I Am God
The void was not empty. It pulsed with a darkness so profound it seemed to breathe, a living shadow that swallowed light and hope alike. Andrea stood within it, her form a faint shimmer against the oppressive black, her memories clawing at her like thorns. She was twenty-five when the world broke her—assaulted in an alley, her body and spirit violated in ways that left scars no one could see. A year later, a car crash stole her breath, and now she was here, in this place where time felt like a forgotten dream. Before her, the darkness thickened, coiling into a presence that made her skin prickle. God, she knew, though no face emerged from the abyss. Only a voice, calm as a still sea, and eyes—unseen but felt, twin voids within the void, their gaze heavy with an eternity that could unmake her.
“Why?” Andrea’s voice cracked, raw with anguish. “Why did you let it happen? You saw it. You saw him pin me down, heard me scream. You did nothing.”
The voice came, soft but resonant, cutting through the dark like a blade. “I see all, Andrea. Every tear, every wound, every fleeting joy. I am the shadow that holds the universe, the balance that keeps it from collapsing.”
“Balance?” she spat, her hands trembling. “You call that balance? I was shattered. My body wasn’t mine anymore. My mind turned against me, replaying that night until I couldn’t breathe. And you just watched?”
The darkness seemed to ripple, as if the presence within it shifted. “I am not the weaver of your pain, nor the shield against it. I am the space where all exists—good, evil, and the infinite shades between. To intervene is to undo the freedom that defines you.”
Andrea’s laugh was bitter, echoing into the void. “Freedom? He took my freedom. He took my self. Where was my choice when he held me down? Where was your justice?”
The voice remained steady, untouched by her rage. “Justice is a human construct, Andrea. The universe knows only consequence. Every act, every choice, ripples outward. His choice wounded you, and your pain shapes others. I do not judge. I hold the frame.”
“You’re a coward,” she hissed, stepping forward into the dark, her voice rising. “You hide in this… this nothingness, letting monsters roam free. What kind of god lets a woman beg for mercy and does nothing?”
The air grew heavier, the darkness pressing against her like a physical weight. She felt those unseen eyes, their gaze a cold fire that could burn her soul to ash. Yet the voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “I am not kindness, nor cruelty. I am the origin, born of the dark before the stars. I hold the chaos of existence, where pain and beauty are inseparable. Without one, the other fades.”
Andrea’s chest heaved, tears streaming down her face. “You’re saying my pain was necessary? That I had to suffer so some cosmic scale wouldn’t tip? I was twenty-five, damn it. I had dreams. I wanted to live, to love, to feel safe. And you let him destroy that.”
The darkness pulsed, and she sensed a shift, as if the presence leaned closer. “Your dreams were not lost, Andrea. They live in you still, even here. Your suffering forged a strength that defies me now. You stand in my presence, questioning the unanswerable. That is no small thing.”
She shook her head, her voice breaking. “Strength? You think I wanted this? To be ‘strong’ because some man decided to break me? I wake up every day with his hands on me, his breath in my ear. I see his face in every shadow. Do you know what that’s like?”
“I know,” the voice said, soft as a whisper. “I feel every wound, every cry. But to stop his hand would be to stop all hands—those that harm, those that heal. The universe is a fragile thing, Andrea. Free will is its heartbeat.”
“Free will,” she sneered, pacing in the dark. “You keep saying that, like it’s some sacred gift. But what about me? What about the women like me, who pay the price for someone else’s ‘free will’? Why do we suffer so others can choose?”
The presence seemed to pause, the darkness stilling. “Suffering is not my design, but my allowance. Without it, there is no growth, no meaning. The world is a crucible, Andrea. You emerged from it, not whole, but fierce.”
“Fierce?” Her voice rose, sharp with defiance. “I’m not your damn phoenix. I’m a person. I didn’t ask for a crucible. I wanted a life, not a lesson. Why should I have to burn for your balance?”
The voice remained unyielding, its calm a stark contrast to her fire. “The balance is not mine, but existence itself. I am the dark that cradles it, the eyes that see all and judge none. If I erased your pain, I would erase your anger, your courage, the very fire you wield now.”
Andrea stopped, her breath ragged. “You’re twisting this. You’re making it sound like my pain was a gift. It wasn’t. It’s a wound that never closes. And you—you just sit here, in this… this black nothing, watching us bleed.”
The darkness seemed to deepen, the air growing colder. She felt those eyes again, their weight unbearable, as if they could unravel her with a glance. “I watch,” the voice said, “because I am. I am the void where light and dark meet, where all things are born and die. Your pain is yours to shape, Andrea. What will you make of it?”
She clenched her fists, her voice trembling with rage. “You don’t get to ask me that. You don’t get to sit there, all calm and eternal, and tell me to make something of my trauma. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose to be afraid, to flinch at every touch, to hate the body I live in.”
The presence didn’t waver, its voice a steady current. “And yet, you are here, speaking to me. You are not silent. You are not broken. You are Andrea, and your voice shakes the dark.”
She laughed, a hollow sound. “Shakes the dark? You’re mocking me. I’m nothing to you. Just another soul in your endless void. Why do you even exist if you won’t help us?”
The darkness stirred, and she felt a chill, as if the presence had drawn closer. “I exist because the universe does. I am the shadow cast by its birth, the watcher who holds its contradictions. I do not help, nor harm. I am the space where you decide who you are.”
Andrea’s anger flared, her voice rising to a shout. “Decide who I am? I was a girl with a future, and now I’m a ghost with nightmares! You let him take everything from me, and you have the nerve to tell me it’s my choice to be whole again? You’re not a god. You’re a bystander.”
The air grew thick, oppressive, and she felt the weight of those unseen eyes intensify. The voice, still calm, carried a faint edge. “A bystander? I am the dark that birthed the stars, the silence that holds every scream. I do not choose sides, Andrea. I am the eternal witness. Your pain, your rage—they are yours to wield or release.”
“Release?” she screamed, her voice echoing into the void. “How do I release this? It’s in my bones, my blood. It’s who I am now. And you—you just watch, like some cosmic voyeur, while we drown in our own misery!”
The darkness pulsed violently, and for the first time, she sensed a shift in the presence—something vast and unfathomable stirring within the void. “You are more than your misery,” the voice said, its calm unshaken. “But you must choose to see it. The universe is not kind, nor cruel. It is. And you, Andrea, are part of it.”
Her rage boiled over, her voice a raw, defiant roar. “I don’t want to be part of your universe! I want justice! I want him to suffer like I did! I want you to care!”
The darkness seemed to contract, and then, without warning, she saw them—two pinpoints of light in the black, not stars but eyes, burning with an intensity that made her soul tremble. They were not kind, nor cruel, but infinite, a gaze that could unmake existence itself. Her breath caught, her body froze, and she felt her essence fraying, as if the very act of seeing those eyes was too much for her soul to bear.
“You want me to care?” the voice said, still calm, but now with a weight that pressed her into nothingness. “I am the dark that holds all care, all hate, all love. I am not your savior, nor your enemy. I am God.”
Andrea’s scream was cut short as the eyes bore into her, and her soul untie, dissolving into the void. The darkness swallowed her, and the presence remained, eternal, watching as the universe spun on.
“Time is a flat circle. Everything we’ve ever done or will do, we’re gonna do over and over again. And that little girl, broken in that alley—she’s gonna be broken forever, in every turn of the wheel. No god, no balance, just the endless grind of human cruelty, locked in the dark.”
- AUTHOR
