accursed place,
where God Himself turns a blind eye, the only thing that keeps me from
unraveling is the fact that at least one person in
the world of the living knows about me and remembers. Sam. My undying light in
the pitch-black depths where I descend. Memories of her readily bring tears to
my eyes.
I turn my thoughts back to Sephtimus Rex. The Chief Soul Deporter
knows about my past; my being an orphan, a non-person, for most of my
childhood. This could hold the key to the mystery of why I was chosen out of
countless others. Unfortunately, when it comes to my past, I have walls put up
for good reason. I simply don’t venture that deep inside.
I consider what the reaper has offered me, the possibility of
seeing Sam again. Though I don't want to pin my last hope on the words of a
demon, at the same time there’s nothing else for me to hold on to except the
wish, no matter how improbable, that I could visit Sam one last time. I suppose
looking forward to even the briefest meeting with her in my present state is
better than facing eternity without a glimmer of hope. Just a few minutes in my
appointed prison yard and I’ll surely cease to understand how I existed,
whether I walked or crept.
But how could I volunteer to be used by the evil incarnate in his
sinister plot? Isn't it more decent to suffer for my mistakes than drag down
another person, the woman in the coffee shop, with the doomed plan of slipping
back to the surface world? Maybe I should cling on to the last ounce of human
goodness in me even if it means never again experiencing a smile or seeing
Sam's. Just do my time and pray for the strength to last till the expiration of
the universe.
And then t here’s the other part of me that
says I should live as everyone else lives in this place. Survival of the
fittest, the meek are meat for the strong. The small voice in my head talking
about morality is my last, obsolete connection to being human and I should just
take advantage of this special treatment being granted me, use mounds of other
people as footholds if I have to. Then again the moment I turn into that person
is the time I truly deserve to be in hell. No, I have to keep believing the
only reason I’m here is because I’m a suicide.
I’m on the
horns of this dilemma when Death yanks away the illusion of choice. He whispers
a threat in my fin-ear: “Since you don’t seem to be very pressed for time you
should chew on this. Emasculated though I may be and prohibited from ever
doing anything worthwhile, from laying a finger on a mortal outside their
contract, you better believe it when I tell you, there are other ways to make
the life of your precious Samantha a living hell.”
That
and a mischievous wink. That’s enough to drive me to my knees like a sad,
vacant-eyed genie summoned to do the bidding of his dark master.
****
It’s
hard to believe but the only thing the Death Angel needs to masquerade as a
human is the capacity for speech; the rest is child's play. For the father of
wolves to fit in sheep's clothing it’s easy to mimic everything – the face of
Brad Pitt, the body of Vin Diesel, the dough of Bill Gates –everything except
the very words that’ll come out of his mouth. If forced, he’d appear like a
character in those dubbed Mexican soaps who looks heavenly but is either a
ventriloquist or possesses a hen's hyperactive butthole for lips. I believe
it’s because the only real privilege that separates humans from creatures of the
nether-realm, like in the Jewish legend about the golem, is man’s ability to
articulate his thoughts.
Also,
there’s a certain warped logic when a grim reaper that’s bored out of his mind
attempts to cultivate himself. It’s only Sephtimus’ low opinion and abhorrence
of everything human that has left him unlearned all this time.
As to the question of what human language to learn, although it’s
said that French is the most romantic, English is still the most practical. First, should
where God Himself turns a blind eye, the only thing that keeps me from
unraveling is the fact that at least one person in
the world of the living knows about me and remembers. Sam. My undying light in
the pitch-black depths where I descend. Memories of her readily bring tears to
my eyes.
I turn my thoughts back to Sephtimus Rex. The Chief Soul Deporter
knows about my past; my being an orphan, a non-person, for most of my
childhood. This could hold the key to the mystery of why I was chosen out of
countless others. Unfortunately, when it comes to my past, I have walls put up
for good reason. I simply don’t venture that deep inside.
I consider what the reaper has offered me, the possibility of
seeing Sam again. Though I don't want to pin my last hope on the words of a
demon, at the same time there’s nothing else for me to hold on to except the
wish, no matter how improbable, that I could visit Sam one last time. I suppose
looking forward to even the briefest meeting with her in my present state is
better than facing eternity without a glimmer of hope. Just a few minutes in my
appointed prison yard and I’ll surely cease to understand how I existed,
whether I walked or crept.
But how could I volunteer to be used by the evil incarnate in his
sinister plot? Isn't it more decent to suffer for my mistakes than drag down
another person, the woman in the coffee shop, with the doomed plan of slipping
back to the surface world? Maybe I should cling on to the last ounce of human
goodness in me even if it means never again experiencing a smile or seeing
Sam's. Just do my time and pray for the strength to last till the expiration of
the universe.
And then t here’s the other part of me that
says I should live as everyone else lives in this place. Survival of the
fittest, the meek are meat for the strong. The small voice in my head talking
about morality is my last, obsolete connection to being human and I should just
take advantage of this special treatment being granted me, use mounds of other
people as footholds if I have to. Then again the moment I turn into that person
is the time I truly deserve to be in hell. No, I have to keep believing the
only reason I’m here is because I’m a suicide.
I’m on the
horns of this dilemma when Death yanks away the illusion of choice. He whispers
a threat in my fin-ear: “Since you don’t seem to be very pressed for time you
should chew on this. Emasculated though I may be and prohibited from ever
doing anything worthwhile, from laying a finger on a mortal outside their
contract, you better believe it when I tell you, there are other ways to make
the life of your precious Samantha a living hell.”
That
and a mischievous wink. That’s enough to drive me to my knees like a sad,
vacant-eyed genie summoned to do the bidding of his dark master.
****
It’s
hard to believe but the only thing the Death Angel needs to masquerade as a
human is the capacity for speech; the rest is child's play. For the father of
wolves to fit in sheep's clothing it’s easy to mimic everything – the face of
Brad Pitt, the body of Vin Diesel, the dough of Bill Gates –everything except
the very words that’ll come out of his mouth. If forced, he’d appear like a
character in those dubbed Mexican soaps who looks heavenly but is either a
ventriloquist or possesses a hen's hyperactive butthole for lips. I believe
it’s because the only real privilege that separates humans from creatures of the
nether-realm, like in the Jewish legend about the golem, is man’s ability to
articulate his thoughts.
Also,
there’s a certain warped logic when a grim reaper that’s bored out of his mind
attempts to cultivate himself. It’s only Sephtimus’ low opinion and abhorrence
of everything human that has left him unlearned all this time.
As to the question of what human language to learn, although it’s
said that French is the most romantic, English is still the most practical. First, should
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