Work Text:
The boy named Death never left my side for too long. He’d return even after those insults aimed at him, undaunted by my countless curses that flooded the dirty streets of Salafassein, sweeping any nearby civilian in a torrent of blood. I could’ve sworn he looked happy when I pushed him away, as if it would be the perfect excuse to come crawling back into my life.
A parasite, that’s right. I’ll say it here and now: Death was nothing but a parasite to me. Innocently preying on my weakness. Never bold enough to stay for any more than a few days at a time. Because it…he still had use for me. I suffered for him, and he added to my sorrow in exchange.
And yet, I continued to give him offerings. Under orders, obviously. That boy could go rot in the alleyways of this city for all I’d care. I tried to keep it at a minimum as well. I only had so much in me to give. Our Saviour had been lax in his commands as well. His words were concise but left enough room for interpretation:
“Satisfy him. The people of Salafassein must not fear him. Try not to as well.”
To this day his voice remained engraved in memory. I’d repeat them to myself every time the boy articulated an inaudible string of sentences, every time the sound of something wracking inside of my husk of a body grew too loud to bear.
Today, for instance. I couldn’t concentrate. I simply couldn’t. I sat behind my desk, paperwork stacked by my side. Despite the very straightforward task I’d been assigned, the periodic thumping of the organic tumor in my chest perturbed me and my workflow.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
I lifted my pen. The ballpoint tip grazed the paper, sparks flying. Not good. Paper of this quality ignited easily. Under normal circumstances I’d be handed durable metal plaques or a sacrificial goat’s pelt if the harvest had been bountiful. Paper like this, edges sharp and surface perfectly smooth, was a premonition. An omen. Omen…
I liked that word. I decided it would be the first one I’d write. Only before I’d have to bar out what had already been inscribed on this filthily pure sheet. I tried to steady my hand, heart still screaming at me. The secret to erasing words was fairly plain: forget everything. Imagining a blank slate would remove any conception of beauty and art that might have momentarily flashed through my tortured consciousness. What was written didn’t matter. How I’d build on them would. The epitaphs of the adepts, the wiser men and women that predeceased me, should hold no value to my eyes. If I were to become one of them, inconsideration would have to become the name of the game.
Death tugged on my sleeve. He’d been wandering in the shadows for a while, and only now had grown bored of his solitude. I shot daggers at him and raised my hand. I longed to send him flying across the room, but restraint got the best of me. Orders didn’t allow me to beat him. And he was a child. Death or not, I couldn’t bring myself to hit someone of his age. His gaunt and skinny build stirred no pity in me however. He should be grateful he got to eat so much with each passing day. It wasn’t my fault, nor my problem for that matter, that his bones remained frail and his skin wrapped him tight as a suffocating serpent.
His eyes didn’t meet mine, but I sensed a cruel amusement emanating from him. You’d expect the embodiment of the end of all things to feel a little guilt for his preordained burden, but this disgusting weasel was anything but. He opened his mouth. His tongue clicked against his palate, muttering words I couldn’t discern. The beating, the inner yelling, the horrid screeches yearning to be stifled replaced his quiet mouthings.
The. Heartbeat. Is. Too. LOUD.
In a fit of rage I scratched my pen across the paper. Red ink splattered over letters like a flood passes through an empty valley. I jumped in my seat, afraid my outburst had accidentally set fire to the page. I opened one eye hesitantly. HEART THUMPING. A plume of fine smoke rose from where my pen stroke ended. The past thoughts that had stained this paper had vanished, evaporated by the heat. Remnants of what were, and what in my mind never had been. I sighed. The boy grabbed the paper from my desk. He brought it to his eyes and read through it adamantly. His eyes lit up, then widened even more in what seemed to be shock. I snatched it back ruthlessly before he’d finished reading. The boy didn’t flinch; he merely stared off at the opposite side of the room.
“What are you looking at, dummy?” I spat at him. I twisted my head to see what could’ve possibly caught his attention. It was like he was in some deep trance. I shook him, waved my hand in front of him, even kicked him in the shins. Finally he spoke, the first time I’d ever heard him talk. His voice was hoarse but firm, a damaged yet knowing tone.
