instinct in his body was urging him not to let go just yet. But it was fleeting, and the exhaustion, the deep, soul-crushing pain, quickly smothered it. 
     His hand fell, resting by his side as he sank farther and farther. The world once illuminated by moonlight became dark and the stars which he was so fond off disappeared from sight. His eyes closed and finally, he let out a sigh, allowing the water to fill his lungs. Finally. 

Finally, he would fucking die.