Why. Did. He. Save. Me?

Goodness

So why did he save me?

W.H.Y.?

What was the point in that? Why even bother? It doesn't make sense. It was the wrong strategic move. I could not offer territory, or companionship, or a relationship. I wasn't a mate. I couldn't return any favours.

He was an angel. He was not human. He defied humanity.

So. Humanity. Struck. Him. Down.

His expression wasn't fake. He didn't have any false intent. He was the goodness that everyone else lacked.

But that doesn't tell me why he saved me. He didn't love me. He couldn't. I'm unlovable. I'm poisonous. I can't give anything back. I can only take away.

Because. They. Destroyed. Me.

I was once kind. Good even.

Like him.

I was innocence itself. But if I recall correctly, the good die young. We cannot allow goodness, so we kill it. We kill everything we don't agree with. Everything has to be our way. Because we cannot understand any other way, and we are scared of what we cannot understand.

I've been told to write this. They need to understand. But I cannot bear to talk to them. The doctors want to know my story, but I cannot bear to talk to them. I cannot stand their kindness and fake smiles. They cannot care, not properly. Not like him. But still I do not know:

Why. Did. He. Save. Me?