THE MAN WHO DEFIED GRAVITY
He’d always wanted to have wings. Not in a literal sense. But he yearned to fly spiritually, emotionally, intellectually. He looked upon it as a curse. Having enough self-awareness to know his limitations, but without having the ability to transcend his mundanity. It wasn’t through lack of trying. He’d tried to stretch out many, many times. But every time he came crashing back to Earth. And the next time it took just a little more effort to even try.
As a boy he knew the thrill of knowledge, every scrap of information jealously hoarded, as though it was his, and his alone. And for a time it seemed as though he would emerge from the chrysalis. But about age 11, the doors closed, and the world caught up with him, passed him by, and then turned, pointed, and laughed. So, he followed the traditional route of the outcast, reveling in his apartness, rejoicing in his perceived uniqueness, constantly seeking the next ill-judged adventure. He subsumed his passions in a transient world of alcohol and drugs, rejecting those who would try to reach out, callous in his words and actions.
Years would pass, before the boy within would make another attempt to be all the things he wanted to be. He sought solace in pretense, glorifying his truth. But always he looked for god, searching for THE truth. But it wasn’t to be found. Every morning he awoke, still chained to the ground, and railed against the injustice of it. Then, as is the way with these things, his search and passion were renewed in the most ordinary of ways. The passion was called Leila. The search, as always, was for god.
I was staring over someones shoulder, listening to the blah blah blah of their uninteresting life, when she walked up to me, and said, “I will possess you for the rest of time”. I looked down into her eyes, and knew she was right. There was power there I had never seen before, burning deep into a place I thought long hidden. I reached into my jacket, drew out a letter opener, and plunged it into the throat of the blah blah blaher. “I’ve just punctured one of your main arteries”, I told him. The shock had stopped the pain from registering. “If you go to the hospital now, they might be able to save your horrendously boring life. If they do, at least you’ll have something interesting to say the next time you corner someone in the office. If you pull it out, however, you’ll die. In about three minutes.”
We left, barely acknowledging the screams.
Three days later, we emerged from a seen better days hotel, sated. Her skin was marked in a language only I could speak, and I had scars buried so far under the flesh, that I could be flayed for days without realising. The hotel smouldered for weeks.
Later that day I went back to the office as I had a few personal items to collect. I wasn’t surprised to find that my swipe card no longer worked, so I went round to the front door. I also wasn’t surprised to find that the alert security force personnel were content to let me sign myself in. No-one spoke when I walked into the room, and I had nothing to say to them. They were so far beneath my contempt.