The False Believer
Amen(d)
“Oh my God! Where… where is it? Where is it?” The monotonous silence was shattered with a bellow of unendurable tribulation and agony and following it was an increasingly vigorous series of the hysterical and desperate turning of the pages. Ceaselessly and without intermissions, Paul Martin exhausted his vision and strength on the worshiped pages of the King James Bible with all his remaining faith. In a futile search for solace and clemency for his sins, he resumed his frenzy through the fragile pages of the book; precariously attempting to find remarks about the Lord and his forgiveness of grave transgressions. Although nothing of the terrain he remained had displaced in the innumerable hours that was consumed on the book, and how the fatigue and drowsiness from viewing the monotonous pages of the scripture seemed to all merge together, Paul’s determination and mental stability had deteriorated immensely since the early hours that he had arrived at the library (which was now but a deserted building with a reading lamp, illuminating its interior from morning to dawn). The final attempt was here; this was all that was left of Paul’s sanity and endurance before he could no longer go on. If this too had failed in moralizing whatever was left of him, he would personally confront the doors of Death itself, and compensate for his atrocities with what little Paul had left.
Earlier that Day
“Good morning, sir! You’re quite an early bird, aren’t you?” Merrily and obliviously, the librarian smiled at Paul as she opened the entrance to the library. “You’ve been here for how long? About an hour waiting to get inside the library! Do you not a job to attend to?”
She chuckled cheerfully, but there came no response from the recipient of her conversation. Noticing this odd silence, the librarian turned to her guest, but he was gone. From where he once was is now an unoccupied spot; he was gone from her sight without even acknowledging her existence nor friendly commute (that was because Paul had hurried down the library in search of a copy of the King James Bible; to scrutinize its verses). Upon walking in a baffled manner back to her desk, Paul’s distinct appearance remained in her mind, causing her to theorize of the reasons for why his eyes bagged beyond any that she has seen in the past (and from her years of college, she has seen plenty of sleep-deprived students in the past). That was not the unusual and peculiar factor about him that she found offsetting, though, for any overworked employee may become sleep deprived; it was instead about how anxious and agitated he had seemed. Of course, there are obvious factors as to why one might be stressed (and jittery in this case) such as an excess of coffee and general sleep deprivation, but she noticed something intensely peculiar about him; that is the details of his anxiety. Despite coming to the library an hour early so that she could prepare, the librarian had noticed that he had arrived before even she did. That in itself was slightly odd, considering that it was a workday, but there are perhaps many explanations for such a thing; what was truly odd about him was how jittery and anxious he was about any noise that would occur, especially the likes of footsteps, car honkings, and most of all, voices of children and police sirens. The sound of cars driving past him would alert Paul and cause him to anxiously scout the surrounding area; violently twitching his neck so that he may view the most in short periods. What struck the librarian as astonishingly unusual is how consistent he is with every noise; quickly viewing it and turning away from it, as if to obstruct the view of his appearance from any, and especially those that walked on the streets (Paul would turn from them quasi-conspicuously).
“It is as if that particular man had wanted to remain anonymous; due to how he was felonious and was avoiding any public sightings of his.” Upon the conception of that hypothesis, the librarian chortled at such a deranged idea. “Oh, as if! As if a criminal would go to a public library!”
Beyond that, the librarian had no other means of suspicion; a reason to suspend him from the library itself, for she simply thought that that man was an exotic specimen (perhaps he was a recent father and is anxious about any noise that might resemble the sound of his children). Nonetheless, despite how odd Paul may have seemed to her, the librarian cared not of his intentions for coming to the library, for her purpose is to help those that inquire help from the knowledge of their predecessors (though the more selfish and realistic judgment would be that she simply did not get paid well enough to bother). Before long, Paul was not the only other person within the library; others began to accumulate within the building. There were the young children accompanied by their parents, scholars that required textbooks to study and research from, and the general public searching for books that might interest them. Occasionally in the early hours, the librarian would catch Paul furiously flipping through the pages of the book; scanning the pages before moving to another, and often hiding his face/moving away from people as they approached too close. Other than that, the librarian had sustained a relatively normal day for herself, and she ceased having any interest in Paul afterward; for he seemed but a normal bloke. As Paul continued to study the scriptures, the hours whittled down and the once lit and lively library of scholars and children decayed in numbers as the pages seemed to follow so. With the guilt and shame overwhelming, Paul hid his face under the intense imagined gawking and mortifying of the spectators as he vacated and sought refuge away from the surveillance and shame from people. At long last, a refuge was found, and there in isolation, he hid and searched through the tenuous and redundant pages of the Bible. It was a location away from where all the others sat; the central areas of the library, for it was further down into the isles and near the sections that were most desolate. Paul had assumed that position because he had seldom seen any approach that section of the library. Sitting there, hopefully, would prevent the prying eyes of the jury, the people of the library (the ones that “gawked” at his guilt). This, unbeknownst to him, was all but the paranoia that he had personally created, for no one was judging him, or knew of what he had committed. Denying common sense; that perhaps what he had foolishly yearned for had never existed in the first place, he continued his meaningless studies, with the hours blending, and his fatigue and desperation increasing.
