Make It Stop

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⑩ Dirge

I keep seeing it.

The numbers drop like flies, hour after hour, but it only makes you flinch when it happens to someone you know. Someone I know.

They leave, and when they do, there’s always souvenirs ready to collect as they go. Legacies, legacies – can’t get enough of them - no matter how vain or grand or peculiar. Inherit them like a birthright. Live off the thrill.

I’ve heard some call deaths like my father’s ‘coincidences’ but I’ve never believed in that word. Everything has its own meaning and belongs to that meaning, no matter how many there may be, and when a case occurs where a being’s breathing and heart pulse comes to an end, I wondered why it happened.

Someone created the word ‘accident’, then created ‘purpose’, but now they’ve confused everything by merging the two as ‘accidentally-on-purpose’. So you can see why I’ve got a lack of trust in that system.

I often wear black, funeral or not, because I think an outward appearance reflects a mere fraction - but a large fraction no less - of your inner self, your true personality. I think I’m a dark person through and through, I know I’m a dark person through and through, but that’s never slowed me down.

I like music, but I’ve never quite understood the singers. Love songs and sad songs go on and on, repeating the same vows and gushes. Breakup and bounce back songs defeat the object, because if they didn’t care about the ex, they wouldn’t be taking the time to sing about them with so much emotion. In a way, I think of such songs as a reassurance for the ones singing them from themselves.

Then I heard of dirges.

A dirge is, put simply, ‘a sombre song or lament expressing mourning or grief, such as would be appropriate for performance at a funeral’. And so I wondered if such a thing would have to be expressed as a song. Maybe it could be expressed as an actual person, a person who’s me. I can give anyone an afterlife that’s in no way separate from breathing and blinking on earth.

I asked my father once, and he told me to be creative with the idea. He himself was a mortician, which some people viewed as an odd, depressing and somewhat disturbing job for a man such as himself to do every weekday. It was a little disappointing when I learnt that the way he prepared the corpses wasn’t carried out in the way ancient Egyptians would have done it, but I’ve learnt that you can’t expect much from the small-minded population of the world, and let it be.

I bet he’d never have imagined himself having a mortician just like him fuss over his own dead body after a while. Not with all the creativity on the planet.

So I prepared a dirge for him. I think he liked it.

They expected me to play the funeral march or something common like that, but it’d gone past that point by now. I was alone in the cold world that was almost as dark as me but didn’t give itself the compliment of admitting it.

I’ll never stop seeing it.

Whenever a stranger dies, it’s as if I see my father dying as them too, relentlessly repeating the process, the reasons and motives unknown to me. Perhaps he enjoys the excitement, the rush of twisted adrenaline.

I know I enjoy giving it.

I am Dirge, and always have been. Because after my father’s unexplained demise - unexplained in every sense, as he was perfectly healthy in almost every way, and wasn’t at all old in age - I do what needs to be done, what I want to be done. I’ve found that willpower is the strongest form of power, and once harnessed into a capable source, creativity is taken to a whole new level.

See, deep down, I know why my dad died. In a way, I believe that he unknowingly destroyed himself by simply being himself, but if we have to get technical, I found the very thing he was exposed to, and it nearly made me laugh when I found it.

A bulb. Like a lightbulb? Ironic, isn’t it?

I take advantage of as many situations as I can, but I’m not swayed by the non-existent boundaries everyone else carries with them when it comes to free will. Of course, without laws the world would erupt into chaos, legacy vs legacy, attacking and tearing each other apart. But not under the control of the controller. Me?

This bulb contained the source, the limitless energy source with an unexplainable and unnatural origin and capabilities. After a few centuries, perhaps scientists would find a way to break down and understand, to an extent, the ways of that enigmatic energy. But I won’t give them the chance. Besides, mysteries are much more fun, aren’t they? I’ve always enjoyed the ‘what-ifs’ of things.

I’m fixated, I’m allured, I’m completely captivated by the process of harnessing willpower, strong willpower of my own, to bend others’. It puts me in a trance every time, and I feel stronger whenever I do. A bit like a drug, but then nothing like a drug at all.

Contorting sights to reflect ‘inner beauty’ instead of outward appearances. Tasks accepted that’ll either make or break you, for better or for worse. A dirge doesn’t have to be a song at all, and I don’t think it ever was.

I don’t want to copy the clique mottos of overtaking the planet or anything like that. I want to influence it, to inspire it. Pass the sympathy flowers and condolences for a past attitude and persona, and thank whatever out there provided that supernatural source to rebirth morals into something original.

To see things differently, all some people need is a little foreign blood spattered on their skin. An experience no one would accept as anything but fictional. People make choices to not understand, but they’re missing out.

I prepared a dirge for my father. He loved it.

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