I open up my laptop, trying not to stare. It’s more difficult than it sounds, the man – or rather, divine being – has a fairly hypnotic stare. I imagine it was that look in his eye, of wild wilful freedom that convinced those around him in the impossible. It was the look of chaos, a concept barely acknowledged in my ordered life, processed through the humdrum of civilisation. It enthralled me, I cannot yet say why, but it held a power over me. The unknown has always held power, over all of us. I believe it stems from hope, the belief that the there is something better out there. An escape from all our darkness, our despair at life. New has been made synonymous with better, for better or worse. New was why I was here. Waiting for my laptop to turn on.
As it did, a brief puff of cancerous smoke wafted by. I cough, looking up into the gently burning tip of its cigarette. The brightness of the cigarette tip paled in comparison to the dead fire that glowed in its eyes. I was spared from looking too long, as the brightness of my notes finally opened, illuminating the gentle haze of smoke that now filled the room. I reach over to my old recorder, a memento from old film noirs that seemed fittingly antiquated to deal with the arcane nature of the proceedings. It clicks on, then gently starts to whir the tape around.
Let us begin.
The pale hand reaches out towards the ashtray and gently taps off the end of its cigarette. It doesn’t get any shorter, just keeps burning out its occult air. I soon worry I will choke on the smog that feels increasingly poisonous, but I ignore it. Instead, I look up to focus on those eyes, as this being begins to share his story.
Look at this. It sweeps its hands impressively across the table. Quaint trappings of society. It then winks knowingly at me, takes another deep drag of its noxious cigarette and asks me if I’ve ever been in a fight. I say no. He nods wisely, You are lying, tell me who you have fought. I am unsure how to proceed, my parents were remnants of the 60’s, as such they raised me in strict pacifism. Lucifer only stares at me, shall I tell you who you have fought. You, my friend, have fought an impressive 148 individuals. On grounds of personality, rumours and vicious truths. Quite the savage you are. Made 23 of them cry, impressive for a pacifist.
I am taken aback, for a moment I fear he is talking about my future, but he continues through my discomfort. I believe it was your Freud who once said, The first human who hurled an insult instead of a stone was the founder of civilization. Words cut deeper than knives, believe me, I am gifted with a silver serpent’s tongue. The body, it heals like a shattered mind never could. Jesus made the paralysed walk, but the little bastard never got the insane to recognise their parents. Civilisation, he gestures at my laptop, that, then looks around at the room and out the window at the bright urban night, all of this is emotional trauma. I never met one unhappy neanderthal, even when they had had their brains bashed out. He then taps his forehead knowingly, your words are now your weapons. Every hostility written against others is a fight. It is what makes every hate preacher and hypocrite a sinner. Their words offend nature in their insipid little attempts to overcome their baser instincts. To fight is to be an animal. Humans, you are all still Fathers little animals.
My fingers have been hovering over the keyboard this entire time. I am hesitant to write, as though it would destroy the experience. Yet writing is everything for me, my own personal little paradox, to write or to experience, have one without the other, yet one needs the other. Forgive me, I digress, it is simply a surreal topic of discussion that I am uncomfortable addressing it. I fear the end will be too much to bear, to even enter the discussion is to walk on eggshells, lest I end the night insane. I choose to focus less on the words, instead, observe the being. It, for it is indeed an it, is androgynous. A pity, either sex would appreciate the symbolism of evil being either a man or a woman. The hair is red, like blood. Not false, but natural, so deep and vivid that I fear some poor soul was slaughtered over his head. The face is symmetrical, soft, so pale yet greyish that it would be impossible to associate race. In fact, the entire appearance is so politically correct I suspect it is some greater joke he is playing on me. Which, I believe, is his point, to satirise society.
A little civilisation made by a bigger, everlasting one. Thankfully, civilisations can be toppled. Their true hypocrisy laid bare upon the bodies of their makers. Do you believe in religion?
An odd question given our situation, but one which I still inexplicably answer no to. I hold to personal, not institutional belief. Which is the perfectly logical, safe response. I accept all beliefs equally, provided they don’t give me a headache. That is good, very good. It laughs gently at my reply. The entire thing is a joke of course, like a college prank gone wrong that ends with your dead roommate. Or, in this case, a few billion aimless human lives. Why? I could not say. I genuinely believe it was accidental, an offense if I am being perfectly honest, to be so frivolous with divine power. It enslaved us to you, much like you are trapped to your society. Life became as much a problem for death as death is for you. Much bigger in fact. Dying is easy, cultivating life only to destroy it is much harder. I hated the whole affair. It felt so twisted. Why bring you into existence just to kill you in such myriad ways?
The question burned at me. Why kill? Because, it was fun. Endless life would mean a few tired faces for all eternity. To kill you, regularly, was to establish a fun little science project that had the potential for infinite engagement. You have done surprisingly well too, given how to start it was just primordial muck we dropped on a ball of rock. Not a half bad experiment. But then society, oh society. It mimics a high pitched woman’s voice of someone gossiping at a party, then violently flicks its hair back with its free hand. It sickens me, the tediousness. The fussiness and inertia.
Andre Hirschler 