“Click!” Abruptly, the lights disappeared from his presence as Paul swiftly turned his attention towards the ceiling, questioning this phenomenon. At first, there was a slight panic, for why had the lights suddenly vanished? Has the devil himself come to claim his life already? Or perhaps God himself has come to judge him? Perhaps, she has come to bring him underneath? With the moment of panic gone, rationality returned to him, to which he then discovered (by reading from his wristwatch) that the time was now midnight. Disturbed yet not agitated, Paul took a deep breath and continued his research after he turned on the light above his head, feeling alarmed at how much time of the day had passed. Ceaselessly, he continued to read through the pages, with his distress growing with every page, but something else was within his mind. Within Paul’s pocket was an item, an item that he had loathed yet worshiped, and the item that he had despised so greatly. He had not wanted to once again view it, for it brought upon him unbearable memories of the past, but just this once, he must. Taking from his pocket a crumpled letter, Paul breathed heavily as he used all his strength and will to place it upon the table (for his quivering hands would not be able to hold it in place). Taking one long breath, he read from it one last time. “Written on 06/14/1981. To Brother Paul: I know it is against our conduct to despise another as exceedingly as I do, but what you have done was an act beyond heinous, you appalling individual. May the Lord forgive me when I present this news to you with hatred, for nothing else is within me but such emotions. Nonetheless, I will not stoop to your lowly level and will send you this letter as my last remark to you, for we do not want to leave you in the dark. Despite how much it pains me to have to transcribe such things that have happened after you had selfishly (and without consideration of the consequences) withdrawn yourself from our lives. Just know, as you read through this last transcription, that it is all your fault; you caused this.” Then, as if controlled by another fierce force, Paul quickly pocketed the letter, crumpling it as he did so once more. Closing his eyes momentarily, he attempted to get rid of the memories that were perturbing him. Upon opening it once more, Paul then attempted to rid himself of any desire to read from such wretched scripture again and diverted his attention once more to the book (though the thought of it remained in his mind).
“Thump, thump, thump, thump…” Strenuously and frantically, his heart seemed to beat; for it portrayed the horrors of the truth. What knowledge he believed he had was wholly reconsolidated from the memories of youth; loose interpretations of the Christian lectures that he had attended with his family. None of it had existed in the first place, though the last ember of hope that he still had remained. Despite how apparent it gradually became to the desperate man that his last effort was futile, Paul could not accept the harsh and cruel reality. A correlation that can be made about his suffering and another’s would be of a scale; the five stages of grief. The initial (and what was being currently exhibited) is that of denial; a blind desire and ambition that cannot be quenched. (The denial that he felt could not cease the feeling of trepidation within.) Pages upon pages he had turned through; slicing open the flesh of his fingers against the ancient pages as he ravaged it of information, and attempting to find anywhere that would articulate how his sins could be exonerated. What shame and pity it is, for all efforts were in vain. Sins of such degree hath no forgiveness feigned to one’s self, for the guilt of the mind isn’t merciful.
“There is no forgiveness for murder, Paul Martin.” The voices continued to berate him. “You killed us.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Get out of my mind!” He screamed and yelled, but the voices continued relentlessly, ignoring his efforts.
“God does not forgive you. You will go underneath with the rest of them, Paul Martin!” Louder and louder the voices became.
“I never murdered anybody! It was not my fault that they had died! I didn’t intend for them to die!” He refused, denying the mass-hysteria as they continued to berate him.
