Chapter Text
‘I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.’
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Man is, in personal essence, put down to himself, and is, therefore, condemned to his own freedoms, from the very moment he first cries, selfish even in the womb. He worms himself into what he perceives to be ‘objective truths’ of the universe, assuming chaos could be first ordered, and then commits to action from his presumptions and influences. This is because he is an idiot, and has yet to discover the absurdist nature of the earth to which he was born. If God did have an ineffable plan, She must be awful at carrying it out, or have a dark sense of humour, like that of a dealer quietly haranguing some poor fellow hoping to win his game of skill and chance. Man, true to his species, creates his own phase of Existentialism within himself for every thought he voices, and every step he takes, in a constant pull between this and what he says to be true. Culture and lifestyle, religion and identity, he is caught in a flux, and it may be said by even Herself that no one held this contradiction more steadily than Zira A. Fell, having placed himself in a pew closest to the door, reading Emma behind his Bible, feeling light in soul from smoking the joint he had rolled earlier that morning.
Zira, presenting himself in soft tailoring, bleach-blond curls whispering against his neck, with his legs politely crossed at the ankle, was perceived by others to be selfless, sociable, innocent, and bright. He wouldn’t necessarily disagree with these assumptions, unless he put more strength into the thought, where he would then quietly admit that he was selfish, anti-social, indulgent, and leaned toward the grey. Light shades of grey, anyway. Hedonistic, Zira Fell’s proclivities extended not to just reading and smoking, but also countless endeavors, hobbies he soon bored of: violin, flute, football, student counsel, entomology, astronomy, and French, with, too, the venture of trying alcohol.¹ If asked of his relationships to his inclinations or others, Zira would force out a kind smile, behind which he’d form some excited words which basically meant, ‘I’m chasing life’s enjoyments, I’m attached to nothing, but will make you believe I’m a lover of All, and you won’t even begin to notice otherwise.’
He barely registered the voice of his grandfather, Pastor Fell, cutting through his haze with requests for prayer, and even as he eyed the congregation leaning down to pray, folding down their hands, listening to Fell’s booming voice as he began, Zira didn’t close his eyes, or set down his book, which, unfortunately, was beginning to read as redundant. He closed it after a few minutes further, feigning rapt attention as the sermon dragged, sucking in a giggle when his high threatened to offend his grandfather and the elders of the church with noise. Raised by Baptists and Pentecostals of a jarring mix, Zira was upheld in the womb by Christianity, familiarized at birth with the Bible, instructed in the Gospel once able to read, and from this Good News, started ravishing literature at a rapid pace, and, as such, broadened his young understanding of truths. Simultaneously, he found himself believing still in the fundamentals of faith, the basic objectives and alluring details, to speak of Good to the ends of the earth, to have such staunch, devout religion as to have a moral code and sense of optimism, redemption, and purpose. Zira wanted to know himself as good, conveyed himself as such, held to a higher standard than most, and yet, he Knew as God Knows that he was, as a character, morally average, with only a handful of attempts to buoy it. He did not follow the politics of his family, or their preferences in style, friends, attitude, and concept of ‘good living’. He was a threatened individual who smoked, believed in peace in the face of all war, kept to himself in every moment possible, and felt in the Existentialist formula of one creating his own meaning with every action and reaction, though Zira rejected the principle of refusing presumptions such as religion, because, in his understanding, the Christian accents merely topped his personal conclusions. It was his excuse to claim an independent profile.
The marijuana had worn out immensely by the time Pastor Fell’s sermon was coming to a close, leaving Zira suddenly in his natural anxious state alongside the essence of feeling without, and extremely bored. He itched for a strawberry pastry, or a nice hot chocolate, honing his attention into the act of staring at his twitching fingers before joining in on the closing prayer for appearances. His jaw ticked slightly when his older brother, Gabriel, interrupted their grandfather with his own prayer, voice louder and cockier than Fell’s, gloating about his gifts from God and the blessings he had received. Gabriel, unlike Zira, accredited his whole identity to the family’s beliefs, politics, and reputable influence in the local churches, arrogant with sayings of good tidings and rants on conservative subjects. Donning a tailored, grey suit with a serious air, he was a salesman, and spoke of the Gospel when appealing to buyers, which would explain why, despite his charisma, he was godawful at his job.²
When Gabriel has finished with triumph, preening under the claps and cheers of the church’s women, sitting down with a hand around his tie, Zira, having arrested an opportunity to see himself out, collected his books and made his way between all those now standing, towards the kitchen, for blueberry shortbread.
