Life vengeance and love

The creature’s ancient eyes were cast down--focusing on the ground--searching for an answer to a troubling question. He pondered. Should he really write the future? The ground gave no voice; neither did the table, nor the white walls. This would be his and his choice only. Civilization was resting on his shoulders, and only he could receive the blame for its destruction. He was frozen. Much like The Thinker, he was the chiseled embodiment of worry.
Time paradox. A consequence: would a paradox be created if he wrote of the future?
Nothing, he responded. He wasn't going back in time. A paradox could not be created.
But then came another. If he wrote the future, would it not change. How could he resist changing it? And by its definition, would this not create an infinite amount of futures in which none would hold true?
He thought for three whole days, but no answer came. He could not convince himself otherwise. One who knows himself knows his capabilities, and the figure knew himself like an upturned leaf. He knew he could never resist such a temptation, but logic rested in between temptation. What was the point of writing a future he would change. Another future would spring up the very second he wrote.
He bent logic, and twisted his perception. It wasn't pointless. He would be able to see all of the end. Besides he would resist the urge. He could do it, couldn't he? He could resist temptation.
What about his lover, The Angel. Did she not forbid him to write.
The figure thought for another set of days--many times he wrote of the present and the past, yet danger did not come knocking, what difference would writing the future make. It would make no difference, nothing would change. The Angels worries were null.
The figure allowed itself the luxury to relax. The tension that clenched the air with an iron fist collapsed. After a week of not a single breath the figure let loose a sigh. The stalemate had crumbled--the figure chose to write.
Atoms swirled; paper and pen appeared, floated slowly down, then landed soundlessly on Its table. Many leaves of paper would be necessary: The story would combine both his diary and the notebook. His diary consisting of current, personal ongoing events, and his notebook consisting of events of the past--they would combine with the future to reap a story of epic perfection. The figure contemplated--had he not been forced to crumble a stalemate as well, when he had written of the past. What was the decision?
To write the whole, or focus on a period.
He had decided the later. Whole would mean to begin when Time begun, and such a story would have been long--too long. By focusing on the past four hundred years he could highlight the events leading up to his creation, while answering the many questions he had of himself.
Since the very beginning, perhaps he’d known it would come to this--ever so working his way through crumbling the stalemates--first with the diary, then with the notebook, and now with the story: getting bolder and bolder after each decision.
If this was true, he would not be surprised. He had many powers. One of which included the uncanny ability to trick himself. His ability to bend logic was worrisome.
For example: Would it not be inevitable that he would change the future once he read it.
He thought deeply; caught once more in the web of indecision. The stalemate revived.
His foot went down: the sauna shook. He would not change the future: He would accept his fate: there would be no danger.
He laughed. Dust boomed from his mouth, and the table trembled fearfully.
Lie was his favorite language. It made no difference if he spoke the truth. Logic meant nothing before stubbornness.
With the giant magnifying glass of his consciousness he turned himself over like a leaf, examining his flaws, while laughing inwardly at the hypocrisy of his logic. His awareness was too grand, even he could not escape its omniscient eye.
He looked up, steering his bickering consciousness away from himself--to the white radiant light shone from strips of glass hung high on the ceiling wall, like a sun. Radiation shone too at a higher frequency. The scientist liked to gauge its adaptation to extremes. At first the killing light hurt, but after a while it became no different from the hot 1000 degree Fahrenheit heat. Times like these the figure wished radiation could kill him. He was too smart. Too clever for his own good. Too clever for the good of the world.
His brown eyes moved to the leaves of paper. Immediately, the figure bathed himself in pride. He wanted to feel good about something--anything. So he complimented himself at the leaves he created, and how perfectly rectangular they were.
The figure could create many things; like the pencil and paper. See many things; like the past and future--glimpses of his tragic birth and death.
As of now he only had a big picture--a rough sketch, amplifying his hunger. He had tasted a sample, now wanted more: the full course.
First, he had to find a source. Besides him only one being could record the future, and held such precious information in the pinpoint detail needed.
