From the Gods

It is said and believed that things respond to violence. Not so with the curving, working, creeping things of my hours of life. No, they respond, rather harshly, to the absence of violence. To the act of sparing a man’s life, to the preservation of a woman’s blood.

I must indulge, before I confess the deeds, that, in the beginning, it was not what it seems. It was not, as it is now deemed, murder in the first degree. Nobody died the first day They came to me. In fact, I have no recollection of ever drawing blood until just yesterday.

The first time They spoke to me, the first time They came to me from the deep recesses of my mind in which They slumbered, the victim was me. They did not draw blood, nor did They bruise, cut, or strike me. But They hurt. My mind pounded an impossible beat every night as I forced my eyes closed and counted a hundred sheep. They dug at the muscles and bones beneath my skin until I gave in and acted. Until my room lay in shambles and shattered glass.

It wasn’t until the second outburst that I ever experienced Their praise. It wasn’t that much, wasn’t that severe. It was a snap of annoyed insults at a secretary that wasn’t mine. But the warm, soft purring inside my head was echoing and…gentle.

After that it was hard to resist. Hard to pull away from the gentle approval of the things at the corner of my vision, the beings that held me firmly in their grasp. My temper shrank, my moods shifted. Near the end, I realize now, my fingers would itch at the sight of them, my heart would clench in anticipation at every slight mistake that surrounded me. The idea of Their blessing, Their consent, and absolute approval seeping in through every crevice and crack of my mind is so utterly intoxicating that I had to start stepping forward. I had to start acting out.

For I had realized my debauchery. Realized the extent to which the human wickedness had already tainted my existence. And, in that same moment, realized the disapproval I was now being subjected to.

The third incident happened too quickly for me to see and it never really mattered after that. I lost count of the bruises and the red gashes that never bled. I didn’t care if the marks decorated my arms or destroyed the skin in front of me, as long as some act, some instance of breaking walls pushed the flood of heavenly light through me.

The girl, the one from yesterday, was someone I met on chance. And I would, in this confession, wish to debunk the offensive manner in which the authorities have revealed my actions. The men say, according to the multiple lacerations that the girl received post-mortem, that there was a certain…hostility involved in her death. I will tell you, in the most direct and truthful account that this is a lie. I had nothing against the girl. Her name was Lillith and she was really rather sweet. She enjoyed Saturday nights with her friends, large dinners on Mondays, and laughing over her own personal jokes. She looked pretty in pink, but red was the colour of passing, of moving on and it was my task to soak her in it. I know, as you should know, that whatever gate she wishes to be accepted through will take her with open arms and comforting words.

Before Lillith, I drew no blood, I acted not violently, not in spite of life, but for the mere pleasure of those beings in the back of my mind that scraped at the false masks the human race adopts in a fit of hypocritical world peace.

I could blame the feeling of burning that lit up in my stomach or the constant sting under my eyelids that intensified day by day, the constant rush of their words weaving in and out of my ears, the whispers that pushed and pulled and jerked me forward. But that would be a lie.

I could tell you that I am confessing to sins, that I am begging for the forgiveness of your all seeing an all knowing man of Heaven, but that would be just another lie. A sin in itself, if you will. A defiant act against those in my head, those that have adopted me as their very own angel, their personal messenger of all that is pure, even under the scrutinizing brutality of human sympathy and mercy. I ask not for your punishments to be light, or your accusations to fall flat. I only ask you realize the bravery that you will adapt from my own idols as you sentence me to the chair, the rope, the disgusting injections.

I will not throw myself at your feet, nor answer to your questions.

For you are only human and I am not.

For at the end of the world, when the liquid between my fingers stains itself red, I only ask the praise of my Gods.