Chapter VII: Clouded thoughts on a clear mind

I feel the tears running from my eyes, and I know that they are mine. I’ve seen her setting the wheels on action. Why…

Thousand of vile images bombard me. Every inch of my body is set on fire. I’ve already died in every possible way. Yet, death is something that I would accept with open arms… if only I could forsake this life. My screams, I know, have stopped some time ago. Yet the tortures continue, relentlessly assaulting my frail flesh, devouring my sanity. Each moment that passes I’m certain that there is no kind of pain that I haven’t yet felt; that no part of mine hasn’t yet experienced the ultimate torture ever conceived. But humans never stop to amaze me with their cruelty. My arms and feet flail in a vain attempt to escape my prison, but I can’t move, I can’t fight, I can’t find the haven in the sweet embrace of booze. I’m left with a clear mind, a mind that continues to expand, trying to reach the ultimate understanding of time, of decisions, of fate…

At last I feel a string of my own, a memory that has yet to come in existence and maybe will never come, but at least it is about me. I’m feeling myself hanged from a ceiling, thick nailed chains holding me in place as a mob of torturers toy with me, having found the ultimate test subject for their vicious art. I see my face, and it is me. This is a possible fate of mine. Yet, in my mind, in my soul, the torture is even worse. A million strings of fate leap at every moment. Will they cut my flesh? Will they burn my eyes? Will the tear apart my skin? It matters not for me… for I feel every possible scenario that passes through their deranged minds.

And yet, my screams have stopped. I would like to think that they stopped because I’ve grown accustomed to it, because I’ve learned to endure. But no man, regardless of his strength could endure what passes on my mind now. No, I stopped screaming because I saw her act. Cursed woman, blessed woman, why did you have to open the damned diary?

If there is hell, it’s where I should belong. But I feel my mind working in strange ways. A hell of my own device, a roaring pit of lava devouring my body, and as a watcher, as a simple spectator, I watch my own, old self, giving way, and just sitting there, in the middle of a million screams and pains, and watch, tearful, something else, far away from here. Like that this scene I’m watching unfolding is greater than what goes around me…

She opens my diary, she reads, she recalls and she acts; a soldier of Armageddon, the Pawn that moves the King’s hand. Why god dammit? Why…

I watch as she reads, as she starts to comprehend, thankful that she doesn’t remember what she really is. And I can only stare, as hundreds of millions of threads of destiny start withering and fade. The carpet that fate has weaved is infinite, yet I see its edges giving way, vanishing, from what she set on motion. The knots that cannot be avoided tie themselves even tighter. The paths collide to create singularities, to force people on a set path. Some remain, just an infinity of them, but they are mostly insignificant.

I should be grateful, for each string that disappears takes away with it a hundred different pains. Like my mind is set free from their ugly reality. But I’m not. For now I see it, the end of the carpet. In the distance, all decisions lead to a single knot, and after that lies just a vast space of… nothingness. Am I blind beyond this point now, or is it where our world ends? Damn her. Bless her.

Tears never stop flowing out. I cry for all those fates that cease to exist as they where my children. I cry for myself, I cry for her, I cry now, because later there will be no more tears… Later there will be only four persons struggling to win against me. I hope they will succeed, I hope that I’ll fail. I hope that Armageddon will stop in its tracks, derailed. A prophet, a priest, a soldier and a murderer all against me… can the King be defeated. Can the King die? Long live the King…

I made my choice. I shall hasten my journey to this knot. I can only hope that by the end of this trip I will be not so tied down in those entangling lines; that I can break it from the inside, loosen it, unmake it…

My visions blur once again. Shit. I shouldn’t have rushed to a decision. Away from the comfort of doubt, I feel the scene departing, leaving me, once again, alone in my torment. I scream as pain returns to every fiber of this cursed body. The images pick up speed, rushing into my brain, into my soul. Like crushing waves that want to enter the last bit of dry land, they invade me.

Children kill children. Bombs explode on hospitals. Terrorists murder innocents… no not innocents. No one is innocent in this hell. They are all to blame for my visions; each and every single one of them. I see their stories unfolding; men that hit their wives; women that sell their spirit; people that waste their lives doing nothing. I see the governments that strive to personal gain, I see the leaders that kill for money and power; most of the times for the same thing. I feel the forest’s screams as it burns to ashes. I hear the mineworkers’ pleas as a tunnel collapses and simultaneously I hear the silent sobs of the land as she is being excavated, as holes are being torn into her for no other reason than simple rocks.

And I scream. I scream not because of the pain that those scenes produce to my body as each and every bullet that flies feels like it hits my own body, neither for the flames that engulfs me when the land itself burns, but for the reasons behind those actions. The depravity, the corruption, the negligence, the greed, the viciousness, the selfishness; all crush upon my very own soul. And I scream as I see the innocence of a child being crashed under the weight of the world; as his smile departs from his face, forever; as I see him transforming, rapidly, to another monster that will, in return, rob another one of his humanity…

And I try to laugh; I try to smile when those images change. I try to find reason to live when I see one offering a flower. A child plays, with no regards for the past or the future, and it gives my soul hopes. But then the scene vanishes. Almost like a small teaser of what could have been, not nearly enough to balance out the violence, but just enough to know what will fade in the future…

And I know. I know why this is happening; a test of our forefathers. There are only two endings for one with my gift; death or death. Either my body will cease to function, dead by default, dead because of all that cruelty, or, my soul will die, my humanity will vanish in the face of such a world. Either way, the one that will wake up will be no longer me. It will be the King.

And for the People it was justifiable. It was the least sacrifice for a perfect world; one man; a man without emotions, all burned down because of his fellow beings. One man killed, for millions to live. But who said that I wanted to be that man? Who asked me? Who said that I wanted to destroy the world for what he is causing?