A vast finished book, spanning from beginning to end--dealing with everything that has, is, and will occur--an infinite story with infinite things in an infinite world.
He took yet another breath--inhaled and exhaled, then inhaled again, and held it as if to store whatever energy he had collected. He was not realizing tension, he was storing it. The muscles in his body expanded for a second of this day. It was the breath one made to prepare oneself and his eyes glowed green--consciousness tapping into knowledge so deep, and infinite, it threatened to engulf him.
Time was a giant. The figure a shadow--of something greater, but still a shadow, and though the information Time held was nothing compared to what he had inside him: the giant of giants that laid within his human shell--he shivered and drew back, retreated, his eyes returning to their former shade of brown.
Through a rule it had yet to understand, he had lost power and because of the rule, and its implications, It could not overpower Time with its consciousness. The figure made a critical mistake--rushing in blindly--It should have formulated a plan, instead of assuming total victory.
Controlling the core was the only way--there the figure could act as the brain--and use Its many powers to recall Times memories: specifically those pertaining him.
The figures small fingers daintily held the pen--twirling it, formulating a perfect plan.
Defeating the giant would prove to be a challenge--not that it minded--the figure liked adversity.
This time prepared, the figure tried again.
Carefully, he dove into the vast ocean of information, searching for the core. A tsunami of events thundered above him, headed in his path. He shielded himself, resisting the urge to back out as information slapped him, carried him, swept him over like a bug; he felt like he would suffocate, drown from the overwhelming weight of the weightless waters, as countless tidbits of information flew through him, blocked his vision, choked him like a swarm of pythons, making it difficult to carry out the plan. He couldn't back down, not again. He needed to find the core. He needed to know the details.
He pushed onwards: swimming deeper: finally finding it: The recorder of events: times majestic brain.
She was a beautiful thing, with a shape so simple and flawless, totally contradicting the complexity of all that surrounded her.
He reached for her, out of curiosity and necessity, his consciousness wrapping around the blue tentacled sphere.
The recorder was a slippery thing; all time was recorded within her. She knew the future therefore all the moves he would make.
She quickly broke loose from his grasp, and swam away. The figure tried tailing her, but another tsunami thundered forth, headed again towards him. He could not afford another blow. Knowing this, unconsciously, he tapped into his hidden power, and stopped all of time.
The flow of information stopped--the tsunami frozen in its track. Surprised at the extents of Its power the recorder stopped too.
The figure leaped forward, but the recorder had foreseen this. She dodged swiftly, and swam away. It was easy catching up to her with the wave gone, the figure tried again.
In this fashion they danced to the tune of cat and mouse, a stalemate born from an impossible situation. They were too good. Both equally matched in foresight. No one could win. No one should have won.
The figure did the impossible. As they danced for an eternity, and the constant dodging and attacking became as normal as a heartbeat, the creature laid an illusion.
More eternities went by, and it slowly became as though they were born to dance this endless dance.
At a certain point It should have stumbled, The recorder had foreseen it, but when the time came, It lunged forward, It's consciousness like deadly claws, gripping, digging into the recorder.
The recorder felt no pain, only surprise and curiosity. "How did you best me?" She spoke, her voice soft and echoing through their frozen universe.
"I know not."
"No matter. That was quite entertaining. This is the first time I have lost. Perhaps we can dance again; in the future."
"Perhaps."
The recorder did not need to look to the future; it was a plain lie. They would never dance again. The figure wrapped its consciousness around her, utilizing its many powers. She was Times brain. To become the brain she had to be dealt with. The figure dug its claws further within her, and she exploded in fury of dazzling color. A sizzling supernova of beauty that faded so quickly her very existence could be challenged, and though stained by her majestic blood the figure smiled, he was now the brain. He could begin writing--a hard procedure--in some ways more slippery a process than wrestling Time.
The first sentence had to be precise--worthy of nomination--as the best written work that had ever, and would ever exist. After an eternity of thinking, the figure smiled again: having thought of a perfect start.
Pen rose, and was brought down at lightning speed, while the figures eyes glowed: far, far away from the little cell. Finally, pen touched paper and the story ceremoniously began with a rapid--almost hypnotic--stroke of a hand.






































