ORIGINS: In the original series each winged-monkey has its own painting. If you look at the frame of the last one, you will find the likeness of a bearded old man. That beard reminded one of us of an angel, but the other one saw an angry demon mask. And who else but a devil would rip out the wings of an angel to fan those flames?
The demon tore the wings from the angel’s back, and she closed her eyes not to feel her loss. I didn’t ask for those wings, but the demon insisted on using them to fan my disillusion into a rage sharper than any fang. And now I don’t know how to take off this mask. Closing my eyes doesn’t work. Because I am not an angel, and I don’t know how to hold on to the little good that’s left in me. This rage is everything I feel. And soon there won’t be anything left of me.
It could have been worse; I have seen masks with fangs sharper than mine. When the demon came, turning my hair, all my memories, into fire and brimstone, not all the tears dried in my eyes. Some of them survived. And from time to time they show themselves. They fall, down my cheeks, into my mouth. Never past it, washing this mask, this rage, away. Never. The demon is here to stay. But at least I am not blind yet. I can still see beyond my own Hell, and feel something that isn’t fire on my skin. A while ago I watched my demon uproot an angel’s wings, and those same tears threatened to overflow my eyes. I wouldn’t have drowned, but at least I know that it could have been worse. My eyes could have been dry, and my bloodstained fangs could have thirsted for more.
I was always too self-centered for emotions like compassion. My demon ripped an angel’s wings off, but I couldn’t have cared less. All I had ever wanted was contentment, but it never took much for my smiles to slip down. I grew angrier by the day, and I didn’t know what to do with that emotion. But then my demon found me, and she taught me how to use my anger to sharpen my teeth. And now I have a beautiful pair of fangs, whiter than the wings of any angel. They don’t give me hope. They have already fulfilled their promise to me. Every day they keep my mouth open, the most beautiful smile on my face.
I think that I have let my demon down. She went through all that effort, she even got a pair of angel wings, just to stoke my disillusion. But no matter how many times she has sharpened my fangs, anger still hasn’t taken hold of me. And I don’t know how to tell her that I feel closer to that angel. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because at least she tried to make me feel something again, but all I want is to close my eyes, and let life pass me by.
An angel grew in the old man’s beard. But she has never opened her eyes; she has never taken wing. And I think that maybe she is waiting for his death. For the day she can finally dust every little thing that she is expected to forgive off him and see only the good in him, before dutifully carrying him away. I understand not wanting to waste one’s wings on someone that isn’t worthy of them. Because I have beautiful fangs, and I am waiting too. I am waiting for the perfect person to wear me. And I would be really disappointed if I saw good in them.
What is the point of finally growing an angel in my beard after all these years? I am no longer a child; I don’t need a guardian anymore. I have already lived through all the suffering this life had to offer, the only thing left is death, and I believe that I still have one or two tears left to go through that on my own. I could have chosen to wear a mask and turn into a demon; it would certainly have made life easier to endure. But I chose to live with watery smiles instead of bloodstained fangs. And I certainly won’t choose this angel now, because my life deserves better than to be diminished at the end.
Have you had a beautiful life? Did your angel take good care of you? Are there more laugh lines than tear tracks carved on your face? Are you relieved? Do you feel at ease? Good. I wouldn’t want you any other way. Soon someone will earn the right to wear this mask, and every demon deserves a prize. You will be a delicious prey.
Sometimes I wonder if my angel is still alive; if she is still there, in my beard, close to my smile. I am not a child in need of protection or guidance anymore. I became an old man in need of companionship a long time ago, but that was never in my angel’s job description. And I am not ashamed to say that the thought has crossed my mind. Sometimes all I can think about is putting on that mask. Trying to act like a demon, just once, to see if my angel would stop me. To see if she is still there, willing to care about me, even if I could never call that company.