War of the Angels

I see the collection of small stone angels in the store before I see anything else. They make me want to walk away, but also compel me to enter. I stand out front grappling with my emotions for a few moments then go inside, a dusty bell greeting me as the door swings open.
"Hello?" a gravelly voice says from the back of the small cluttered shop.
"Um, hi. I couldn’t help but notice your collection of stone angels," I manage to mumble, always dreading conversation.
"Are you one of them?" The man asks, looking at me with eyes full of pity.
"Y-yes sir," I tell him, surprised at my own bravado.
I rarely admit that I’m a veteran of WOTA. He smiles sadly.
"I’ve been waiting for you. Not as long as you’ve been waiting, though," he says. I shake my head, blushing.
"I... I’ve been waiting for 8950 years. I was... one of the first, and..." I trail off. Why did I come in here? I should go. Too many memories. I’m not ready. The man whistles in appreciation, "You’re one of the oldest I’ve ever met. And still looking like a pretty young lady, too. How old were you when it started?"
"Seventeen," I say with a curtsy. He nods, closing his wrinkled eyelids.
"I was born just when it ended. Well, nine months after," he remembers aloud, smiling, "War of the Angels must have been the longest war in human history. 9800 years. Not that anyone keeps track of that kind of thing anymore."
"They did when I was alive, sir," I say. Suddenly his face grows stony.
"Don’t EVER think for one MINUTE that you’re not alive. Just because you’re treated like corpses doesn’t mean you start thinking that way. It makes me sick seeing people who fought to save our world treated like animals..," He rants.
"But we failed. WOTA victims still being here is walking proof that we weren’t strong enough to win that war," I say, "sir, I stopped thinking that I was alive a long time ago." A single tear rolls down my cheek.
"I was married, once," I tell him. He leans back in his chair, shaking his head.
"Stop," he says.
"I had a son, a beautiful baby boy. Then he was a teenager, my spouse was middle aged," I continue, tears freely flowing.
"Stop, please..," the man says quietly.
"Then he was a man, my husband old," I start to yell, "and you know what happened?! They DIED. They died and I CAN’T," I start to sob.
"Mister," I say, trying to gather myself up again, "I’m not alive."
We sit in aching silence.
"Would you like an angel?" He asks me finally. I nod tiredly.
"I think I’m ready, Abba," I say.
I walk over, pick up a small and dusty statue, and place it gently on the ground. I look soberly toward the old man, and smile sadly before crushing the angel under my foot.
"Goodbye," I say, my voice echoing against the walls of the tunnel that’s gathering around me. He nods, and it’s the last thing I see.