The Fells’ church was small in size, yet not diminutive, with a decent kitchen and Sunday school room to the left of the sanctuary, and bathrooms to the back, near the offices. The sanctuary, stuffy and of a moderate length, had been unusually packed that day, and Zira, a tad nervous, navigated towards the kitchen counter, averting the eyes of the small ones who were being saturated with tales of Jesus, Noah, Jonah. He grabbed a handful of shortbread, poured himself only a splash of coffee before loading his cup with cream and sugar, and then began to ponder, mind riding the waves of multiple topics in varying colors, between Abraham, Eve, cookies, Austen, marijuana, war, and sex.
Sex, humanity’s first, most base indulgence, was inherently akin to all other indulgences, whether they be drugs, gambles, or pastries. A distinct, sweet stick, an overwhelm of ecstasy met with conjoined limbs and heat, the appeal of Eve to Adam and their consummate oneness. It seemed wonderous, a mirror of God’s choirs in Heaven, the brush of such divine, though Zira would consider this personally untrue. Deemed deviant yet desirable, Zira held to himself that sex, objectively, unlike the uses of cocaine or LSD, was necessary, and had the potential of not being deviant at all, under proper conditions of society, where judgement and expectation were reformed, and sex was taken for what it originated as. It was respectable, had the intrinsic beauty of intimacy, and the capability of being a vessel for expression, yet Zira found himself queer in that he didn’t feel inclined to it. And, worse, this lack of physical lust formed a level base where he, to his initial surprise, was soft for interesting men, in the ways of a woman and her sex. Having had a few dalliances, Zira could, if prompted, admit to himself that he may not be interested in romance, either, generally, with its heady commitments, light works, strange considerations, and shallow attachments.³ His passions were locked within the open cavity of his chest, repressed, of a lust for life alive only when he allowed a vestige of it to be, in the consumption of a sweet, the being succumbed to a high, the obvious Joy in his soul, when it bled through the cracks of his image as an angelic gold. He has yet to become rabid in his passions, distraught with the allowance of his emotions, as he avoids their touch, ignores their breath, sticking blueberry shortbread in his mouth to hum down the care. It was not his place to act so outwardly for himself, when all his proclivities turned him inwards. He was eternally unsatisfied in an extended period of hiding, with no foreseeable end.
Or, at least, he thought as much, in near self-pity. Like all other men, Zira could be extremely stupid, and especially shortsighted, and did not for a moment consider that he could be chased down by eyes of amber fervor, ran into the ground with the passions of a thousand suns, and turned out inside by the casual, low-effort intensity of Eden’s most notorious snake, a serpent running so far from itself that it would eventually meet its angel when in a fright.
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One could argue that one of the most essential ventures in life is the expression of the self, its presentation, self-awareness, and mere existence, for what is a ‘self’ if not a whole of many components, an image of items comparable to those of others surrounding, and not just an entity in the plane of reality, which would imply the erasure of an individual and the attribution of them to circumstantial being. There was disco, the twisting of limbs to Boogie Shoes on a crowded, flashing floor, where none would be surprised at happening upon a sniff of cocaine or absurdly glittery fashion. There was, also, rock, featuring Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath⁴, a lick of rebellious culture and onslaught of leather, exuding indisputable cool and anti-establishment, and the hippie movement, in protesting against Vietnam, donning Penny Lane coats and the smoke of weed, privileged to form stances and know of Jimi Hendrix. The lingering stylistic scents of the fifties and sixties, still-existing babydoll dresses, bright patterns, sparring politics, bows and boots and dances, contested nationalism, Elvis, the Beatles, ‘bebop’, raving liberation, the acceptance of queerness and self creeping up in subcultures, rumbling under the ground in pro-punk suit. There was such a selection of spheres for expression that it seemed to Zira rather gluttonous to partake in choosing, in subscribing to ‘trying out’ lifestyles in the pursuit of hoping to fit to one. Ironically, Zira would admit that he was a hippie of sorts, if ‘feeling modern’ and without the fear of digging up more layers of himself, ones which could, and would, impede upon his image.
