LVIII
The Young Cripple stood eye to eye with The Demon, even though it did not have any eyes. She did not quiver and she did not flinch. She merely stared into the empty void that was its face and did little else.
“Now what?” said T, nervously.
The Young Cripple didn’t respond. She was waiting for The Demon to speak first. It, though, was as resilient as she. And it stood there waiting for the girl to do what she had been born to do – what was encrypted in her fate.
“They’re not yours,” she said, speaking of the letters. “And neither is he.”
Behind her, buried up to his neck in a garden bed, The Young Boy agreed.
“Is it you?” asked The Demon.
The Young Cripple looked confused.
“How could I be anyone else?” she asked.
“You’re not aware of your fate?”
“Only that I’ll fail,” said the girl.
The Demon lowered its head. It looked sad more than anything. It had hardly the stature or composure of a nefarious thing. That posture was poised for men like The Ringmaster, and their chatty and conniving whores. The Demon, in how its back slouched and its head hanged over, looked tired, bored, and at the end of its tether.
“Do it?” said The Demon. “But do it quick.”
Had it eyes, they would have been closed right now.
“I don’t know who you think I am, or what I’m supposed to do, but I’m here for the stories that you took from all those people. I’m here to give them back.”
The Demon pointed to the garden bed behind him. Next to where The Young Boy was buried, there was another hole, this one the size of The Young Cripple, and beside it, a mound of dirt the size of a hundred billion buried letters.
“They’re not yours,” said The Young Cripple.
“But they are,” said The Demon. “But just not like this.”
It reached into the dirt and pulled out one letter.
“I cannot read,” it said.
It started to weep again, and it was now that The Young Cripple felt less perturbed and far less worried than she had been, and instead looked at The Demon and felt sorry for it, as if it were a once ravishing wolf, reduced to mere flesh and bone, barely capable of attending to an itch.
“I knew you would come,” it said.
“How?” asked the girl. “I didn’t even know.”
“I know everything,” said The Demon.
It wasn’t the type of expression that brought The Demon any pride. Instead, admitting it sank it further into its deep seeded depression.
“You’re the boy?” asked The Young Cripple.
“I was,” said The Demon.
“It’s him,” shouted The Young Cripple to T. “It’s The Boy, we found him.”
“That’s not him,” said T. “I’ve seen The Boy many times. I’ve told him countless stories – as many as the lives that I have lived. That’s not him.”
“Not now no, but once, yes. I have withered and aged over time.”
“What happened to you?” asked The Young Cripple, as if she had stumbled upon a devastating crash.
“I have seen all there is to see. I have heard all there is to hear. And I now know that there is nothing new to learn. I am omniscient,” it said in damning splendour. “Everything that could possibly exist - has. Everything I could possibly imagine - has been. There are no new worlds. There are no new thoughts. There are no surprises, so what is the point then in participating, if I know I have already won or lost before the game has even begun?”
“Chance,” said The Young Cripple.
“There is no chance in certainty. All I had were stories. They were all that I lived for. Even in a realm of defined parameters, I could never know, with each story, how it would end. But now that is no more. Existence has been reduced to a single thought. The entire omniverse – all that I created - has been reduced to one singular plain – Heaven. Do you know what it’s like to hear the same story a hundred billion times?”
“Yes,” said The Young Cripple, just as sad and tired as The Demon.
She loved stories. She loved listening to them, and she loved telling them. She made stories, not because she wanted to or because she thought anyone would ever listen, she wrote and invented the unimaginable because that was simply something that she loved to do, in the same way, another child might love to skip or to sing a song. She loved them, but not as much as The Demon.
“Before your mother; before God, existence was a maddening splendour. It did not matter how one felt, as long as one felt. There was a great deal more happiness and colour before God got involved. The stories were so rich. I could hear, in those times, the very same story told a billion times over, and yet each time was different to the last. That alone was my reason to create.”
“So the meaning of life was….”
“To live a life and recount it, as if it were a story.”
“And now?”
“Your lives, and the life of this boy,” it said, pointing to The Young Boy. “They have no meaning. I do not know what to make of God’s intentions. She has made herself the centre of your thoughts and your prayers. You are drawn to her instead of her to you. Light, though, is meant to travel. Your souls and your spirits were never meant to sit still. Existence, as you knew it, existed within a single second. Your eternity, that you assumed as your whole life, in each life that you lived, existed in a single moment – at least in how a being such as myself envisions time. The formula of life, its delicate mathematics, ensured that environment and genetics were constantly at odds, and each being, though identical in the tools in which it facilitated – having the same vices, desires, and potential for both right or wrong– perceived the world, existence and they’re purpose, uniquely. But now that is no more. God has seen to that. But God cannot be held responsible. It was chance that God came into existence, and it was chance too, upon which she built her throne. And now there is only certainty. There is one world, ruled by a callous tyrant, driven by fame, worship, and adulation. And there is you.”
