I hear only one thing in the darkness: “YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
Spoken in an ancient, commanding voice. Descended from a haggard face made from deep canyons, unknowable rings, and a great black hole. It is somehow familiar to my dark and wearied eyes, but also incomprehensible in its enormity. At each enunciation within this empty place, I see slashes of red behind my eyes and it ends hard and blazing on what must be my chest. I cannot lift my eyelids to survey the damage or comfort my soul, but the weapon and pain is clear all the same despite the unknown surrounding it. I am awake but asleep, deep in some empty calm yet cruelly aware of myself.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
In the small refuge of humor, I think of “surroundings” yet all around me, there is naught. Nothing solid holds, carries, or even touches me. My back meets no border yet I lie flat, as if in repose. My legs shoot straight ahead of myself, yet they are forced together, meeting no floor. They can’t even go forward for “air” as the same force keeps them still. With the feeling across my skin, I know myself to be wrapped in some clothing, yet I am still cold, hopelessly so as if bare to the elements.
I hear an echo, the same thing as before, and then resistance rises.
My hands, bare and spindly across my heart, curl upward and extend all around and find no purchase. Nothing scratches. Such small actions are a struggle, heightening the cuts of red and pulling my nerves to their breaking point. What must be my brow surges and threatens to explode. Still, my fingers hopelessly search until the last of my energies wane into a flat final wind, another physical absence in this unyielding, non-physical site. My fingers and hands return to their place, crossed and joined together at the wrists. I am not falling. Just… hanging in the air. The mind finally concludes that to be here is like floating. A small refuge expands.
But then the voice repeats, like it always has.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
And I forget how it is to feel in the present, all parts of the body together in empty strangeness.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
It never tires.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
It never stops, and, like nothing, it is all around me. It always was.
Any refuge is erased and altered into questions for myself and what memory remains.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
Did light frame that worn face, shining from behind like an earth-worn halo in judgement? Eyes shut, I cannot see what one could call a sky, but my mind grasps an aspect of white from above, wide and blank. A memory of light deepens the shadows that carve and define the ancient voice, its sound roaring in my ears and worming into my mind. I comb for another.
Were wispy white threads, lightly inked with a shadowy gray, draped across the canyons and curves? How long were they and why do they seem to hold warmth? Another flash. I sense a thread or two ticking the skin of my own face, right across the cheek and under a cold dimple. A red slash strikes. Dots of wetness even colder tick across my brow. The heart’s scars burn bright, horrible and unseen.
What color were the rings that centered the deep face and uttered those dreadful words? They shift from blue to olive to a soft hazel, but none of them ever feel correct to the face my mind meets. To imagine them red would be to increase my torture, and in that agony, would there be truth?
My mouth is shut tight, yet I yearn to scream.
Why is there a speck of red within the black hole below, stark and unending?
The mind screams instead and the words dig deeper into my head, but they do not hurt. Not like the declaration across my being.
“YOU ARE A THING OF EVIL.”
The face says who I am. The rings forming its eyes are utter constellations with no rhyme or reason yet nonetheless filled with an overwhelming contempt. From the black hole, colorless words crawl out, so great and solid they hang in an unreachable sky. Another lash against the heart sends me into an unmoving agony. What kind of pain is it to constrict the heart but leave the body undisturbed? Why do these words weigh so heavy upon me in the darkness? Who am I to warrant such a suffering existence?
“YOU.”
It speaks so forcefully that such queries fail to matter.
“ARE.”
Still lying down, it washes over me in a violent wave. Even drowning in a deluge of loud hate, the words still worm forward, eating away my memory and the very reason I’ve derived from this nothingness. The phrase remains but the tone is lost. The enunciations grow weaker, but the red slashes still start and sting, just in a duller rhythm. My mind, getting heavy, fails to comprehend the qualities of pitch from that haunting face. The anger fades into echoes traveling farther and farther until it slinks over a hidden horizon. What approaches to take its stead is a growing graveness, and still I laid at its fullest mercy. The sound was simple yet so serious that I still know how these words join me to the dark. Next to go is my image of the old man’s face, the only thing I knew to be true. Once majestic and ineffable, the deep canyons that so defined the words fill from the blackened ground up. Their unknown depths rise until there is only a single shape without light or detail, solid and oblong, surrounded by the same nothingness as I. Then, time and pain refuses to leave that, and the shape annihilates itself from my sight, my mind’s eye. Nothing punctures the center and swallows the last color in cosmic swirl, until there is naught but a vanished frame and I am only left with myself. Awake, all this might have happened in seconds, but in rest, it is like the erosion of eons, dry and unfeeling.