Zira Fell’s image was, truthfully, rather basic, or unassuming. Somewhat androgynous, with delightfully feminine curls of hair, icy eyes, a rounded face and sloped nose, wearing at times a blue women’s ribbon in his hair, with small Oxfords, masculine tartan vest, starched linen shirt, pressed beige trousers, lace details of white, and a delightful bowtie under his chin. Somewhat close to an unhealthy weight, he was vividly conscious of his midriff, the press of his thighs, and the slow development of fat around his face and stomach. He practiced confidence with himself, but even so, it gave way to failure at times, especially when criticized for his shape and way of dress. An ‘obvious queer’, he was called, with revulsion that became lost on him. ‘Visibly gay’, which, god, wasn’t true, or at least not quite, and a ‘faggot’, which Zira did actually take offense to, for the disgust and hatred in which accompanied the speech made him defensive of queer society in general. Despite this way of presentation, nothing else about him particularly veered from the conservative, traditional, and religious values of his parents’ household. He nodded politely along to their displays of Tory support, spoke of God and Jesus, committed good deeds in His name, never made a wrong step to have anyone believe he was anything but an angel. But human he was, as he rolled another hefty joint with nimble fingers, licked the paper, and looked up at his own reflection, before quickly shifting his eyes down again. Zira bought his weed from Fortune Teller, Speaker of the Dead, Lover of Night Appointments, Madame Tracy, who, just on that side of fifty, was a bit loony, and very interested in vibrant makeup.⁵
After taking a single, slow drag, wistfully watching the smoke curl and choking back a cough with experience, Zira decided on a whim that he should go for a walk, admire the fractures of the sidewalks and lines of flowers. He shrugged on a long, creme coat, and tucked his joint into the inner pocket, praying there was no one lingering in the home who would be apt in smelling it on him, before snatching up his rather fluffy white umbrella. With a slight calm settling into him, Zira took slow glances around his childhood home, his parents’ of course, at the off-white trim, light yellow walls, tall windows and skylights, a few crosses and old-fashioned photographs upon the walls. He thought his family minimalist, which they would argue against, aiming to remove more from the home, to become more ‘stately’. Shrugging off this train of thinking, which was quickly becoming random, Zira made it out the front door, shutting it gently, and happily allowing the cool, soft winds to caress his hair, the edge of his nose. Lighting again the end of His Friend Named Joint, Zira lingered under nice trees, on benches, near bushes of flowers, as he meandered around the less inhabited areas of London, taking smoke breaks while doing so, and keeping close to attention, in the event of more catching his eye. These walks, he believed so truthfully and genuinely, brought him closer to that idea of God, and tucked his less ideal aspects inside the folds of his innards, allowing him space for light, and appreciation, and the fine trimmings of Love.
Coming upon the nastier parts of the city, Zira steeled himself, or attempted to, by having another smoke, which made him less steeled than before. Dusk was falling rapidly, rolling over the sky with dark omens, the sun bidding goodbye, and Zira, now a tad paranoid, wrestled with himself before proceeding further into a rather grimy street, if not just to look at the brick and occasional painted graffiti. Swallowed by a tiny alley, nearing darkness, he scrunched his nose at a rather pungent smell, jumped at the scurry of a rat, and shivered against a sinking cold as it began to rain. Rounding a jagged corner, Zira struggled with his umbrella, brandishing it above his head once having succeeded, wincing at his shoes becoming wet, hoping his hair didn’t become too damp, for that wouldn’t be especially sporting.
Pausing for a tenth time, sucking in the last of the smoke held between his two fingers, Zira had his back turned to the depths of the alleyway, and shimmied slightly to himself when pleasantly high. He was still, frozen in the ice of his own attachments, a singular, white figure stark against his outside world, by himself and stretched to his limit by performative action. If he were an angel, Zira would spread his wings far out, launch himself above the clouds, towards a place where his mind could willingly stay, and unfold through the lengths of the sky, soaring limitless and irrefutably free.