Potato

For years, without rest or break, the scientist led a lifestyle of trials; until weakness broke their rhythm and their humanity was revealed.
On the floor, those human laid as though their souls had been sucked by a greater spirit. They would have remained there forever had the voice not risen.
The voice randomly rose, outside of its mind, and when it did, and did so to command, there was a tone it held that offered no choice but to obey; from a great summit, inhuman lips whispered to, “awaken!"
They slowly stirred and rose from the ground like corpses rise from graves, and heard from the mouth another command, "all men to your post." They began their slow methodical march to their computers. They walked in perfect sync and resembled perfect soldiers, but for the way their head swayed and the pendulum motion their arms made.
As they sat they heard, "one pint of nitrogen, 5 gallons of nitrate, 3 cups of..."
They typed furiously--the klacks they made as they pound their boards turned the atmosphere into a thunderstorm.
They finished--now all that was left to do was to wait patiently for something to occur, but when minutes passed in double digits reality settled in and all their fantasies vanished.
"Again!"
They turned to him.
"Again! Gentlemen again!" they heard. "Let us try once more!"
Through his radiant voice he projected hope to them. They turned to their screens eyes emitting reverence. The storm came; the lab shook; the air turned crisp with pressure. Seconds passed like hours; reality returned.
Overwhelmed, the director rose from his chair like spirits rise from the dead. In one sweep he broke all chains fastened by fate. Instinctively, he heads for the exit.
He will reach everything while time grows endless and doubt grows deadliest--he might have claimed all he had lost if not for the scream.
The wail from behind caused him to wait a moment longer. Too long he lingered in indecision until his gnawing curiosity overpowered his sense of urgency. Against better instincts he turned around to see...
What he sees almost kills him.
He steps back in awe as his body trembles, and his hands drag down his face, and his mouth opens to scream without a doubt, “this can't be real!”
Instead of falling, he moved forward brainlessly.
His men fell in a similar trance and began to jog towards the tank.
Their smiles were wide and full, and their eyes were shining crescent moons.
This part they forgot instantly--but for a single second the whole room glowed pure white and the shape said to all of them in a tone so grand and universal, "thank you."

For what felt like forever the men stood silent, worlds apart, held captive by memory. Then they were freed. After exhausting all the emotions of the moment, they regained awareness, looked at each other, and collected to compare what they had seen.
It was the first time in long while the director was afoot so his balance was aloof.
Many times, he had to rest on the tank. When he did he felt as though he was patting the belly of a lady; the tank had finally become the fertile womb of his dreams.
"A potato with a tail," said one of them, "that's what it looked like."
They stopped all efforts to liken it to something else.
They nodded in agreement and scattered away from the tank.
As the director walked back to his chair, he glanced exit before asking, "are all men at their positions?"

His men answered swiftly.

Their storm came. Their lab shook. The air turned crisp with pressure.
Seconds passed like hours. Reality returned. Overwhelmed their director lowered his head. He covered his face completely. The desire in his stomach to stay frozen forever spread within his body, but since he knew eternity would not suffice as an outlet for his grief, he collected himself to decide what would come next.
Soon he would have to choose whether to quit or to gather again their wits.
Before he gathered he imagined his only success so to motivate but mostly forget that failure was probable.
They failed consecutively. All the while time was lost so completely years passed like minutes, and decades like seconds.
At a certain point, from inexplicable exhaustion, his men fell from their chairs like lined up dominoes.
In less than a minute the lab became a grave of fallen corpses.
Fearing this deadly momentum of death, he would try to escape their fate, but since his body would not cooperate--he loses his footing on his third step and falls.

He hits the ground with a metallic thud, and continues to flee even after feeling the futility of trying.
His desire had proved impossible. He could only stare from leagues, as gallons were added, and hope was lost, and his enterprise was tossed and torn by the gales of misfortune--all the while his chosen men grew tired, and his soul grew tired of life.
If we hadn't succeeded. If we hadn't succeeded we could have given up long ago.
His eyes closed. So ended his 40 years of sleep deprivation, his 80 years of endless dedication.
After a 40 year marathon, finally the director would submit to sleep.


While the others slept, often he was swept--lost in beautiful daydream fantasies. Grand Illusions that could hide the harshest reality. In these moments, even though his eyes faced the tank, it was not the tank he saw--what he saw was his desire; a similar phenomenon occurred while he faced death.

In this total darkness what he saw was a dream. A dream like no other. In it he was closer to the action, much closer than his fantasies.
The him of the dream came to life. Without moving, he followed him closely.
The dream began at the climax. The moment at which he would make a grave mistake. Since this is a dream there would be no mistake. Instead throwing his life away, in the dream he spends it with Mary. The things they do are lovely. The first 6 years are fast and furious.

After 6 years, children appear. Time continues to accelerate, the children grow, he ages with them--until a breath away from death. Old and shriveled he lies in his hospital bed. His children are there, his wife is there, his ghost is there, though the ghost cannot hear--the eavesdropper isn't allowed to listen in. When the final words come out, he can only make out:


Lonely in the dark.
Hurry up and make me spark.
All I want is company.
Please oh please oh make me free.