Soon, the greatest punishment, for what could this existence mean if not punishment, finally comes with a silent devastation. It’s voice, the voice from what used to be the face of what used to be an old man, becomes my voice, a lilted plea through an endless void. An entreaty so pathetic neither heaven or hell would bother to soothe or torment. Maybe that, a place neither heaven or hell, is where I rest, but my being lacks the conviction to care. The red slash becomes softer until it’s faded into black. I cannot see it yet I still sense its burn across my heart, and it’s almost comforting. My body goes slack. I drift.
In this place, at each passing second, I hear it.
“THING.”
I hear it so much…
“EVIL.”
…That it just is. It becomes all I feel. I cannot remember a thing before the darkness. My mind meets nothing, alone and filled with the only struggle it has known. It sits with itself and I lack the strength to scream.
Who am I? For whom does the darkness surround and lull into this great sleep?
Simple. I am what this place has made me, for there is nothing before I arrived here, lost and pained. To know otherwise would be most terrible. I am all that I’ve ever heard for that is all I should hear. All I should need in this drifting void. I am me, and if I had the understanding within a place so meaningless, it would drive me to the unreachable end.
Despite the horror, the words fill every ridge and vale across my mind. I hear them in my voice and float, unclouded.
“I am a thing of evil.”
In the darkness, I am one. I am me.
I am me and the phrase continues into eternity until body and mind emerge unto light. I open my eyes and stand reborn. Somehow, I now live in full waking, and all my mind knows is nothing and evil.
Eyes wide open, fresh information, new contexts, fill into me like a vase, tense and fragile. To avoid breaking, I focus one sense at a time, forming blocks with which to build a new existence from the formless place I once dwelt. I see that I am in a gentler dark, surrounded by harsh, discordant geometry. The floor is smooth, as if carved, but the walls are rough and curve outward to meet in a circle. I follow the circle from above and it ends in an open hole, bursting with white light. A cave. I am in a cave. My eyes shut and focus shifts to scent. Sniffing the air, damp and cold, suggesting the cave to be in some mountain, I meet the warm stink of five bodies, four in full-blooded force, hearts pumping potent rush and grease, but another weakened. My ears open, and I hear the buzz of shivering skin and clattering teeth. As quickly as I catch those small, childish sounds, booming cheers smother them. The forceful cheers of men that roll their tongues while metal held to their sides and chest chime together. Roughened palms meet and knuckles crack. I hear their blood racing in an ecstatic frenzy, and, suddenly, I become very afraid and dull my hearing.
My sense of touch reveals my form to be covered in silken cloth, tightly sewn and finely fitted in two layers: thin undergarments with socks and a jacket paired with smooth pants. Relief flows through my mind into a dreamy sigh, as if I knew these clothes and the great shame it would be to lose them. I would open my lips to taste the air and gain further knowledge, but my own tongue is a dense and dull weight in my mouth, not even wetted by spit. Instincts, groggy and slow, imply it to be useless.
All of this I discover within seconds, moving faster than what that previous void allowed. This really is living, with all the swiftness and energy it brings, and I am already harmonized with this new present.
So, I open my eyes again and measure the gathering in front of me, with all their color and feeling. The four men, standing just a few feet away, wore earthly greens from the neck to their feet, stark against the blue-ish rocks around us. They suddenly freeze and snap all their attention towards me. Thin, slick smiles crawl across all their faces under the shade of hard iron caps, shaped like turtle shells. My eyes wander to their arms to see what they hold. All of them held strange iron blocks that ended in a slender barrel pointed towards the ground. All four of them also had a bright red band emblazoned on their upper arms. Each band bore a circle, containing a black cross that left me so leery I diverted my attention. There is a fifth here.
The little body that I heard shiver seconds before lay behind them on the smooth ground, and I couldn’t see it clearly, but I knew the shape to be feminine, a form curved in both character and voice, weak as it was. She did not sound as joyous as the men. Behind all five of these people was that soft white light, shining exactly like it did in my restful memory. Unobstructed by any face, it beckons a wider world far from the small nothings. I yearned for it, but stayed in place, waiting to master my current state.
My gaze returns to the four men, who barely moved. Compelled to introduce myself, I speak towards the men. My own voice, a stranger, comes out in a soft tenor and says all that I am.
“I am a thing of evil.” Deep in the blood, my tongue knows the words to be English, something these four men are not, and their startling laughter erupts in response. With these walls, twisting the noise, they sound like rakish hyenas and their tallowed faces, with deep set eyes and sagging dimples, do little to subdue that thought. I do not think they understood me.
