History of an Angel

MARGINS OF PSYCHIATRY AND HUMANITIES

Story of an Angel (Story).

A hard tackle from Irantzu Gonzlez Llona.

MIR I. Basurto Hospital, Bilbao.

irant7u.gonzalezllona d osakidetza.net

361

He spread his wings and flew.

He could not hold back the sigh that made contact with the cold, pure air on his face. How long
had it been without feeling it? It might have been minutes, maybe hours or days, but it had
seemed like forever.

Sometimes it happened to him. A strange force pulled its wings toward the ground. Each feather
became numb and underwent a transformation, hitherto always fleeting, preventing it from flying.
Although it usually did not last long, he, being of air, made him feel an awful fear of becoming a
caged beast, a bird with stumps instead of wings.

He shook his head to get rid of those thoughts and flapped his wings.

Soon he saw his destination: on a great mountain stood a stake that reached beyond the clouds,
and at its end was a platform.

He settled into it and enjoyed the scenery. He let out a burst of bitterness as he saw a few humans
living down there, among the few gaps left by the clouds. "Mortals" thought "a sadness of life,
marked by hypocrisy and suffering." He pitied them with a hint of rage. He knew better than they
did in almost every aspect: without problems, without enemies he could not overcome, and above
with an extraordinary ability: to fly. In the early years he had devoted himself almost exclusively to
seeking a god. It may be that in those early days their feelings were still closer to humans than
they should be. Finding absolutely nothing changed

of strategy and simply surfed the clouds day by day, never tired. Sometimes it was with beings that
from the ground could never be seen. Although he had been in trouble with some of them, bad
seasons ended up dissolving and he could go on his way. He had definitely grown stronger over
the years.
He admired his wings with pride.

Although he found it difficult to recognize, he had been born human, and as such had lived his first
years, or rather, survived. In the middle of a field of thorns it was difficult to reach more. Those
times had almost made him lose all hope, but one day something changed. He felt there was a way
out and he started looking for her. He spent many hours scouring those brambles from side to side
to find a path. The scars on his body, caused by his vital desire to move forward in spite of the
walls of needles that closed his path, had become increasingly numerous. But he knew that if he
stood still the hope would be over. He was accustomed to feel the blood flowing from his wounds
heating his skin, and so much time passed so he ended up liking the sensation.

One night when he continued to move along non-existent paths, a new event made his soul
vibrate: as he pushed aside a bramble, a bat came out of them and walked away through the sky.
At that moment, there was a second turning point in his life: he found a way out.

Since then he has devoted himself day and night to knitting some wings, with the structure made
of the wires that surrounded him and each pen, of

Rev. Asoc. Esp Neuropsiq., 2011; 31 (110), 361-363. doi: 10.4321 / 50211-573520110002000013

362 I. Gonzlez

MARGINS OF PSYCHIATRY AND HUMANITIES

part of one of the feelings that overwhelmed him. As he let go of all that, he felt lighter, freer. He
would never have thought he carried so much weight in his soul. He devoted himself entirely to
the task that was giving him back hope.

During that season, there were beings who helped him to knit, and others who tried, for him in a
show of null piety, to destroy his creation. If he lacked material for the feathers, he looked for it in
the depths of his heart. He did not have too much trouble finding it, though he had to sacrifice
part of his freedom for it.
And one day it happened. For the last pen he used the element he had kept intact until then: his
soul. Of course, he did not use it whole, because he knew he would die, only used something less
than half.

He put them on. He knew how to use them from the first moment, and although he sometimes
folded them, he never took them off. So now they were part of his back, of himself, falling majestic
and as white as snow. They did not ask for anything, only gave him the happiness to flee. And just
seconds after feeling them in the high part of his back, he took the flight for the first time in his life.
Leaving behind all the needles that had martyred him so long and with the scars as the only
memory.