The dream melts and forms an ocean of brown that covers the director with its gallons and gallons of water. Even though death surrounds him, it does not reach him. He is protected by the tune. The tune covers him and begins to heal his damaged soul. He swims to its source, following the sound; pumping his arms, pumping his legs, while the tune, whispered within turbulent waters, is amplified and echoed.
His whole body softens, and becomes human again.
It does not take long for him to remember though. When he does his curved back straightened, his peaceful expression vanished--replaced by stern dedication.
He remembered who he was. He remembered he was the director.
The more he heard the tune, the more it sounded like a plead. The singer seemed to wish freedom--but from what?
--The dark.

He spasmed.

Enough blood came from his mouth to see a reflection, but when he was able, instead of reflecting on his being he reflected on the dream.

That tune, where did it come from? The voice… why does it feel so familiar? The vocalist saved me. The vocalist healed me.
He gets up and searches for his seat.
Asit he screamed, “awaken!”
His voice brings back corpses from the dead.
“All men to your posts!” The living shift back to their positions.
With a broken voice he booms, "this is the last attempt!"
If he failed, he would leave. He would fail, so he could live.
He looked at the living dead and sees himself.
He looks at the dead tank and sees something else.
He begins to speak, and his soldiers type; they finish and they wait for nothing to occur, but when something does, and within the tank chemicals glow, glowing faces shocked!
Mouth agape, the director watches colors form a shape. He approaches the shape, and places a hand on the glass--and feels the heat, and feels the life.
Suddenly the shape disappears.
Once he has gathered his wits, he returns to his chair to begin another barrage.
The men type and watch liquids glow, swirl, and mix until a shape is born.

"Can you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"Nothing."
I'm the only one hearing it?
You are special.
How so?
You just are.
A frightening question raised itself.
I am you.
He thinks quietly.
Soon I must disappear.
He glances at the shape.
Make me again as soon as you can.

“Awaken.”
His men were already woken,
"All men to your posts!"
and they were already at their posts.
His lips separate, and he tries hard to hear what comes out but he can only make out...

Lonely in the dark
Hurry up and make me spark
All I want is company
Please oh please oh let me free


After the creature appears he rises.
My mission was to succeed not perfect.
You're leaving?
He walks to the light.
Where are you going?
He disappears.


Unaccustomed to lengthy motions, his mechanical bones crack.
"You look rusty, my friend."
The familiar voice is George, his surgeon, the creator of the fountain, "I've been sitting for quite a while," he responds, "--how could I not be."
"--tell me, what's it like?"
"It's brown and has a tail."
"That's all?"
"That's all there is."
Heavy metal doors separate and retreat within the wall. Hot air rushes in, enveloping the men in dazzling heat. The sun is high and mighty, the director enjoys its warmth--it has been long while since he has felt its healthy beat.
Below, grass had eaten concrete, and had risen to be knee high while moss, lichen, and snake vines, cover under greenery, layers and layers of gravel.

They walk down the beaten steps.

At an intersection, they said their goodbyes.
Hogoreal looked at the changed city, and wondered if his feet would be able to bring him home.
Somehow, he reaches his address. The crumbling tower in front of him is one of the last remaining city mammoths. He had been lucky his dwelling had survived; most had lost their place in the sky.
The lobby was dusty, but unexpectedly free of vermin.
He takes the elevator, and is surprised when the rising room rises (even though he knows mammoths are supposed to withstand ages, he is surprised the elevator is working after who knows how long of no maintenance).
At Room 408, he unlocks the door. Nostalgia grows inside him as it opens. He wondered what changes his old home had undergone.

There was no difference. Everything was like the past. He walked like the cobwebs were invisible. To him the only noticeable oddity became a yellow piece of paper on the living room table. For a while he is able to ignore it, but after he goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and is disappointed when he sees nothing but rotten cold, he walks back to it, unable to avoid it any longer, and opens with care. The words within strike him bold.

Hogoreal, I love you, but I must let you go. It's obvious your love for science burns stronger than ours, and it's true you said you would come back, but you haven't and I doubt you ever will. It seems both our loves will bring us to the grave. I'm afraid I will be brought to mine sooner. The doctors say they can save me with this surgery, and I'll live forever, but that'll just mean more waiting. I'm sure you've taken it, how could you not, you'll have forever to succeed. But I don't know if you ever will. I don't know if you'll ever come back. So instead I've decided to die, in hope that my fantasies are correct and you will, and if you don't--better I die in fantasy, than live in a harsh reality.