The man who stood the furthest away turns and grabs at the little body behind, screeching and thrashing all the while. She really is a girl, and the sight of her sends sharp, painful shivers across my skin, like a barrage of needles setting my nerves and newborn mind aflame with strange misery. It is disturbing. The three others shuffle to the side and I gain a clearer view, taking in her plight.
Her skin is of a much healthier tone than her captors, a deep olive. Her scent of warm saffron and ancient wood isolates her from the pervading stench of mold and greased pork. The fragrance is even carried within the folds of her clothes, a loose-fitting white shirt wrapped under a vivid purple shawl and paired with a long dotted dress-bottom. A red scarf tied across her head covers lush brown lots that reach out with sweet tendrils of mint. All of it becomes a jumble as she fights against the manhandling, cursing in sharp staccato cries. While the men’s blood goes flush, driven by wild smiles, hers runs absolutely thin, and I see the strain of green eyes as she is pushed onto her knees and forced to comprehend me in such mortal terror.
Unable to face her, I turn and discover the void from which I emerged. I see an empty stone box—no, a coffin—carved into a diamond shape, just long and wide enough to hold one of my height. Inside is a soft, cushioned blanket that almost looks like satin. The coffin lid lies to the right, shattered in various shards across the floor, as if it were made of glass. It leans against bare space bordered by two pillars cut into flat, polygonal marvels with every side capturing a speck of light that dances through the cave. Every aspect speaks to a delicate touch, so numbingly refined I forget what it is to think and move. A rough shout, gravelly yet high-pitched grinds me back into the present affair at hand. The girl, scared and confused, takes on a new glow while the men seem to darken.
“Wir sprechen kein Englisch, herr Cue. Wisse einfach, dass wir dich wiederbelebt haben,” said the one holding the girl in place. He holds his head with some sort of pride, looking directly into my eyes. With his free hand, he salutes in a swift motion, raising it high with great force, his palm flat. Still, he looks into me, but I remain stone-faced, completely ignorant. “Sie werden in die gröbte Armee der Welt eingezogen.” The three behind him nodded in implicit agreement and saluted me in the same way.
“Iss das Mädchen und du wirst wiederbelebt. Unser Ziel ist die Auferstehung und unser Schicksal ist die Eroberung.” They say it all with pride, each word beating their manly chests, as well as the expectation of acceptance. Or is it acquiescence? Their eyes look so hungry.
The quick tempo. Those harsh syllables, grating to the ears. An ache rises in the back of my head. They are speaking German. I only know the language by ill reputation and can’t bring myself to appreciate their approach, despite how welcoming they are or merely behave to be. Hands to my side, hoping they’ll make it easier for me, I just tilt my head, confused, only now realizing they are soldiers. I wonder if they could read my eyes, or at least tell me what color they are. Being men of confidence and seemingly some renown, I hoped they would know a little English.
However, the frontmost soldier, frustrated and clearly the vaunted leader, makes their collective intention clear with more rough and violent action. He thrusts the girl forward, her knees scraping against rough rock. She yelps, unheard.
Scowling, he then tears the girl’s head scarf off, throwing it behind him in a sailing arc. Deep brown hair, tied into luscious locks, bounces and flows down her shoulders and across her back. Her hair smells of sweet cinnamon, dusted into each delightful strand. Her whole being a gift to the senses, but not for them. Then, he grips the collar of her shawl and top and rips hard. The darkness does little to mask her bare shame. Despite the upsetting scene, I watch and feel more distant than when I first emerged. It is like I am floating again, but this feeling is borne more out of naive desire to take no part in the troubles. Something like guilt keeps me anchored and anxious to act.
The girl’s curved brown neck exposed, the soldier pushes her closer to me. Her saffron scent becomes stronger and forces me to lean just an inch forward, my mouth watering, while she just whimpers. Silver tears pool at the end of downturned emerald eyes. Fear returns in greater measure. I step back and notice the gleam in the four soldier’s eyes, all above smiles filled with uneven teeth growing gnarled. Suddenly, I see the horrible choice of greed and barbarity forced upon me.
They perfectly understood my introduction. That’s what they are here for— the evil. They want the monster I know myself to be, guilty of a crime too shameful and impossible to remember. The girl cries and everything she is resounds through the cave, reaching into a scarred and shriveled heart, silent as the grave.
I am a thing of evil, and these men want me to feed. How dare they?
What happens next I perform with a clear will and full sway over my faculties. I raise both my hands, mimicking their salute. Their faces lift in hopeful waiting but I keep my fingers apart and leap. The height I reach is massive. The men yell in shock and raise their metal guns, but before any of them can pull a trigger, I already descend upon their leader. We tumble toward the ground, freeing the girl, who dashes to the coffin and finds safety in the space behind it.
