Wicked pogrom had commenced and continued
well. For months I did as commanded by the
slate. It was rare for me to deviate as I had on the
rooftop during the first day of my new life. Even this new set
of responsibilities became routine to a large extent, just like
everything else in the city. A new target would be declared
every few days, I would randomly access a data file, then I
would stalk and terminate the person.
It did take some thoughtfulness. I didn’t want to kill
everyone in the same two or three ways. If I had done so,
measures would be taken by authorities. Soon, it would be
harder to murder someone in the bathroom or by falling or by
drowning.
After the first dozen assignments, an odd and new
sensation built within me. From decades ago I had noticed a
darkness besieging me, urging me to kill. It commanded me.
Now, I was inhabited by some other mania which crept in as a
nervousness at first.
Like with all mental disturbances, I tried to ignore
initially. Sublimation merely caused it to fester. After a few
weeks I couldn’t sleep. My hands trembled violently and fairly
often. Sweat would break out.
Perhaps it was my conscience coping with the killing. I
can’t be sure.
White flashes would obscure my vision at unpredictable
times. The urge to move and do something became stronger. It
culminated one morning when I woke up from a daze to find I
had made something.
Creating was wrong.
Making was wrong.
Humans were only to do what had always been done.
However, destruction was also wrong.
I was killing: doing wrong by ending life.
My sins were compiling, suddenly. Somewhere in the
night when I should have been sleeping I was creating figures
from toilet paper and water. Ugly, pathetic things began to
clutter my single habitation’s central table. Deep inside my
mind was another entity deducing how to create.
After weeks of bizarre sculptings, I finally figured
out what my inner self had found out long before: there was
nothing in this world with which to create. Only our bodies
were allowed to create new life when deemed appropriate and
granted by Mr. God. Regardless, this second self, maybe a
third self, inside of me knew that toilet paper and water were
the only easily accessible materials with which to make...
expressions.
They seemed like expressions. I have no other way to
describe them. Sometimes I integrated lighting supplies from
my day job to give form and under-wire support. Writhing
figures and screaming faces were multiplying, emerging from
the surface of the table. All of them seemed to be telling a
history from inside of me. But, they were still only a curiosity.
Having been caught between inner schism for decades,
I allowed this other-self to do what it had to do. After a while
I delighted in what it made while I was semi-conscious. All
habitations and places within the city were boxes--white boxes
without meaning--yet my designated dwelling was becoming
more than just another storage container for another someone
inside of God’s creation.
I found myself inside a home.
As the maintenance of the city continued, as I slowly
limited the population to keep up with births, I would take
toilet paper from the victims’ homes once my deed was
complete. Then another statue would appear within my
apartment.
Rationing of everything was constant. Only water
wasn’t doled out and regulated. Without these slayings, I’d
never have the paper I needed to make statues. So, in a weird
way, my entire life and these facets of my mind began working
in a mutually beneficial pattern.
Deeper inside me, I wondered about the wellbeing
of my true self. Who I was had been cast aside and
made secondary to everyone else demanding some arduous
expectation of me. Day by day I tried to define my inner, older
self... and was not pleased.
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