And I am on the floor in pieces

There was a moment when you knocked over an angel statue in Zachariah's beautiful room.
I don't know if it was on purpose. Don't know if you simply happened to walk past it and somehow accidentally made it fall to the ground, or if you picked it up and threw it on the floor in your painful frustration, or something else entirely.
I guess for the end result it doesn't matter.
It fell, and now it is on the floor in pieces, and it's not like anyone cares about that anyway, let alone about how exactly such a thing came to pass.

I think about this moment a lot.

Then that day you grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. It did not occur to you that this particular action might not succeed; that I, with my inhuman strength, could easily have stayed just as I was, like a stone, like a statue, but I didn't.
I let you turn me with that hand on my shoulder, and simultaneously let you knock me over, loose my balance and fall, in a beautiful mirror to your raising: the steady grip of the greater power, dragging away the uncertain victim. Up and down; so full of conviction. Your hand scorching through my coat.
We've been continuously cursing and saving each-other, ever since.