His ruminations in peace were then rudely interrupted, and Zira lazily attempted an annoyed, pinched expression as he turned to wonder what he had just heard, and from where—
He was met with a tall, lean, spindly man of black limbs, staring at him from above dark glasses, eyes evil and devastating as they were contrasted by the details of silver upon him, of an amber so deep they glinted with unnatural yellow. Shoulder-length, bright, vivid red hair, bangs attached, could nearly distract one from the smirk he sported, which was strangely glum. He showed some teeth, leaning forward, shoving his hands in the pockets of tight, black jeans. There wasn’t much to say on his fashion, Zira noted, as it was just all black, somewhat punk, but classic. The man raised an eyebrow, expecting a response, and elicited from Zira was, ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘I said,’ the man muttered out, managing to ignore the rain starting to pour over them, soaking him, ‘that went down like a lead balloon.’
Having not the faintest idea as to what he was speaking of, his mind too foggy to hide his cluelessness, Zira said, anxiously, awkwardly, ‘Yes, I suppose it did, rather, er…’
‘Crowley.’ The long-limbed man stated, taking a moment to sneer at his boots gathering mud, kicking a sole against the ground, bringing his elbows back to make a show of his attitude, snarky and so naturally angry.
‘That is…?’
‘My name. Crowley.’
‘Oh yes, ‘course.’ Zira eyed Crowley from the corner of his eye, much too in his line of vision, at how he had, presumably this entire stretch of time, a cheap pack of cigarettes in his hold, and was, it seemed, trying to light one despite the rain. Zira shifted closer to him, bringing his umbrella, all white lace, fluff, and satin, above both their heads, focusing on Crowley flicking at the deep red lighter, his finger hitting it rapidly, and then meeting his eyes, which triggered a deep laugh from him.
‘Didn’t you have one? You did, it was lit like anything, what happened to it?’ The cigarette, finally on fire, was put to Crowley’s lips, drawn in, and Zira found himself annoyed, huffy, leaning into his thoughts, ones on style, people, rebellion, why this Crowley had been lurking, and had happened also to find him.
‘Smoked it away,’ Zira muttered. ‘Wot?’ Crowley was a bit absent, staring off, though in an extremely different manner than Zira. ‘I smoked it away,’ Zira repeated, louder this time. Crowley raised his brows again, then pulled the cigarette from his mouth and silently handed it towards Zira as a gesture. ‘Oh, thank you, you know, sometimes it bothers me,’ Zira rambled, sticking the butt between his teeth, simply aching for an oral fixation, then drawing in smoke only later. ‘I smoke too fast, er… I’m Zira.’ Crowley didn’t voice anything. Zira rushed to add, ‘Zira Fell,’ paranoid about his social action, whether it was his tone, or body language, aiming to be likable. Crowley merely hummed, staying relatively still under the umbrella, keeping concealed the jumping conclusions, impassioned emotions, as his dumb heart bubbled up into his throat.
Ineffability. Zira’s thoughts spoke, scaling the absurdity of the world sitting still, sharing his umbrella with a relatively distasteful stranger named Crowley, who, almost certainly, slithered through this seedy area of London to perform bad deeds. Zira would rectify this, he decided, foolish in presumptive guesses as he often is, and foment peace, the inherent Good of all. If only he would notice the look in Crowley’s eyes, alight with Goodness, lost in the feathers of a certain white angel.
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¹ This list does not include his penchant for bad card tricks and subpar ‘magic’ performances. He has kept those interests for years.
² In fact, there had been a time about two years ago, when Gabriel was attempting to sell a shitty Pontiac Firebird to a disturbed, punk teen, by comparing its beaten condition to the state of the teen’s soul, not realizing how much of an ignorant idiot he sounded. He was genuinely surprised when later, the main office of the car dealership was lit on fire, and a handful of the used vehicles in the lot were graffitied.
³ Not that he would accept this privately, or find pride in his preferences, or begin even the journey of knowing.
⁴ Zira doesn’t know anything about the bands and trends mentioned here, by the way, yet you’ve most likely assumed this already. With what his knowledge was concerned, Led Zeppelin was an air balloon company.
⁵ She had made him a cup of ‘special tea’, which had Zira believing that God must exist, for this something was perfectly tailored to him. He often wondered why basic weed didn’t have the same effect. This was because he didn’t know that the tea had been brewed with the kind of mushrooms John the Revelator had eaten.