If these ones want me to feed, then I shall, feed, as I. Am. Starving.
To eat, I do not use my bare hands like a savage. No, I look into the leading soldier’s eyes as I sink my very teeth into the base of his throat. The course is intimate and warm. As the blood, thick and repulsive, flows into me, I feel my body start to change. Pearly whites shift mid-bite to better tear through the skin and form a tighter grip against my prey. Fingers extend to unnatural length, ending in slender claws. Eyes closed in ecstasy, in drink, images start to shift in the back of my mind, like an incoming mirage. They radiate a confusing mix of familial cheer, overwhelming military pride, and the horrified screams of others, in darkness and pain. Before I could make them out, hellish iron bullets fly towards me and I leap once again, deftly dodging their slim and deadly volley. I land on the closest man and he falls just as easily. The dry body behind me takes the barrage and resounding tears echo through the cave. The abandoned husk crumbles to dust and I hear the empty clicking of the remaining soldiers’ guns, allowing me seconds more to feed and think.
Drinking, the images come again, startlingly similar as before, especially in the screaming. They come clearer, thankfully, but I am still lost in their possibility and meaning. Symbols and German speech blast forward in vibrant color and volume, somehow connected to the blood that invigorates my spirit. All it did was refine a newfound hatred to this muddy, cold welcoming party. These four bastards, alike in upbringing and dignity, ravished the poor from their own streets to the far country, always with a smile, and they wanted me to take part, alongside them.
HOW DARE THEY?
I find the second course much easier to take down my throat into my gullet.
I rise, teeth still sunk into the throat but the body, light and wrinkled like paper, easily rises with me. The two remaining men fumble with their pockets, hands shaking as they bring metal cartridges out and clumsily struggle to place them in their guns’ vacant slots. Eyes bloodshot, they mutter stuttered German to their trembling chests and I recognize it as the desperate sound of prayer. Recognized, but unheard. The only thing that rings clear right now is the fearful breaths of the dark-skinned girl behind me, shaking and almost nude with how her neck and shoulders prickle at the cold air. She hides within the soft and endless cage that once tortured me. Realization dawns. If she could find comfort in that then maybe I should do the same tearing these last two soldiers down.
Watching their fearful display, I wonder how they ever thought that someone like me would be amenable to their reckless cause or their very existence. None of these men could see how I do, and even from the beginning it was difficult to tell them apart. And after seeing their actions and the flashes of memory that brought them to this barren cave, none of them deserve the inherent courtesy of individual life, all tasting like leather lathered in sauerkraut. Rotten. Repulsive. I soon feel the slick chill of life roll across my claws, as fast as the wind, and my final enemies crumple like bloody rags to the floor.
From their bodies, I only eat enough to be satisfied, leaving behind pockmarked carcasses. Their thick clothes absorb the gathering blood. Looking down, I only see them as meat while I myself remain spotless, with only the barest stains of crimson on my lips and chin, and such thinking feels as natural to me as breathing. As monstrous as myth.
I fall to my knees. Each part of my body, warped in the conflict, returns to a normal state but my mind returns to that old, floating turmoil, strange yet serene. Trapped in a new uncertain life with my back to the light.
The cave emptied of conflict, the girl with an unknown name emerges from her hiding place. Accompanied with her own rise is the swift dismissal of cloth thrown to the air, exposing all of her skin to the elements. Her body, a supple and curvy olive, takes on a more hardened, brave appearance in the sickly light. She stands tall and strong atop her bare feet. She stops at my knees and I am forced to drag my eyes up and comprehend her naked form, beautiful and honest. Hair crowns her mound. Spotless skin and arcs of flesh speak to a well-groomed and well-fed life, free from toil. Firm breasts heave and turn, tantalizing to lesser urges. With all senses under alarming control, I am absolutely overwhelmed.
And despite the gore and fright, she looks at me tenderly, as if the fear thrust to my person never existed. She brings her own radiance, hidden and now gloriously unrestrained.
With smooth hands, she cups my sharp face and meets my eyes. I barely even flinch. For a moment, we share a silvery flash, quick and sterling like destiny.
All-new questions ravage my being. What in all the hells happened while I slept? What was this scene that I woke to, empty and sore? Who were these four men, these soldiers, and the distressed maiden they brought in sacrifice? How did their fortunes, their attitudes, turn so drastically that I now look at this frail maid with awe instead of pity? Was this all performance, with me a cold, ersatz god from the stone machine, forced out by war and the effervescent lust for it?
Somehow, she answers quite simply, in perfect English.
“You are not evil.” And then she kisses me, taking care to avoid my sharp, bloodied teeth.
