I am (Not) What I am Page #8

The Great Irritation

• Fiction
• Horror
• Short story
• Fantasy

								

So, deathless, coffin-spat, he repeated a comforting apothegm, a soothing mantra: “I exist, and in a thousand agonies, I [alone] will still exist—“ a corruption of Dostoyevsky, one of his favorites. He repeated it every night. As he did, a Voice would sound from the dark; calling the young man embarrassing— some obnoxious, persecutory thing. Then, excited by his fear,  the Voice would howl in his ear, a wicked being, foul breath blowing: “you know not what manner of being I embody! I am not what I am!” The young man remembered his childhood. Every Sunday, he went to Bible study; his crisp vestments billowing in the breeze. He waited all week for those classes; they were some of his favorite days— the stories, the community, he felt loved. Listening to the pastor’s sermons, he learned that God was inside of all Men, that He was all Men. And that all around us, the Devil stalked like a Lion at our door— every particle infested. The Ninth Circle: our own physical reality. The young man knew different now. The Accuser was locked within every animate frame. And God hovered all around; denying the cursed ones favor. The young man was one of those unfortunate vessels. He looked human: you could prick his flesh, test his blood, examine his form— but by end of day, he simply was not there. Better angels must have existed, better devils too: the workings of simian happiness, despite all flaws, proved that that must be true. The young man hoped those better entities would come for him one day. But he doubted it.
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