A tear rolled down Hogoreal’s cheek. Only she could stab him like that. It was too late for if onlys, and the time they had spent together seemed like a distant memory. Totally overpowered by the urge he had felt so strongly in his youth to create life.
When did it begin? He thought. When did he start obsessing about a creature that did not exist. How could he have left Mary for such a pointless endeavor. How could he have spent so long in the lab? Was that why he taken the surgery; to never need to step out again? Could he even call it obsession? No it was more than that. But it didn't matter now. He was out of the trance; he had to get away. As far as he could from the lab.

It takes an hour for him to stop. While walking in the soft warmth of summer night, he hears a rustle. This is how he meets the immortal couple that explain to him what happened in his absence.


"The towers," she giggles, "that’s where most are."
"Everyone plays there."
"--we usually play forever, but once in a while we have to breathe--"
"It gets crazyy--"
"--most people though," she paused eerily, "never leave."

Hogoreal asks when they took the surgery.
The boy begins to answer, "I took it when I was 12--”
“I when I was 5." She wraps her body around his arm, "I was scared at first," she squirms, "but it went by smooth. Real smooth"
"When did you take it?" They ask.
Hogoreal says the number.
"You're old," she giggles, "my date counter says I'm thirty."
"You look twenty."
They kiss.
Hogoreal leaves before they play.

In the meadows, he meets a self proclaimed hermit.
"That invention is the worst thing ever!"
The man, he noticed, had a habit of becoming critical of everything. It is impossible to communicate when he is like this--when he becomes a great impenetrable wall of pessimism. "Just cuz you're immortal don't mean you’re alive. All them immortals in them towers ain't!"
Hogoreal waits. When the man is worn out he begins to talk again, "what do they do up there?"
This answer is surprisingly short. "Kill time."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Yeap, back in my youth I had real bad case of hole-in-my-heart. I thought the towers could fix me--patch me, of course they didn't. I slipped out before I got sucked in."
"Do you plan on taking the surgery?"


The last man he meets is George.
They're reunion takes place during his return to New York. They do not say a word to each other. They cross paths silently.


Welcome home.
Hogoreal sits in his chair. "How are you?" He asks.
The others, quick to turn around, turn back just as fast.
Hogoreal hears laughter. Have you lost your mind? You must have seen queer things to change this much (Hogoreal is not the only one who has changed. The creature now has little nubs, and it's tail is shorter).
"What are you?"
Your question is rather late father. In the beginning I would have answered surely, but now, having grown, I am not so sure see. If before I was certainty, perhaps now I am uncertainty--
"--What?"
Very well I will try to explain. What I am is the great unknown.

In 2 years the creature grows arms and legs.
In its 3rd year, it asks to be let out.
Hogoreal, the lead scientist, was still the only one that could hear it.
He answers with a no.
The creature smiles, an expression it has been trying to master, and whispers why not? in his tormented soul.
The world beyond the tank is different than the one you are accustomed to. You will die if you are let out. Hogoreal tries to explain.
I will not die. I have grown all parts necessary to survive outside, the creature rebuttals.
It is too dangerous, Hogoreal lies.
The creature laughs, you cannot keep me in, it whispers in a tone he is accustomed to but in a way he did not recognize. As the tank cracks, he realizes there is one word missing from its usual remark. (For the past year it has been constantly asking to be let out, and when it did, after arguing it would say..). He remembers as the tank shatters, you cannot keep me in forever. Forever was missing. Forever was now.
As glass and acid approach, he reflects in an uncharacteristically calm state of mind for one in such a perilous situation that--Forever sure came quickly.









With the director out of the picture, the scientists lost the glue that held them together. It wasn’t long before they each went their separate ways--taking with them life’s formula. They left the first creation in the hand of the army--under the watch of high ranking officers. The officers had one task. Surveil and test the specimen.




































