What would happen were a man to be made a god?
In this short story I attempt to answer such a question.
Most tales start with the scene, set of tone and flesh of the characters. Rather I chose to begin with a question:
Would a god contemplate suicide?
The following is an interpretation on the notes gathered from the apartment of one Mr. Andrews. Due to damage and illegibility some sections have been discarded or surmised.
Chapter One: The Routine Week
I’m not a smart nor am I a good man. I have lived my life to a parasitic-esque degree with principals of apathy and ignorance. Were there a god, it’d be a sadistic and moronic being, having assigned me with the label of chosen it is responsible for unfathomable suffering. Through self-annihilation I have formed a self; pure to my own ideals and perceptions. Though perfection paradoxical I have achieved a close to acceptable being. Remanence of the past still linger in the present, artefacts of the future are still initially invisible.
It is through this medium I hope to transcribe the events that have allowed for me to reach such a point of complete ignorance and understanding.
For you, whomever possess this book, to understand Tuesday. You must first begin to understand the moments that allowed it into existence.
Deafening sound of rain and the footsteps that plod through it. Typical routine: Wake, shower, wash: hair, shave, teeth, skin care, breakfast then work. Lighting strikes the prior night had left the bricks tarnished. The entrance, though typically shined by janitors, was liquidated by the heat. An inconvenience, it only made arrival five minutes later than expected.
Work, being repetitively tedious, allowed for limited freedom, which I used to practice creative freedom through taught exercises.
Lunch, store bought with company prescribed identities for company.
The sensation of the heat lingers. Any attempt to explain the feeling in words would be futile.
I had gripped a metallic pole, whilst retying a loose lace, and felt pure energy.
Moments I had stood there. Contracted Muscles burning, flesh evaporating and fat bubbling.
The many lights blurred into a single stream, the frantic voices melted into harmonic babble.
I had never felt such comfort in an unfamiliar setting.
Saturday: Her name was Annie.
Returning home after many moons away, her voice soothing but drained. Eyes that had once held hope now housed empathic despair. Her name I had later learned, was Annie. I had sat, thoughts lingered on silence, body composed and distorted, for many hours; fixated on her.
She moved with the grace of a kind butcher, aware of her frame but also of the capacity to harm.
Frightened, hiding what she believed she was behind a mask she presumed fictional. Every step was hesitant, she wore weight and only breathed away from reality, her arms showed the holes of her relief. It was a sickened beauty, able to entrance and deter simultaneously. In her absence the awareness of pain grew, in her presence I was healthy.
Lights had begun to flicker on when the feeling grew. An indescribable build-up of potential sensation that begged to be expressed, pushed into tangible pain.
Knowing before you have been taught, much like knowing you can walk before you’ve amassed the muscle to do so. A child with the inherited prediction of its own ability.
It began to scale, at first only toying with the “might be”, venturing further into the “can I” only once understanding the core principals of this new-found knowledge of ability. Through gods cruel hand I was given the literal ability to dictate my will to my world.
I thought of my health and I was healthy.
I thought of comfort and I was comfortable.
I thought of myself and I was lost.
Discharged by new faces, missing her by chance. I thought to force but knew coincidence would sate my loneliness better. A ripe apple pulled from an empty pocket. A maggot willed into its core became a fly at the surface. Small. Completely original, independent of pre-existing potentially identical origin. The new was formed as new and not merely the displacement of what already was.
A prisoner of human limitation. To be made aware of your enslavement, the chains barely visible, but not of hope, nor of the sensation of freedom or of how to obtain it.
Subjective morality, persecution; a symptom of society.
To be given freedom of such magnitude whilst enslaved by your birth was distressing. Who I am wanes. Recalling the past strengthens the artefacts in the present. A problem, with will I can dictate health and clarity. But, what is health and what is desired is dependent upon the current person experiencing the dilemma. To will the ideal of one man is to form the subjectively (calamitous) ideal of another. A subjective being forced to perform objectively.
Surpass the optimum and you risk disaster.
The desire to experience the meaningless segments of the play was the fuel.
Although, at any chosen point, I can will my self into a drunken state, produce in front of me whatever I desire. I was chained to my urge to maintain a human degree of limitation, I had felt compelled to attempt deception, and convince myself of normalcy. To feel what it is to be a human, to be alive. To experience imposed (by self and other) discomfort.
Chapter Three: Socialite
The physical can be changed and altered at will. I had decided to, at the time, maintain my appearance of earlier days. Typically, men of my nature avoided such places. A hedonistic cesspool of misery and naivety. Given the desperation for human experience I ignored my prior contempt and left to find a bar. Drinking became rapidly tedious, with each sip the bitter taste imposed the thought of alternatives.
I’ve found there to be certain kinds that drink. Those that wish to run, those that wish to mature, and those that wish to deceive. Of course, there are others but these three are the most prominent.
I had confined myself to a dimly lit booth in a far corner. The leather hide that covered the bench was beginning to fray and in areas had been completely ripped away, wrinkles appeared wherever pressure was applied. When the overhead bulb swung at the right angle It looked like skin, draped over a rotting corpse.
It has been a while since I have looked through the diary. Personally, the contents had caused a spiral. Self-discovery that resulted in the advent of nothing.
Some questions had arisen during this period.
“Am I fiction and if I am, why am I not afraid”
“Why must meaning be imposed on an action for it to be worthwhile”
“Let life be meaningless, then what is the drive to harbour power through hate. If it is fear, then what or who taught us to afraid if it is other than what was cause”
“How are the useful idiots taught to be averse to teaching”
The noise was suffocating. Everyone spoke in uniform chaos, words slurred by cheap drink. Every sentence muttered was self-hatred disguised as egotism.
A woman began to cackle after discovering her fiancé with another.
“You’ll never find anyone like me” she muttered, repeating her husbands deepest wish to herself.
“Another drink?” One man said to his colleague, trying and failing to mask the fact he was too poor for this place.
He will leave, poorer than when he entered, having earned nothing and lost not only money but respect in his attempt to bribe his peers for their favour.
I grew acutely aware of my cynicism; this place was filled with it. The moment you passed under the door you were contaminated, diseased.
*The page becomes almost illegible, many of the words have been crossed out, faded or smudged*
Being aware of the signs but not acting on them, naïve hope.
The disappointed child.
It was my fault, but it wasn’t my decision.