One hour and thirty minutes ago, my life was normal.

Then he walked in, and everything exploded.

I don’t mean that metaphorically. I’m not trying to exaggerate. Nor am I trying to deceive by telling a tale that is blown out of proportions. I mean that literally, everything exploded. One minute, I was sipping iced coffee and working on a report and the next-

Fire, loud shrill bangs, the screams of people burning, the silence of the dead, the smell of ash, the sight of ash, the trembling of my entire body under a single table as I realize what was going on:

My past had caught up with me.

With eyes closed to the war zone forming around me, I press my hands to my ears. Now more than ever did I wish I could take away my invincibility. I wish that I could be consumed by the flames. But I can’t- I can’t will something away that was given to me without my consent.

Stop. Hold everything. Pause.

You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m rushing into the action without giving any background. Unfortunately, I tend to do that.. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, though. I’ll tell you everything.

Let’s start at the beginning: two years ago, in the backstreets of a suburban city named Black Diamond.

I’m in pain. Real descriptive, I know, but I don’t know how to describe it. Finding words for it even now, looking back on the memory of it, are impossible. But if I try, if I try, maybe I can think of something. Although, I’ll be honest: doing that scares the living daylights out of me. Putting words to what you feel can make it real, tangible, beatable.

Beatable.

Beat.

I need to start there. Beat. I’m a cop fresh from the academy with the assignment of my first bust. My team and I are going to be sent out to investigate a suburban city named Black Diamond. Supposedly, a kingpin chose the city to hide in. According to undercover sources, this kingpin is selling a drug informants on the streets have called “fallen angel.” I don’t ask what that is supposed to mean. I don’t ask how far into Black Diamond we’ll be going. In my experience, those kinds of questions don’t have an exact answer. Fallen angel is symbolism, and time is nothing but a constraint when dealing with the underworld.

The next day, I’m getting into my uniform. I’m grabbing my gear when one of the coworkers taps me on the arm.

“Here,” they say handing me a box about the size of a paperback, wrapped in a black ribbon. “This can help with the nerves.”

“What?” I say, disbelieving. Is my coworker really…attempting to hand me drugs? “No. I’m okay.”

“Look, we all get a little nervous. I remember my first bust. Oh man, I was shaking like a chihuahua. This stuff, though? It helped so much.”

“No,” I said sternly. “Get that away from me before I tell-“

“Tell who? Everyone around here does it. Now come on, your first hit is free. The others costs five bucks each, ten on weekends.”

I don’t ask why it costs double on the weekend. I just reject it. “No.”

*** *** ***

There are things you look back on, signs you see after a traumatic event shifts your entire world. This moment, this singular event is one of them. My coworker rolled their eyes. “There’s always an angel or two,” they say as they leave the box and walk away.

For reasons I never understood until later, I don’t report this. I don’t tell a soul about the confrontation. I don’t tell anyone that I was just offered illegal drugs before my very first mission. I could spend a lifetime coming up with a unique list of a thousand reasons why I didn’t, and none of them would be the actual reason:

I’m a coward.

There. I said it. Happy?

Now, let me tell you how that mission went so very south for me yet was a complete success for everyone else.