The Sauna

Deep and underground, buzzed an odd sauna. The sauna was huge, and its gears hummed peacefully; it was very much the busy bee--yet, it was ready to explode at any given second.
There were danger symbols on its ceiling. Creepy warnings on the walls; past them and through the insulated layers, was the cause of this and more.
The saunas inner block was toxic with danger--quite opposite from its peaceful exterior.
Which was cool and dark, too quiet and dark. No light shone, not even from the holographic computers.
There was a lounge in some corner, and Borgs scurrying away. Going round and round; cleaning spotless floors. Limiting their motion, to make some sense of their foreign world.
Occasionally, you would hear a tap; and several more, before a Borg gave up, and went to bed. It was all they could do, to sleep, as long as it was like this--eternally dark.
If they were ambitious, and continued to tap, through inches of paint, and yards of cooling vents. If they could somehow hammer past the many layers of insulation, and squeeze through a meter of thick lead, they would finally reach salvation in the heavenly light of the saunas dangerous, bright, horrible interior.
Light, was a commonality here. There was almost too much of it. It was louder as well, another difference--it seemed the layers of stuff had reduced the noise created by the cylinders. The noise in the interior was more like a rumble than a hum.
In this desert environment where you could not look around without hurting your eyes, and live long within without dying, it was hard to imagine salvation. Here, it seemed, people came only to burn.
The interior was like an oven. It was cubic in shape, with square faces--like mirrors, that reflected the light, and fried the air into an ocean of deadly, streaming fire. The light that came from cylinders--hooked on electricity; fed the most on the saunas milk, and used its energy to boil the air with invisible beams that shot out rays of pain and death.
That stung like death, and would bring any life to its knees--if life was unlucky enough to be brought here.
These rays, hurtful rays, were what made the sauna dangerous, and were the reasons for the many warnings. The beams that shot out from the cylinders: Ultraviolet, gamma, and microwave; Long ago, would be used to test metals.
Scientists would raise the heat, and wait until the metals would break, crack, or shatter. Now, the sauna was mostly unused, save to torture--the thing.
In the center rested a dark lone shape. Chiseled in agony; charcoal colored, with scars all over. Remnants of a battle--a hard fought one, that had left its bloody prints through salty red flakes that covered its skin, and somehow the ground, and gave both sun scorched surfaces a reddish brown glow. You could almost imagine their trajectory--as they splashed. What a battle it must have been, and recent too--the floor had yet to disintegrate the last of major evidences.
The statue moved. More dots fell below. Its neck jerked up--lifting its shriveled head to greet a camera, whose lenses were almost completely shattered by the pure grimness of its ugly, broken face. It had only been saved by the lies produced by the thing. The statue had not let it see the truth. The cameras almost never saw reality--the statue preferred privacy, so it sent lies to their lenses, and made them see repeated monotone images.
The statue had survived the beams, so he had won the battle. Though very few would be able to tell he was a he now.
The scars were deep, and he felt like heavy stone; moving was very difficult in his ruined body.
He tried to sit up--his vertebrae cracked.
His muscle cramped; they refused to obey.
The motion caused a small avalanche. Skin rolled down his battered back and landed lamely on the floor. Blood followed eagerly and one by one by tinkling one, each flake fell until a small pile of mixture formed, and when it reached its peak, the evil horrid gnawing heat--burnt the skin and ate the blood, leaving behind tiny red flakes and residues of sun crushed dreams. The figure was still again; with his head tilted up, and his back arched in an S, and his empty hollow eyes staring at the blinding bulbs.
A queer procedure commenced. First, with the accumulation of white stuff, and accelerated, until it seemed the gelatinous liquid would pour down from his eyes. Before it could drop, the liquid hardened, and moved up--smoothening any irregularity to finally form two set of perfect eyeballs. Next came his nose; First cartilage was set. Then muscle was added, and finally brand new skin--same for his outer ear, which before had been un-present.
Inside him, blood miraculously reappeared, and spread--throughout the parched earth of his body--through hollowed, shriveled arteries. His heart contracted, newly resuscitated, and pumped the life enabling liquid with heavy thirsty thumps.
The long gashes all over his body closed; his skin--no longer charcoaled. His body had gone from statue--to the real thing--a living human being.
He swallowed some air. Filled his lungs with unnecessary oxygen, and exhaled. Steam blasted from his lips; back and head; Fingers and arms: every pore in his body let loose a continuous jet of moisture.
The air was full of it now--a hot, fiery, ocean of steam.
The figure stood within it, now healed, and stretched, as if awoken from a dream.
With the steam running all about, the cameras around him were hazy outlines. Not that anyone could see him through their fogged lenses; he had made sure of that already. The fat man behind the screen would only see a slumbering shape.
The figure walked to the corner, and waved his hand; like magic two books appeared: Diary of a god, and Events of the past.
He levitated both books, and flipped their pages.
At the starting point, his face became that of a master conductor: calm, composed, and very much in charge. He flicked his small, now plump fingers, and filled three hundred pages (in each book) with an invisible pen. Waved his hand again, and the books disappeared. Turned around, and walked back to his chair. Sat down; scooted the white chair closer to the table; laid his arms on its glistening white surface; formed a sort of fleshy cushion; set his head atop it, then went to bed--his skin gushing blood and steam all the while.