“I wanna write something too,” he said, heading towards my desk. He seized a blank sheet and a pencil, then sat on the wooden floor. The floor bended so radically under his weight that the entire room folded in on itself, slowly shaping into a sphere.
“Oh, perfect!” I said. “Now look at what you’ve done!”
Truth be told, I couldn’t care any less for the round room I found myself confined in. Indeed, the unbearable drum of my heartbeat had managed to drive me mad, and I was now hellbent on making Death as miserable as can be.
“Alright then, and what exactly do you want to write about, eh?” I asked, leaning over the boy. His head was bent over the paper, his hand drawing out scribbles. He didn’t seem intent on answering me. I suddenly felt a pang of worry; had I made him sad? No, I couldn’t let that happen. It would be in direct violation of the orders I’d been assigned! By Our Saviour no less! I wondered again what he’d seen on the sheet I now held in my curled fist.
One rule. One simple rule! Don’t think about what’s on the paper! Was forgetting about a few sentences that hard of a task? I supposed his imagination was more flammable than mine. And yet his pencil produced no heat at all. Quite the opposite, the room suddenly went cold, like a kiss stolen from my lips.
“Is that how it is, not answering me? You make my life a living hell, but the one time I ask you something you decide to stay silent? Fucking brat,” I said, turning my back to him.
“I liked the words. They spoke to me,” he said, his voice muffled by my own heartbeat.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
I scoffed.
“Come again?”
The boy looked up with sparkling eyes. He spoke louder:
“I’ve always wanted to become a poet. I feel like there’s a lot I have to say.”
A flash of anger rushing through my brain suddenly gave me a headache. How could a boy like him know the first thing about poetry? I decided to toy with him just to see what I could get him to spit out. Despite my hatred for the kid, he had just now piqued my interest.
“Of course, of course. Death is a concept described in a plethora of poems,” I said, purposefully sounding more professional than needed. “But I hope you’re aware that it is never shown in a good light?”
The boy paused for a moment, pencil millimeters away from the paper.
“I’m aware, yes.”
“So what? You’re just going to write hateful things about yourself? Doesn’t sound awfully inspiring to me.”
“I’m not all that bad.”
“Oh don’t make me laugh! You really think you’re any good? Look what you’ve done to me. I can’t spend a single moment in peace because of your hunger. But you wouldn’t get it, because you’re not even human. You can’t even feel pain, can you? Really, do you know what it feels like, huh? Do you know what it feels like being me?”
I seized his shoulders, shaking him harder than I’d wanted. I felt something rise from the depths of my throat, a dense fluid that tasted like copper. I didn’t try to stop it. I was out of kilter, my inner compass shattered in a million fragments.
“Do you know what it feels like to wake up every morning, feeling lighter every day? To know that, bit by bit, I’m giving myself to you? And all that for what? So you can never get any more full? So that you’ll always ask for more? More of me? Do you know how hard it is, knowing that my own body seeks you out, reminding me your fucking presence even when you’re not around?”
I let him go with a shove.
“Just stop! Stop looking at me with those eyes! I can’t even…I can’t even think straight because of you anymore! Actually, no. I want you to look at me. Look carefully, you swine, at what …at what…”
I was growing very dizzy. I’d coughed up more blood than I’d expected to. Liters of crimson paint splayed across the floor, seeping into the wooden tiles. Death was busy licking it. I could only watch in horror as my own vital elixir dripped from his rotting tongue. Another part of me lost to this horrid monstrosity. He showed no response to what I’d said. It almost saddened me to see him act so inhumanely. Almost.
I couldn’t do this, even if I had to. No, I’d get through this. For Our Saviour.
Alright, back to work I guess.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
It was in my thoughts now, snuffing out any remnant of sanity left like a swarm of locusts. I forcefully uncurled my fist, twirled my pen in my hands, then stared back at my sheet. I was disoriented by the noise. The blood loss momentarily blurred my vision. My eyes gazed downwards before I could stop myself. They caught faint inscriptions, fragments of texts yet to be redacted by my hand. Inadvertently, I read a few lines, I myself a hypocrite of my own philosophy.
