God

God

God was lonely. Sitting in a room, four walls, boxed in, he didn’t know where to go. Crying, crying crying again. So lonely, so, so lonely. He looked in the mirror to see two thousand twisting tendrils bursting from him, a small hunched body, patchwork of flesh and bone protruding and intermingling one between the other. His head was swollen and one raw, teary eye peeked out of his burning skull. There was too much now, simply too fucking much. He remembered the old days, not trapped by a mind he’d given too much power frozen by a soul he’d given too little empathy. Now it was burning, burning, enveloping his brain, crushing him, how to co-ordinate so much confused self-loathing from a basement with steps of nails encased by a boulder. Too many sounds coming in, circling, enclosing, encasing him in a coffin of cacophonous cries calculated to kill. Just another day in the life. Enough dawdling, he wasn’t allowed any more wasted time. Slowly, tremblingly, he lifted his mangled arms to the hellish pipe organ. A strange creation. It was red and livid, odd, bumpy , screaming patterns set into its almost mushy surface. In contrast to the shaded blacks and purples, the ominous maroons and alien blues, the blinding white keys stood out like bones from a wound. It was incredibly old and shabby, the mottled surface giving off so many squeaks and groans under its own weight it was almost its own language. He drew in a rattling breath and began to play, except it had broken, so long ago and so badly that the clear mellifluous melody of olden times was replaced by something totally different. Now every movement was a moan or a scream, every twitch a bending, breaking, bursting of the swollen masses of faces that stretched across its bruised body. Screaming in frustration. No more, no more, NO MORE! He couldn’t, couldn’t, breaking, breaking down, down, down, down. WHY? He was tired, he was trying to pull, to tear his fingers away from it, to rip himself free from his bonds, to escape to somewhere, anywhere. But that wasn’t possible anymore. Now it was just the horrible, lurching melody, howling and screaming forth, the torn, terrified faces staring up at him from every looming corner, every enveloping crack in the wall. And yet he saw it all, so clearly that he needed glasses for his perfect vision. And he could move all, but no matter how much or how little he changed or wanted to change it all came back to this in the end. This was the end the means, this was him himself. Just the endless, twisting, writhing agony of shoving a camel through a needles eye. And behind it all, seeing the all-seer, moving the all-mover was a hand. Nothing more nothing less. Just a hand, pale and wrinkled, an expensive watch adorning the wrist and mounds of gold and platinum heaped on the fingers. And stretching from and into the room, feeding the misgiven hatred and misery and the twisted, clutching fingers banging hopelessly on the mottled keys and contorting and crushing the forgotten fading faces was the pitch black greed of a tuxedo suit behind it all, pulling the strings, closer, closer, closer, until they snap.