Until the Road Ends

Under the unshielding sun, all beings stand as mirrors of the one true god, brought to form by him, known to his thoughts, and held in his heart. Let it be known; he who sheds the blood of their fellow man will draw his own blood in kind.

I am dead. I know from the fact that I don’t feel hunger, I can’t feel pain, pleasure, sadness. A lack of feeling so profound it makes one wonder, how long will this last? I’ve floated through St’ Clementines Cemetery for decades now, I’ve watched man come, go, and return but a rotting corpse. It’s been the same sight of passing gravestones, flowers, and moss since I could remember. The desire to take from those who pass has only grown stronger with each passing day, but I won’t allow myself to fall to that depravity. I only take what is enough for an extra day, a new day where god won’t forsake me, where he will allow me into his heaven.

Why does he ignore me? I have not forsaken him? I have answered his calls. I have brought forth my sin. I have begged for his forgiveness. What more must be done?

Could this be but a test of my own faith? Will the suffering of my very existence quell his judgment of my being? Will the loneliness in my heart bring me closer to salvation?

I continued to move beyond contemplation. Night had become day, and the heavens had begun to weep. I stopped in front of Elizabeth's tomb. A dear friend. Her silence had kept me company within the loudness of my thoughts. A wave of my hand brought a gust of wind, sweeping the dust off the tomb. A black rose picked up by the wind nestled itself atop the tomb.

Looking away, I entered the funeral. “Another has come to join us, Thomas.” I moved through the ceremony, catching snippets of human conversations.

“... there's a nip in the air,” an annoyed mutter.

“Rodney was a good man. An honest man,” a consoling murmur.

“He can’t be gone! He can’t- don’t leave me, oh my Rodney,” a despairing wail.

Then came the vultures.

“Must we do this in the rain? My fucking shoes are drenched,” a displeased complaint

“Isn’t that his mistress? How is the man supposed to rest now? I can hear him turning over in his grave.” a mocking joke.

“They’re going to read the will after this, right?“ a greedy whisper.

The duality of man. The ability to feel empathy, but the choice to be cruel. What I had taught myself to ignore.

For the dead have no ears.

For them I listened.

For them, I lived on as a specter.

For them, my cheek lay bare on its other side.

I allowed the mockery of death in my own house. I let them dress themselves with gold and silver in front of the humility of the dead. I allowed their displays of greed despite the frailness of their own existence. I let them debase themselves with the knowledge they’ll eventually lay at my feet.

My exploration stopped as I made my way to my new friend's grave. I felt my form twist. The wind slowly picked up around me.

I hadn’t felt anything in a long time, but a searing hot blade sliced through my throat traveling to a pit deep within my being. Fury. An anger so deep and agonizing my immaterial form felt pain for the first time.

A screech left my mouth, energy trapped within the deepest part of my existence was being let out. Winds picked up, objects flew in the air, and the humans scrambled away. They felt so small. The seduction of desire is loud and fast.

My eyes locked on the fleeing humans. A human woman tried to flee, but I pulled her back. All I could manage was her. I pitied the lady's luck more and more as anger collected as bile at the roof of my tongue.

“How far will you humans go?” I let out a chorus of yells. That clearly shook the woman. The voices smashing into her psyche wasn’t something she could just shake. Drool and spittle leaked from her mouth.

I resented her.

I pitied her.

She was a culmination of the human condition.

Who is left to talk back? Who will speak up for the dead?

Why must we be ignored?

“Where is Reynolds' grave?” The woman was unresponsive. She couldn't respond. But so what? She did not know what I was talking about. She didn’t know who Reynolds was. No one did. Everyone who knew him had long since died.

But I had known his grave. The place he had rested. And these humans had invaded that space. They had ignored his propriety and left him to rot alone.

They abandoned him.

How deep does this darkness go? How ugly is human nature? Do these mere reflections properly depict his image? Is this the truth you hide?

Is my doubt of you my own conviction?

Or is it my reward? Where must I go to see the truth? Have you long since forgotten the clay beneath your fingers? Have you long since forgotten your image in our eyes? Will you continue to be indifferent to my pleas? I’ve begged. I’ve cried. I’ve forgiven. I’ve kneeled.

NO MORE!

I sin. The sin of my bloody past. Of desire and pleasure. I presented my sins to you and waited till the day of your forgiveness. I seem to have waited for a sun that may never set.

The shifting and squirming body of the woman came into focus. She seemed so alive, so bright, like the moon on a quiet night.

A road.

My path.

I brought her body closer and I fed. I drank more than I ever did before. Hesitation coursed through my being for a beat. A test of faith. Will the dove learn to fly when the rain stops? I dropped the woman. I looked towards the sky and waited.

For a sign. An answer. A warning. A punishment.

“Yet you remain silent! Oh god, My god! Where is your response? Don’t you love these humans? Us?.” The clouds continued to mourn. The trees continued to stand. The sun continued to shine. He continued in his apathy. “And I remain dead.”

I looked away towards the woman. She had fallen into a bed of black roses. The winds picked the woman up again, gently this time. “I don’t hunger and yet I feed.”

I lost my restraints. I lost control. I lost myself to the freedom of desire.

The woman screeched in pain. She had begun to wither from the inside.

Pleasure exploded out from within me. This was joy. This was success. This was my purpose. I heard a faint heartbeat. An echo of a drum. Could it be mine? Smells assaulted my senses. The smell of grass, the trees, of summer. I could feel the wind on my skin, the ground below my feet. I was alive. A laugh of joy left my ghostly lips.

The woman convulsed as her bones snapped. The smell of piss and rot wrapped around the smell of grass. Sounds of bones cracking harmonized with my songs of laughter.

THIS was GOD. I needed more. I drank more aggressively.

The woman had found her voice. She begged, pleaded, and cried, and yet I ignored her. I stared into those eyes as they faded.

There was a quiet beauty to her in that moment right before her death. Surrounded by black roses, body bent in multiple places, and as an empty husk, half rotten and covered in piss, it made her look so… human. Ugly. Worn. Dirty.

Only when all that was left was an empty husk, a corpse, did I finally stop. The smells, the sound of a beating heart stopped, and the ecstasy faded.

Was this my correct path? Was I meant to walk this path? I stared at the woman's corpse. The black roses laid out around her were covered in piss; her convulsions had damaged and besmirched them. I wondered if I should feel regret. If I should repent. If I should once again kneel to my god. If God will forsake me? But–

A god who's already forsaken me cannot again.

All roads will lead to Rome.

“Oh, indifferent god, will the blood I shed make you listen?”