The Elect

         He lay there on the floor and thought of nothing. His whole mind was occupied by sensations. Only sensations. Feelings. The pressure of face on carpet. Wool pile pattern carving itself into the flesh of a cheek. Open window, warm night breeze on naked skin. The thumping of a heart. Pounding at eardrums. Incessant and regular. The slow pump of blood from slashes in forearms and wrists. Smell of heat and wetness. A smile. No thoughts.

         No thoughts as he awoke. Same dream. Or nightmare depending on your point of view. Everything depends on your point of view. Everything is subjective. Love. Life. Death. Depending on which side you stood, death could be life and life could be death. Could be. Should be. Was.

         He lay still, a top crumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling (cracked plaster moldings, stained off-white, single bare lightbulb), and waited for the semi-darkness to become pitch. He listened and was both relieved and disappointed that there was no one else in the building. No intruding thoughts or feelings. Silence. Smell of dust and closeness. In the dark the walls ere closer, but it was always dark. Hot breath (draft from under the door) caressed the newspapered walls (walls, close) and stacks of books on the floor (floor, rough boards). Fingers of wind flicked at the corner of one page (newspapered pasted to the walls, old news, latest news, news) and set it flapping. Skin peeling, naked white flesh beneath. Naked white flesh of his body, gleaming in the dark. He whispered to himself, "And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness."

         Inspiration. He sat up, hands supporting him. A thought. Sheet clung to him for a moment, pooled blood making it grasp. Time; he swung his legs over the bed, pressed feet into the floor. Leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing the blood back into face. Hot breath spilled out from under the bed, clutching at his ankles.

         Hands clutching at ankles, to drag him from the womb-place, warm rest. Hands on shoulders, a crouching golem, dead eyes. Hot breath spilling out from slash in face. Dead eyes. His. No thoughts.

         No thoughts as he awoke. Blood in hair, crusted to skin. Dead eyes and nakedness, no expression, no emotion, no recognition, no thoughts. The mirror, a reflective grime, a substitute for introspection. See yourself as yourself. Starlight, star-bright, come to watch me die tonight? Luminescence crept in through holes in the battered reality-curtain. A thief in the gloom. Entering his mind and rifling there. Violation. Finders keepers, loosers weepers. He wept, cutting channels through the blood. Wayward watchers stand so tall, just a longer way to fall.

         "Our father, who are a heathen, hallow be thy name. Do not fear my son. My son. Religious zeal; the automatic pistol of the faith. Weapon of your mindset. Mind, mind, reply in kind. Cut the wheat stalks down. Stalk the night, the animal I am, I am, I am. I am." He laughed and slashed a crucifix with two swift strokes across the mirror. "Hollow," and fist into mirror. Arm sunk through, elbow deep in reflection, introspection, imperfection. See yourself as yourself.

         Blood in mouth. Bite, bite, bite. Chew, spit, swallow. Blood in mouth. Blood in mouth. Blood in mouth, in nose, in veins, in arms, in head. Crouching golem, hands on shoulders.

         No thoughts as you awake. Pick a piece of your shattered reflection and carve a crucifix into your chest. Feel the sharp and cold. Self-afflicted. Clutch tightly, feel the sharp and cold bite into your fingers, your palm. The cold numbs, shroud descends. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned," and thrust the sharp and cold through skin, through flesh, through heart. Each beat feeds the cold, slicing deeper. My son, my son.

         No thoughts.

         In the Kingdom of Heaven there is a room. Small, dark, and all enclosing. Inside, on a sheet of glass eyes, there lies a figure. Poised half-way, neither man nor God nor boy nor devil, he sleeps, fetal, and a steel bed-frame, curves and paint chips. Clothed in white and flowing angel-wings, and tucked in a blanket of sweat, his eyes twitch, by-product of a dream. And God takes the eyes and opens them.

         No thoughts.