A Price To Be Paid . . .

A Price To Be Paid . . .

A Chapter by BTBeamon

A Price To Be Paid . . . “We’ll begin,” says Meric, who is standing before me, looming as I sit, “with this: We are all talented in many ways.” He says, “And: Let’s decide what we want, and go for it.” And I say, “You’ve been eating Chinese again, haven’t you, you old f**k?” SLAP. I suck in a breath, his hand backstrokes with a second SLAP. “You a*****e,” Faust says, from behind me. She looms there. “Be quiet!” Meric snaps. “We do not speak like that.” She snorts, but says nothing more. “As for you, Zeal . . . I express profound disappointment.” He says, “But if only it stopped there. Oh, if only. You see, your crimes go beyond myself, beyond yourself, or Faust, or . . . that woman.” He slides a chair to face me. He sits down. He leans forward. He stares right into me. He says, “I listened to the initial report of your fraternization with her. I placed the accusation before you right away, and I did so with an open heart.” He places both hands on his chest. “I have always treated you with the most open of hearts, have I not? You know that Faust and yourself, are almost as son and daughter to me. “After your first warning, I find it difficult to justify your actions as a series of mistakes. After everything I have done for you . . .” “Love,” he says, and he touches my shoulder lightly. “Compassion,” another touch. “I have shown you how to deal with the world.” With a touch during world. “Beauty.” Touch. “Wonder.” Touch. “Happiness.” Touch. “Here I sit, all of the time; my life; my happiness; all for you. I wait here to hear your words. Imagine my sorrow when you fail to appear.” His voice is low. Soft. Forlorn. “When you stop speaking to me, what am I left to do? Evaporate into the wind? Imagine your life. Your play as a child. Your fondest places to go. Your favorite, most lovable possessions. The people you care for. Imagine all of the time those things encompass. “Now imagine all of it wasted. Imagine all of those things erasing before your eyes, right until the moment your eyes themselves erase.” I picture all of these things. I hear sobs behind me. And, although I find the words to be a little over the top, I am startled to discover tears forming in my eyes. “Feel it,” Meric says. “Feel the loss of everything, deep inside of you. You have spent your conscious life with me, with us, together. You spend fleeting seconds with a stranger. We are solid; she is fluid. We are whole; she is broken. You shall find no solace with strangers. “You abandoned us. You devastated us. You failed us. You ignored us. You rejected us. Us. Your home. Your solidarity. Your only solidarity, in the past, present, and forever. “Think of this: You are shuffling carelessly down a path with your newfound friend. You walk, perhaps close to one another, perhaps fond of one another. For you, all is perfect; all is well. You feel immense well-being. Luck has fallen your way. Fortune lies with you. The future is saved. “But. All of a sudden, your new friend glances aside, notices something. You are not that something. You are less than that something. Your friend prefers that nameless thing. Prefers it more than that friend could ever, in all time, prefer you. Your friend heads in its direction, the closeness lessens, disappears, erases, forever and ever. You’ve been abandoned as eagerly as you chose to abandon. Doomed, always.” I am crying quite freely now, like a baby. Meric stands. His voice rising. “And why ought we show you patience? You are selfish. A traitor. A liar. A deceiver. A fool! And a child! You are a child, scrambling for the finest prize it sees. You are thoughtless, careless, hopeless. You frivolously reassure yourself. Act as though you know. As though you understand. “You understand nothing. You see nothing. You know nothing. You deserve nothing. And what are you?” He pauses. “Say it! I want to hear it from you. Say it proudly. You are, aren’t you? SAY IT!” My head arched over, torn and devastated, I say, “Nothing. I am nothing.” “You are right.” And he sits down. His voice is softer, as before. “But it can all change. Oh, yes, it can change.” I feel a hand on my chin, gently raising my head. “This happened two years ago. Do you remember?” I don’t. “No,” I say. “It did. It absolutely did. You’ve always been difficult. Always a challenge. But I call you a gift, and I have faith in you.” He says, “We can make it through this. Even, I think, without another two years. I believe, oh, do I believe, that we can make it through this in only days. We can forgive you, and have you returned to us, again. You do not have to be alone, empty, nothing. You can be something. Don’t you want to be something?” “Yes,” I say. “Then we finish for now. Training begins again.”
[More to come . . .]

© 2010 BTBeamon

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Added on May 12, 2010
Last Updated on May 12, 2010
Tags: fiction, religion, cult, atheism, god, totalitarian




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