“Who am I in this?”
“You are my bargain,” said The Demon.
“What bargain, and with who?”
“With God.
“Why me?”
The Demon reached behind The Young Cripple’s ear.
“What are you doing? Magic?”
The Demon opened its long quill-like fingers, and there in its palm was a small arborous bullet. “It is what brought you here,” said The Demon. “It is a beacon of your fate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were sent here by God to kill me. Your meaning – your purpose, it is to take my life, for I cannot take it myself.”
“Why do you want to die?”
“I do not want to die,” said The Demon. “Just as infant reaching across a pool does not want to fall in. My depression,” said The Demon coldly and honestly, “it is a weight that is tipping me towards death. It is not my choice, but I am tired, and I do fear that soon I will fall. And this far in, I shall never return.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You will.”
“But what if I say no? You can’t stop me.”
“No, that is true,” said The Demon. It turned, though and hinted at the garden bed. “And that it is why I have him.”
The Young Boy tried to scream but it was no good, his mouth was buried beneath the sand. The girl ran to him and dug into the dirt but no matter how deep her fingers dug, The Young Boy was not an inch freer.
“Stop this, let him go,” she screamed.
“Then kill me,” said The Demon.
“No, I will not kill you,” she said, still digging as fast as she could, and getting nowhere.
“You have no choice. Your outcome is certain. You love the boy, and he loves you. You would do anything for his life, as would he, for yours.”
The Young Boy’s eyes agreed,
As did The Young Cripple’s.
“For my e
ntire life, every decision I had ever made had been out of fear,” she said.
“That was God. It was her work.”
“Yes, her influence maybe, but my decision. Now though I understand differently.”
“There is no decision. You have to kill me. All of this, these trillions of worlds, and the countless millennia creating them, all of it has been to prepare both of us for this moment. I was always going to figure on my own one day - all being, all knowing. Eventually, my luck would run out.”
The Demon handed the girl the bullet.
“I don’t have a gun,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter how hard you throw it,” said The Demon. “As long as it’s your intent, it shall be so.”
“Do you really want to die?”
“That I do not know. And that alone is what entices me, and why I made this deal.”
“Forget the deal. Forget God. Forget Heaven. Start again. I’ll read to you,” she said, grabbing a pile of letters from the sand.
“There is no Light left in me, or in the omniverse. It is all imprisoned in Heaven. To start again like you say, there would need to be a tremendous explosion; a very big bang. And I’m afraid, note even Heaven itself has that much power.”
The Young Cripple walked into the garden bed and started to dig. She dug until her hands bled, and then she dug some more. She dug until she had reached the bottom of the pile of letters, and when she did, she climbed back up the top. She sat there and stared at The Demon and smiled. It moved closer, for it had no idea of her intent.
“I love you,” she said to The Young Boy. “I’m sorry that your life had been scripted with so much sadness, and that it had all succumbed to this. I‘m sorry for any hurt that I may have caused you or your family. I’m sorry that all of this suffering is because of a choice that is not mine to make. I’m sorry you couldn’t love me in other circumstances. And I’m sorry too, for having to leave you alone.”
The boy’s eyes spoke of passion and longing.
Between every word, The Young Cripple stuffed a single letter into her mouth, chewing it into a small round ball before swallowing it whole.
“I love you, T,” said The Young Cripple, stopping to chew some more. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find your body, but I have to say you did pretty awesome without it. You were the best kind of friend to have at a time when a girl needed a friend most.”
The radio buzzed with nervous static.
“I love you too,” she said to The Demon. “None of this is your fault.”
By now, she was near the end of the pile, having stuffed billions of letters into her mouth, and swallowed each and every one of them. She looked full, but nowhere near stopping.
“We shouldn’t have let our fears run so rampant. We shouldn’t have let God get so out of control. None of this was your fault Demon. You cannot be blamed for what we have done to ourselves, and more so, for what hell we have unravelled for you. I love you Demon. You gave me life. More so, you gave me a chance.”
Still unsure, The Demon crept closer.
“What are you doing?” it asked.
The Young Cripple ate the last letter.
“Now there is enough,” she said.
“Enough what?” said The Demon, more disturbed than anything.
“Power.”
Her eyes changed. Not the colour or the size, but in how they spoke. It was as if a trillion souls had climbed into her body and were each looking through her eyes, one after the other. Her expression spoke of every single human emotion. She encompassed all of existence in one particular stare. Anything that could be felt, thought, perceived and done, was now playing in her wild and vivid expression. The Demon had seen this before. It sensed what she about to do. But still, it couldn’t believe it.