I need to stick to the plan. I need to make haste. I need to reach the knot as fast as possible. The more I linger, the more will suffer. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid that when I wake up it wouldn’t be me in charge; although, to be honest, I never was…

I grasp my anchor once again. I feel her hand, strong, reassuring. I feel hope coming out of the entity that keeps me unseen company in my torment. It is my only chance; I’ll rely on her to ease my suffering, to keep me from losing my sanity. I pray, for the last time, to whatever is up there, if there is anything at all, and I let my mind free to roam in the pits of hell that is our world…

Chapter VI: A scream of sorrow

Slowly the heavy wooden door opened. Not a sound escaped from its well oiled hinges; not a sound emerged from the light steps of the young nun as she entered the bright room. Yet, the small, surprised yelp that exited her mouth was enough to wake up Maria.

Despite the all-nighter that she had pulled, her eyes regained their clear shine in an instant. “What is it child?” Her soothing voice, like she was speaking to a small girl, and not a young servant of God, echoed in the room.

“I… I thought that he would be sleeping… but he’s still awake… At least he is not screaming anymore”

Maria followed the sister’s eyes to the bed that lay next to her chair. How long has it been since he had brought him here? Nearly thirty hours have passed, and most of them were full of his agony. His restrained arms and legs prevented him to thrash all over the place in his pain, prevented the thin tubes, that through them run the necessary drugs, to leave his flesh. Yet, despite the heavy painkillers, despite her hand that never left his tormented grip, he was still awake and fighting.

Maria contemplated her answer for a little, she wanted to provide reassurance for the younger girl, on the other hand, she needed her to become strong, to take care of this small place after her time was up, to grow up as a person that sees beyond the mere veil that sometimes reality threw upon them.

“I wish he was still screaming, Sister. Look at his face now, look at his cheeks. Tears stain them. It is not that the pain left his body; it is just that his sorrow overcomes it. And a broken soul is much more difficult to mend than a broken body…”

“Sister Mary, why did you bring him here? If he is half as bad as he shows, then he needs a full operating hospital. Can we provide him with everything he needs in here?”

That was upsetting, for the first time one of her subordinates doubted her. On the other hand that brought joy to Maria’s eyes. It meant that they were growing, they were starting to become independent, they were starting to care more for the patients than for her decisions.

But she couldn’t tell them yet, or anytime soon. She picked her patients according to their aura, according to what she saw in their souls. If she ever admitted that, then she would either end up caged as a lunatic, or revered as a saint, both of which would limit the time she got to spent with people that really needed her attention.

“Sister? You’re ok? You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Uh? Oh… You see my child, I always pick up people that I feel that they need our help. I’ve watched this man for several days, and the only thing that I’ve gathered is that this is a good man. His heart and mind, when not lost in the alcohol is full with kindness. But it is people like them, good people, that Satan chooses to torment, to break. I don’t know what his personal martyrdom is, but I do know that he has chosen the wrong way to fight it. He drinks to forget, and maybe that is temporarily helping, but in reality, all that this cursed thing does is to lower his defenses, to succumb, slowly to his inner demons.”

“But shouldn’t this be a fight that he has to face alone? If Satan, or God, is testing him, shouldn’t he be able to prove his own worth? And what about his physical condition? We are running a clinic after all…”

“Yes, it is a battle that he must choose if he wishes to fight or to surrender. I’m merely giving him a chance. But only when he is free of this taint in his blood the choice will be really his and not of the alcohol. When he is no longer addicted, he can decide anew if he wishes to follow the booze’s tempting path, or the painful path that leads to greatness… And I don’t think he is suffering from any real health problems, apart maybe from some slight damage to his liver. I’ve already given to the lab a sample of his blood for further analysis, and his disjointed shoulder seems to mend fine. We have him on painkillers and nutrition that his body seemed to be lacking, but until nightfall we cannot be sure. That’s why I haven’t allowed any of you younger kids to treat him…”

His screaming interrupted both of the women and hasted the exit of the younger; leaving Maria and her patient all alone in the room. His grip on her hand was getting stronger, crushing the aged bones, yet Maria knew no pain now, she just knew that he had accepted her help…

She started chanting a peaceful prayer; to calm his mind; to ease her fears. Fears that have never left her mind since he brought him here. Yes, he was special, she had seen his shoulder mending, she had sensed his liver starting to shape up in just one day of absence of the malicious substances, but above all, she had seen his aura; an aura that scared her.

As her eyes drifted to the window she gazed at the world below. This small place that acted as, both a monastery, and a small clinic, run by her as a doctor, and her nuns as nurses, overlooked the crowded city’s slums… And in there grayness ruled.

She would have been hard pressed to find a person that she could call truly evil, a man that his aura was the deepest shade of black. Equally hard pressed she would have been if she had searched for one that his aura matched the white of her own. Shades of gray, like the cement walls that barricaded their bodies also served as cells for their souls, sipping their dullness into their minds. But why did it feel like dusk was coming? Why did the shades of gray always seem to darken?

And yet, this one differed. She was almost in trance looking at the bright tongues of fire that tried to strangle his white aura. She knew not if this was a good sign, or an omen of destruction. Color was nonexistent in auras, yet he was sheathed in it. Sometimes it looked like the fire danced with the white, some others like they were battling, and sometimes it even looked like his aura wasn’t the pure white, but more like the searing light that the hottest flame can produce. She wondered if this was what auras were in the end… the fiery representation of their souls. And she feared the response on that question, did it really mean that the coals of their human souls have died out?

‘No. The flames are Hell. This one is battling with hell, the hungry, devouring, flames trying to eat up the goodness in him. That should be it. That must be it. Or else I’m dooming us all…’