And as the night befell on my olden fingers
I came to realize how frozen they’ve become
For what is a man meant to seek in a land of all that lingers
Remains naught but his crooked thumb
Crooked as you may be, my primate digit
There is a beauty to be exploited in your shape
There is a wonder to be admired in the way you fidget
Imperfections like yours are the mast on this desert’s ship
Guiding righteoushandedness
Find all the glories of these sacred plains
But is trust truly earned if thou complains
Wishes to be sucked, lacking of eloquence
I didn’t dare read any more of it. No, omen would be a better way to phrase whatever this…poetry was. I had suffered, therefore my words spoke truer! Truer than this vile being crouched next to me. My pen touched the cellulose of the page, only this time the sparks were more violent. They screamed nearly as loud as my heart. They begged to be freed, to be allowed to flick their tongues around like an anteater. They wished to lick at their surroundings, already reaching for the pile to my right. I slapped my hand down to prevent the fire from spreading. It dodged the hit, bouncing back and forth on its small but energetic legs. With a fiery yell it bounded into the stack of papers, where it rapidly began multiplying. The stack soon burst into an orange inferno, and I rushed from my chair to find something to extinguish this growing chaos. Two flaming ropes wrapped themselves around my arms as I took my first step, and slowly they pulled me into the fire from which they’d been birthed. I could hear the whispers of the flames, but they were nothing in comparison to the cannons banging in my ears from my heart now slamming itself against the cage of my abdomen. Even the searing pain of the burns that charred my skin couldn’t compare to the noise.
The boy, noticing my precarious situation, ran towards me and grabbed my left leg with both hands. Still fuelled by my rage from before, I tried pulling my leg free, unintentionally kicking him in the face with my other foot. A tooth of his was knocked out. It snapped to the ground then sprouted leaves as it grew into a towering tree. The fire, seizing the chance, leapt from my desk to the tree, spreading its infectious nature to the freshly sown branches of Death’s creation. The tree erupted in flames instantly. It shot out burning leaves like comets raining down. One of them grazed my cheek, packed with enough heat to onset necrosis on the surface it had touched. Bad. Very bad.
Ruthless monster! You’re giving life only to allow others to take it away! That’s not even what Death is meant to do!
The boy kept pulling nonetheless. I stopped resisting. It was useless anyways; he was weaker than the flames. Nothing was stronger than the flames. You’d have to…have to…
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Despite my train of thought having been derailed from the incessant thumping of my wailing heart, an idea flashed in my mind.
“Take it!” I shouted to Death, who looked at me confusedly. “Take my heart! You wanted another meal? EAT IT!!!”
Death didn’t take a moment to hesitate. With the assurance of a surgeon, he approached me and reached into my ribcage. His hand slid in like a knife through butter, phasing my skin and bones with ease. He didn’t need to dig around for long; most of that region had already been emptied during previous feeding sessions. I felt something squeezing my thrashing heart, then tugging it out. A violent yank did the job. I drew in a sharp breath, filling my lungs with smoke. Before I knew it, the thumping had diminished in intensity. A few seconds later, it was gone. I uttered a silent prayer to Our Saviour. I looked at the boy, who was cusping my silent heart in his hands. He stared at it eagerly and opened his mouth wide enough to insert it. Chewing was a concept foreign to this indecent roach. In a single gulp he consumed my disease. Pleased by his meal, he fell backwards and napped on the floor.
The flames receded; they let me go with disgust and backed away into the stack of papers on my desk. From there a reverse reaction took place, and the stack trapped the fire within it, transforming it into ink imprinted onto each page.
More work. Great.
…
Silence. Finally. It was astounding how much one could crave loneliness. Well, it certainly was easier to believe such a thing when your only companion was a pestilent brat who devours organs.
I stood in the middle of the room for several minutes, still shaken by the events that had just taken place. The room had suffered minimal damage, apart from the ashen tree, which was already crumbling down, dark branches brittle as a scarab’s carapace under my boot. I spared a glance at my chest, skin tissue parted where the kid had slipped his thin, grimy fingers inside. I felt violated to an extent, even if I’d given my consent. I was the one used to handing him my organs. I stuffed a part of my intestines which had fallen out back inside my body, then closed the cavity with a careful rub. I returned to my work, occasionally taking a break to glare at the child who held my heart somewhere in him. He wouldn’t become me eventually, would he? Hopefully not. That thought lingered for a while, and I wasn’t able to shake it off even when I’d finished my work for the day.
