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.