The Young Cripple held the arborous bullet tight in her hands and began punching herself in her chest, over and over again. Each strike was like an earthquake. The ground shook, and the air rattled like a bag of stones. Her expression was both mean and doting. It was both dire and consoling. It was good and bad, and it was both ecstatic and desperately forlorn. Her expression was one of rage and one of calm – at the same time both cruel and heartless, and so genuine and kind. She looked like every human expression occurring at the same time.
The Young Cripple beat her chest over and over, and each strike grew louder and louder, and more violently destructive. Her eyes shone with every thump, and the air around her started to blur.
The Demon dug up The Young Boy quickly.
“Run,” said The Young Boy.
“No,” said The Demon, catching his arm. “Look. Listen. Learn.”
The Young Boy turned to The Young Cripple who by now was floating up into the air. She shook uncontrollably, and as she did, she warped time and space.
In The Demon’s world, The Young Cripple stopped shaking for a second and hovered in mid-air. Everything was so incredibly calm and quiet. She felt, in this instance, so very close to being born. On the outskirts of time and space – at the very edge of infinity – the endless horizon of dark imagination also stopped, for the first time since the beginning of time. Everything in the entire omniverse, like The Young Cripple, was incredibly calm and quiet.
“What is she doing?” asked The Young Boy.
The Demon smiled.
“Breaking tradition,” it said. “Defying her fate.”
The Young Boy watched the girl that he loved. He felt so horribly sad that she was about to explode into a ball of fire, and yet, at the same time, so infinitely proud of her for making this incredible sacrifice.
She beat her chest once more and her body cracked like a shell. And with it, the farthest edges of the omniverse recoiled. They snapped backward like broken elastic and raced, faster than Light, towards the centre of everything.
“Close your eyes,” said The Demon. “These big bangs can be very bright.”
The Demon, knowing what was about to happen, danced its final dance. It was a simple dance – nothing too showy, but you wouldn’t think it just by looking.
“I love you too,” it said.
The Young Cripple didn’t respond. Instead, her heart exploded.
On the stage, God laughed.
“You don’t see do you,” she said bemusedly. “This scene has already happened. By you now, and by that whore before you. You think you can change the outcome of fate? She is already in the hands of The Demon and soon she will fulfil her purpose. She will kill it once and for all. The change, as you can see, is well underway. The last of the boy’s imagination has been destroyed; from Eden to Sirius, and here on Earth. And there shall be no new worlds, no new universes, and no new dimensions. There is only Heaven now, and with it, the one story, certainty, and absolute compliance. And there shall be no disease and suffering. There shall be sadness and disappointment. And there shall be no remorse or regret.”
“And with it, no hope, happiness or expectation.”
“A worthy concession,” said God.
“There is still time. If she is struck by the hand of man, then she will never find The Demon, and there will always be a chance that the doors to infinity are opened once more.”
“You think you are playing with chance because you can envision a choice. But the outcome is always certain. It has been decided for you. The Demon’s bullet will find her. It is her fate, regardless of your wilful delusion.”
“Maybe,” said Bean, pulling the trigger. “Maybe not.”
thank you
This story was inspired by a great deal of artists, musicians, thinkers, and the like – a great deal of humanity suffice to say. I would like to thank those bands and musicians especially, whose music kept me stable when I needed it, and that allowed me to sink into my inferno when I needed it most.
So thank you, specifically to Gazpacho, Devin Townsend, Brendan Perry, Gojira, Jeff Buckley, Johnny Cash, Secret Chiefs 3, Sordal, Tigran Hamasyan, Danzig and Mastodon.
A special thanks to Mario Duplantier an
d his team at Mario Duplantier Art Gallery.
Thank you for allowing my beast a face. Merci.
Ευχαριστώ Anna Vanti.
Obrigado Mari Merlim.
A final thanks to my beautiful and inspiring wife, Keli, and my fucking awesome children, Nenagh and Tomás.
If there is a shred of hope in any of my writing or philosophy, it is because of you.
I gladly walk with you.
And finally, a respectful thank you to my demon.
husband, father, son, brother, philosopher, story teller, recluse
Also by C. Sean McGee:
A Rising Fall (CITY b00k 001)
Utopian Circus (CITY b00k 011)
Heaven is Full of Arseholes
Coffee and Sugar
Christine
Rock Book Volume I: The Boy from the County Hell
Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon
Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror)
The Terror{blist}
The Anarchist (or about how everything I own is covered in a fine red dust)
Happy People Live Here
The Time Traveler’s Wife
StalkerWindows:
BedroomWindow
BathroomWindow
LibraryWindow
CSM Publishing The Free Art Collection ©2015
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