Two hours later, radiation was cleared from the room. Heat diminished, and the doors began to open.
In front of them, the scientist waited patiently. It would take a while for the many lead plates to separate.
The scientist was wearing a bio suit, but fear still bested him; pushing him, several feet away from the entrance.
Even this far--with the protective suit on--he could still feel the scorching heat. The scientist opened the door. The many lead plates that trapped radiation separated, blasting him with intense heat.
The scientist took a step--just one--and called out.
As usual the figures skin was charcoaled, and he was resting--all he ever did. The scientist wondered why the thing slept so much? Why it didn't just heal itself, or shield itself while inside the cell? Why it allowed him to treat it like he did?
These questions, like many others, were left unanswered.
"Wake up!" The scientist shouted again.
The figure cocked his head, and looked at the scientist with empty soul-less eyes. They were black holes of terror--unending vortexes of hatred.
Inside the suit, the scientist skin glistened with sweat. How did it know where he was? Could it see him without eyes?
As usual, the plump man was frightened, but then he remembered there was only one door, and the creature could still hear.
"Wake up!" The scientist shouted even louder.
In a flash the creature’s eyes reappeared. He stared daggers at the scientist. His black beady teeth separated, and slurred, "Sorry I couldn't hear you through the infections in my ear--wait I don't have one." The figure laughed--a booming slur.
He stood; dried flakes of skin and possibly blood fell down like an avalanche. From afar the creature looked shriveled, and was surprisingly small with bony blackened fingers. Each step he took upon produced a hiss, and the smell of burnt skin, as his charcoal feet stepped on the fiery ground.
The scientist wondered how such a thing could be alive--surely its heart had stopped beating. It looked like a dried out shell of a zombie.
"What's a zombie?" The scientist jumped; shivers ran down his spine, it had read his mind again. "I lack knowledge of the--"
"--be quiet! You freak!"
The creature opened his mouth and blew out a jet of steam that toppled the scientist. The scientist squirmed like an upturned beetle. Stood back up--cursing--fearing the beast for all it stood.
He hated the creature, and its power, and the fact it could kill him on a whim.
The creature crossed the door; entered the saunas air conditioned exterior, and like magic its skin came back--everything healed.
The scientist didn't know which of its phases was more terrifying: it's zombie like phase, or how it looked now.
Too much like a human, with its small nose and ears; huge eyes and disproportioned head; little hands and feet; minute frame and torso; the figure looked like a child.
"Where are we going today, daddy."
The scientist forced a smile. No matter how many times the creature said that line it never stopped bothering him. "We're going to the laboratory; today will be a fun one."
"But daddy, I hate it there--you always hurt me there."
The scientist didn't bother with lies, "yes, yes I do."

They chatted idly to their predetermined script. Acting out moves that seemed simple when glanced upon, but were full malice and calculation of acute magnitudes. Such was the nature of their hatred. It was an unexplainable feeling, so deep and great, every day's purpose was to inflict damage on the other. Every second a new opportunity to see how far they could plunge the other to delirium.
Each had different methods of achieving their goal: The scientist inflicted physical damage; while the figure inflicted a subtle mental type.
The true winner would be the first to kill the other; what better way to express your hatred than to kill whom you hate.
The figure could not be killed, so it was up to him to end this despicable game of theirs, and only because their game was coming to a close, the figure would let the let the man have his fun. A farewell gift before the final shot.

"Can I hold your hand daddy?"
"Of course."
"Thanks, the halls always scare me; they're so dark--how's mommy." Mommy=Julia, the scientist wife.
"She's getting better."
"No she's not." The scientist dug nails into the figures fragile hands. "She's dying--she'll die tomorrow."
"She'll have the surgery; everything will be fine."
The boy laughed, "she'll die daddy, tomorrow, 8:45AM, mommy will go bye bye."
The scientist snapped--the boy had won the round. He turned around and screamed, "don't you DARE do ANYTHING to MY Julia! If you touch her I'll make your life a living HELL!"
The boy looked at the scientist with cute little evil eyes, "You shouldn't rant daddy, you'll get a stroke. And even if I do kill her there's not much you can do; my life is already a living hell."

