Obsidian

A Story by James Kay

Obsidian

A figure emerges from the deep. The dark water glistens bright and drips from him in diminuendo. He is unnatural, obsidian, perfect. His face remains indistinct in willed shadow. He strides towards you. Purposeful. Confident. The movement is a blur, leaving behind a trace in the air. The hint of a gentle, comforting smile comes to be. You do not smile back. Indifference is all you can feel. Imagine, even. He is close now.

You feel unseen forces and are turned around. You see the world and are returned to it. He sits beside you. You look around. He seems to have expressed amusement. You know why.

As the world rushes past, it is slowly revealed. You see the gaudy colours man smears on his shame. The failing green masquerade and the looked over rot. The boasting lights holding back orbs of guilt and the harlequin smiles blocking out the garbs of hate. Every flaw is torn into a scar.

Janus, what have you done?

You think of greatness in the deceived eyes of the human. How wretched. You consider the concerns of these creatures. How grotesque. Your own concerns struggle and squirm for attention. They scream out his falseness, his deception and what the world demands of you. What the world offers you in return. It seems laughable now. Their faces contort and beg, mouthing for mercy as he turns to look at them and they wither away.

How petty this place is. How abhorrent its every facet and nuance. You look at him. He is truth. Yet you feel some almost forgotten fear of him.

Some despicable interaction distracts you. You speak to them in their own falsity. You adopt their mask. You mimick their infant comprehension. You realise your deed too late. Your crime. Your sin. It brings you to tears.

No. Wait. You look at him and he nods, his face becoming clearer with every moment. Not your crime. Not your sin. It is the vile cancer to be purged not the victim. Your fear is gone. Thoughts of begging for deliverance dominate your mind but he raises a hand before they are given voice. He stretches it out to you, he intends to save you, you feel release and absolution beckoning. You reach for this gift from your new messiah. The final tattered rags are shed, the prison of flesh begins to dissolve. The soul becomes stronger, brighter. The world burns in its fire.You revel in the black smoke of the old lies.

He tears away the shadowy visage. The glass dreams lie there. Their clarity, untainted with the leaden screen, is too much to bear. You feel you must avert your eyes. You feel unworthy but you cannot look away. You see what is not meant for mortal eyes. You know what is not meant for mortal minds. You feel what is not meant for mortal souls.

You are about to grasp his hand. You are about to be led from this hell. From the hollow science and white number.

He crumbles to nothing. The glass dreams immolate. Only memories are left. You deny it. It cannot be. You saw no Pilate. But it is. He is gone. You look upon the world. Your ignorance has been flayed from you. Your soul screams out. How you long for the release he offered. How you look upon this quiet servitude with unbearable understanding. They cannot imagine what you have seen, known, felt. They see only the taint of the leaden screen. None of the glass dreams beneath. You cannot bear their blinkered vision. Their uncomprehending slavery. Their shackled feeling. You walk away from the world now. You know the truth. They do not understand. They cannot understand.

How human.