The Loaded Lightsome

There He was. He was heading to a location that was previously specified to him by an ex-governor he knew. He had resigned, seeing the corruption of the state, but it was a strange thing how he always carried an extra pair of glasses. He had said that it took one pair to see, but yet another to understand. This man never seemed to speak in direct tongue, and this was yet another reason He put his faith in his knowledge. He had also told Him to bring a second skin, whatever that meant. For years now, He had a light coming from his chest. At times, it would envelop His whole body and become so hot, that it would melt through the steel walls the scientists had used to try and trap Him. Sometimes, this very fact would give Him fear as to the extent of this light’s power.

 

It was about midnight as He walked along an unknown coast, one He had never seen. He could feel the sea breeze and salt-spray on his face. He was hoping this visit would shed some light on his condition, perhaps even provide a cure. It was impossibly cold outside, but somehow, it produced within Him some unnameable emotion, yet somehow pleasant. Then, He began to develop an overwhelming, hot-blooded sensation. He was puzzled, longing for an answer. Then, in the distance, He made out a kind of observatory, on its own. A small island housed it. He grew curious; how could He possibly resist the urge to swim across to it? Only one obstacle stood between Him and the structure: creatures.

         

There were these strange things in the water; they had the appearance like that of bacteria, or perhaps jellyfish. They were all translucent and had moving parts, presumably organs and bodily fluids. Their size ranged from that of a marble to that of a dinner table, but something about them had filled Him with an unspeakable fear that He Himself could not surmount. But He instantly found himself on the surface of the island, unharmed. His spirits began to lift as He realized that He was safe. He quickly made it to the observatory wasting as little time as possible.

         

When He arrived, He saw breathtaking things through the lens. He saw beautiful stars and galaxies, but what He turned his gaze upon were the affairs of man. He saw events taking place on the other side of the world, one of which was a parent losing his only daughter to a terminal sickness. Already he was a widower and both his parents had died. His wife died in a bus used for public transportation; a pair of enraged passengers pulled out weapons on each other, and began to brawl at the same time. A trigger was pulled, and a bullet served its sole purpose. Afterward the husband enacted a rash idea, and was taken to court and incarcerated. His parents died together four months later in a hospital. Due to their old age, they were surviving on life support, but to conserve resources, the staff cut the power and oxygen, and allowed them to die. But somehow, this loss was much different to him. He no longer harbored any light. He feared nothing. He hoped for nothing. He had said nothing when he entered the room. Neither had he said anything for the remainder of the visit. She was asleep, and he did not want her to see. Once the heavy machinery indicated she had left forever, he stood up, unbuttoned his coat, and triggered the wired canisters strapped around his abdomen. There were no survivors.

He turned away, staggering, trying to understand. He vomited. Yet some unmerciful force compelled him to look on into the lens. And although He cried, He stared on, into His human soul.

         

He saw a man, shrouded in dust, covered in rubble, and wounded, wounded to the bones. His wounds were the first thing He noticed about him. Then He began to see that this man, who would easily have been left for dead, was rising, yes, rising up from the ground. Although seemingly straining himself to stand, he did so. But why a human would do such a thing was inconceivable, at least until he began to dig.

         

There was before him a great crowd standing around an enormous pile of broken stone and rubble. They stared, some cried. Children tried to get the attention of their oblivious parents.  Some people turned and ran away. Some fell to their knees and began to pray. But the cracked man ran forward, and dug his cut fingers into the rubble, flinging it aside. The crowd stared in disbelief. He dug for what seemed an eternity, it could have been half an hour, or it could have been three. Only when He observed the man closely, did He see that he had tears running down his cheeks, and that the flesh in his hands was tearing from the bone. People began to think that this man was insane; others thought he was possessed by a demon. But the man showed no signs of slowing; his face had in it the unstoppable rage of an animal. In fact, it seemed that the more he broke apart, the more passionately he threw his limbs into the wreckage, not knowing that he was falling apart. Not ceasing. Not caring. Not fearing. And when he was almost dead, he heard something.  He threw his arm into the rocks, and felt a human hand. He gave it his strongest grip, but it wasn't enough, and he fell on his back. He strained himself to the very limits of his will to stand again. His will was the only reason he was alive; his body alone would have been dead by now. Again, he staggered to the arm, that vital memory he had so burned into his mind. He reached out one more time, and took hold of the arm with both stripped hands, and fell back.

         

But this time, the arm came along, and so did a body.

 

At one time, these two were friends, but as years passed, they had become brothers. And their love had grown to the point of destroying fear and death itself. They embraced each other, crying and smiling. The crowd looked on, but they didn't mind; they had each other. Not ceasing. Not caring. Not fearing. Only believing.   

 

It was too much for Him; the force that had made Him look was gone now, as if it had somehow understood, that He could bear no more.

 

He found himself sitting on the forbidden shore once more, pondering the visions he just had. He thought, for a moment, that He had felt like God: having to see both the filth and beauty of Man’s world; having to know about all happiness and evil, and to the smallest detail. He stood up, and started to walk away, to walk home, but then He heard a voice.

 

His sister was on the shore, where the rising waves met the sand. She was wearing her dress, as usual, and was calling Him over to show Him something. But He began to feel something in his spine, then He had a painful headache, then a nosebleed. His sister didn't seem to notice; she was still dipping her hands in the water. He tried to move, but he couldn't, the pain was too strong. Then, the creatures came. They came closer and closer to his sister, but she couldn't understand their motives. And He couldn't save her.

 

They enveloped her, trapped her like unsuspecting prey. The last utterable description of her was the smile on her face. The fascination of their glass-like bodies, the fascination of death.

 

Then, the digestion began. What followed was surely a creation of the devil, surely the most evil of all sights.

 

There was nothing he could do. The creatures would continue on their binge for eternity, mindlessly destroying the lives it took the universe so long to create. But then He, racked in pain, on the ground, alone, decided it was time. He knew what he could do, what he had to do. It was almost simple, almost a beautiful clarity. It was time to go.

 

Miles away, a man standing alone on a hill saw a bright flash that seemed to fill half the sky. As he smiled, a single tear fell down his face. He took off his glasses to wipe his eyes. But as he was putting them away, he realized: his case was already in use.  

Reviews

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Wow, you've definitely captured my interest thus far. It was interesting how you italicized "he" and other masculine singular pronouns, much as if you intend to suggest the central character is divine.

[sonnetmoon]

This story has captivated me. You have the ability to draw the reader in. You have a talent. I look forward to reading more of your work. Keep writing.

P.S (Could you please make the font bigger)