I left the boy, still sleeping on the floor, closing the door behind me. He was clutching his paper close to his chest. Not as if I wanted to see what was written on it. Leaning on the other side of the door, I consulted the dossier that’d been handed to me in the morning outside of the palace. My eyes scoured the unorganized notes that’d been tacked anywhere and everywhere. I found the one I was looking for. An audience with Our Grace. I was filled with a wonderful sensation that coursed through my veins. A meeting with Our Generosity would mean I’d get to hear him speak those words again. A reminder of my purpose.
“Satisfy him. The people of Salafassein must not fear him. Try not to as well.”
Even if I despised that boy with a burning passion, Navin XV’s orders would be seen through, no matter what. For Our Saviour was us, which meant shouldering our pain. Might as well make it easier for him by taking something as awful as Death off his mind. But then why did Our Knowing wish Death to be present for this audience as well?
I grunted. Fine. I opened the door, which creaked as it thumped the limp body of the boy, sprawled on the ground and drooling. I hauled Death on my shoulders and proceeded down a flight of stairs. The boy reeked of…well, death. The putrid, foul scent of all that rots, decomposes and leaves you with nothing but morbid memories of a life long gone. Was it his clothes? He hadn’t changed in weeks. He still wore the same blood-stained white shirt with torn pants. Was it my responsibility to buy him new ones? I chastised myself for the very thought. It’s fine. I’d grown used to the odor. Heck, I’d started smelling like death these days too.
Poor kid should take a shower. Wait, no he shouldn’t. Let him stink. Don’t need others approaching him.
I was halfway down when he suddenly burped. A small, childish burp that sounded more like a hiccup. He gazed at me half-drunkenly and whispered in a hushed tone.
“I’ll prove you wrong, Freddie. I may have stolen your heart, but I’m not all bad.”
Freddie. My name. He’d spoken my name. Not the “Empty Man”, nor the “Husk”. Not some cry or scream that the others would let out when they saw me coming. Hearing it from him killed something in me. I felt lighter now, even if I hadn’t lost any additional parts. I quickened my step.
The flight of stairs led to a hallway lit by flames encased within bird cages. The cages hung from the ceiling, each dangerously dangling from a single string of silk. Paintings lined both walls. They depicted a plethora of scenes throughout Our Glory’s reign. There was the time Our Magnificence had ridden the carnival dragon, which had turned to life after a merchant had foolishly dropped a cabbage in its mouth. Another painting displayed Our Wisdom holding a vase of roses over the heads of two brothers, sentenced to death for having escaped prison. Well, not Death death. Those were two different things. Even I couldn’t grasp it sometimes.
My favourite however had to be the one closest to the imposing golden doors that lay ahead: a painting consisting entirely of individual dots portraying Our Saviour eating a salad in the comfort of a wooden chair. It was the one that had stirred the most passion from the people of Salafassein when it had been presented for the first time at the town square.
How something so simple and dare I say plain could make me feel so enamored eluded my mind, but that did not reduce my appreciation for the work in the least. Weirdly enough, this painting, alongside all of the others displayed in the gallery, shared a similarity: Navin XV’s face had been blurred out. The artist himself had been stumped when he’d finished the paintings, having not realized he’d added the same trait for every single work. In the words of Our Saviour during his citywide speech:
“He must’ve realized subconsciously that even a skilled artist like him could not capture the face of the people. For, need I remind us all, I am the people, and the people are me! So rejoice, for you can now see yourself wherever I have laid my feet, wherever I have spoken these eloquent speeches and especially wherever my likeness has been painted!”
A hidden lock mechanism concealed within the golden doors clicked, and the doors opened wide, filling me with beams of light that shone from the room’s interior. Our Saviour awaited me. Still shouldering the weight of Death, heavier than ever, I took a step into the room where the audience would take place.