They walked in silence, holding each other's hands, hating each other's guts.

The door to the lab opened, and they came in looking like father and son.
Everything was ready. The equipment meant to torture the boy was set and prepared.
The plump scientist smiled; he would have his fun. "Let's strap you up Jacob we don't want you moving--"
"--I hate it when you call me that. You always hurt me when you call me that."
"Don't worry, it'll only hurt a bit, it'll be over before you know it."


The pain was unbearable.
First the plump man fired a laser at his arm. The child screamed in agony as his arm was neatly cut off. The scientist moved to the other one, taking his sweet time; high and behind the glass, he jittered like a bug, and his eyes gave off a wild feral look. He chopped off the other arm, and finished with a fluid strike; cutting down both legs in one go. Blood did not flow, the stubs were burnt to dark crisps. The child laid--handless, legless--hyperventilating.
The plump man came back; wondering why the creature had not healed itself already. He was giddy with excitement--could not wait for the next round of torture.
He bounced in a happy trot until he heard a croak. "Daddy . . . make it stop. Make the hurt go away."
The scientist froze: Those were his son's exact words after he had fallen. The scientist looked at the boy; his dead limbs, and his twisted pain filled face, and took a step back, not believing he had become again--a murderer. "I'm sorry Jacob, I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean to-"
"--Is that the excuse you had when you killed him."
"How--" the scientist stopped himself.
He looked up; wiped fog of the suits glass, and saw the creature's dead limbs turn to dust. New limbs grew, replacing the lost ones. The creature’s face was calm--without a trace of pain.
The scientist laughed. It didn't matter how the creature knew. Its limbs were back--he could have his fun. "You should have kept that façade," said the plump man as he took out a whip. "I really thought you were going to die." If the others had been here, he never could have gotten away with using it, nor the laser. "But since you're alive I guess I can continue-" he was genuinely happy they had died. With them gone he could do anything. "--Torturing you until you die."
He didn't remember buying it. One day it had appeared in his living room with a note that spelled, "have fun". The sudden gift had made him happy; it seemed the gods were on his side.
"Don't worry Jacob it'll only hurt a bit--before you know it it'll be over and you'll be dead."
It'd be so much better if it was Jacob whom he did this too, but his son was dead, and unlike the rascal, the creature would never die--he could torture it forever.
He untied the whip and tested it; making the air crack with the suit on was hard. He was slower than he would have been if off, but he couldn't wait another second. Suit off or on he could still inflict pain.
"So what if I killed him!" He swung it--slicing the figures chest. "It was an accident, I swear!" Tears fell behind his transparent mask. He swung it again--harder. The whip struck the boy’s face, and cut both lips in half. The scientist laughed giddily, and put on another mask, "he had it coming, he deserved to die!" He switched masks, then swung one more time, "he ruined everything!" The whip sliced the boy's chest; blood jumped, and landed everywhere.
The scientist bellowed like a beast, swung again, and again; alternating between bouts of giddy laughter, and cries of desperation.
After 17 strikes the suit became too full of sweat. He could no longer see his victim through its foggy glass, so he unzipped it, and took it off.
When he looked back at the prey, the blood and lacerated skin were gone--he smiled feverishly--he would get to do it all over once more!
He whipped for hours; sweat mixing with tears. Smiling so wide his lips cut right through his cheeks.
He whipped endlessly, moaning in ecstasy--wishing the moment could last forever.
He whipped until the creature became a mesh of broken skin and flesh. Until his face was a crisscross of cuts. Until his whole body glowed red, yet why, with all the pain he was administering, was it so calm? Why did it look so . . . condescending?
"Get that smug look off your face! Scream, cry, say something!" The creature was ruining his fun--couldn't it be more like Jacob. Jacob had screamed; why couldn't it do the same?
"You want your son to scream, right? You want him to feel the pain, but he's dead so you take it out on me instead."
The fat man stopped hearing; he started whipping again, disregarding the poison that came out of the figures mouth.
"You're pathetic. Pathetic pig scum. Tomorrow your wife will die, and the next day you will too."
The pig heard nothing. He only heard his cries and laughter. Only saw his son, lying on the ground, and his whip striking the dead body--as his own fat-stuffed-skin drowned naked in blood, tears, ecstasy, and mud.

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Sorry this is all I could post on the free plan here :( The rest of the story is free on scribd and on amazon.





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