Bad Angels

His eyes had sunken so severely he barely recognized himself.
Christ, he thought. I look like a zombie.   
He pulled at the skin around his cheeks where he expected elasticity he found none. Looking into the fractured mirror he remembered a story his father had told him.
The department crew had been summoned to the home of a man who was having an “episode.”  The man, Jim, lunged at his father with a hammer as he entered.  He had been whacking bad angels under the guidance of God. 
There was a 10-foot hole in the man’s family room wall. Jim had caught one, but others were pouring through the opening.
As a teenager, it had been easy to dismiss the guy as a crackpot, but he thought about Jim and his episode more often the older he got.
He could have handled the rejection letters from the seemingly endless interviews, but then Melissa left.
The phone rang and the machine picked up. His mother urging him to go to church with her. She would pray for him.
He rubbed his eyes and they retreated further.
From somewhere, on the other side of the mirror, someone passed him a hammer.