Application
Title: Fracture
Status: Applicant
Summary: -
Genre: Dystopian, science-fiction, I believe.
Word Count: 3588
Note: I was debating between submitting this story or another one that I wrote. I finally decided on this one because the other one is a bit too Douglas Adams-esque. If you want to see it, just ask, but be forewarned that I use the same names a lot in my original fic, so it might be ... confusing. :p
Fracture
-
i. victory party
-
They've won.
They've won.
Victory. Victory. Victory.
The sound of the word chimes as sweet as church bells in Peter's mind.
But there are no more churches. They were all burned down in the first of the purges. No more murmured prayers and reverent eyes. No more veiled attacks against the Mormons, the Buddhists, the Hindus, the Muslims, but most of all, the dreaded atheist. No more stories of Saint fucking Peter, somebody Peter could never live up to.
But they've won and that's all that matters.
It's eerily quiet as Peter walks down the street. Even the trees are motionless, their stark branches like twisted metal spires outlined against the grey sky. Everywhere, he sees huddled bodies, rags entwined with flesh until they merge into one grey amorphous mass. If he looks closely, he can see some of them breathing. But nowadays, nobody looks that closely.
It's a better system, Peter tells himself. He can barely hear any sound but the click, click, click of his metal capped boots.
There is a sudden sound to his left and a clawed hand clutches at his coat from within a recessed doorway. "Did we win?" It's impossible to tell the woman's age. She could have been ninety or forty. Her face is ravaged by age, disease and war.
Peter stares at her hand on his coat until she lets go. "We won," he repeats quietly.
Her face breaks out into a toothless grin. "Bless you," she croaks. "The rebels deserved it. Every last one of those bastards."
He nods curtly and walks off.
The buildings lining the street are getting progressively better now. No more dilapidated ruins with the public huddled inside and on the doorstep. Instead, Peter sees antiseptic white and shining steel, a memento of civilisation. It's the Centre for Redevelopment. The beacon of hope for their world.
Peter refuses to find it ironic.
-
Sit around and let me tell you a tale:
A tale of war.
A tale of struggle.
A tale of peace.
And as always, a tale of blood.
History is a cycle, always circling in on itself and Peter travels along the path of history, borne along inexorably by the tidal wave of fate.
But we control our futures, hold them precious, soft, in the palms of our hands. We make what we become.
Clothos, Atropos and Lachesis. And the triangle of fate is twisted.
-
The gleaming, polished surfaces make Peter feel dirty as he enters the building. There is a light film of dust on him from the outside. It is impossible to go anywhere nowadays without attracting it. This is the reason why most of the New Order have chosen to live inside their buildings. The buildings they own and have sanitised to a pre-war cleanliness.
Peter still lives in his old house.
This is regarded as something rather suspect in a normal disciple but Peter is above it all. As a High Priest of the New Order he is untouchable.
But there is something he loves about unfiltered air, filled with contagions from the war, the smell of human sweat, the feel of wood, the beauty of the rising sun. It feels real. As does the scratchiness at the back of his throat this morning, a reminder to take the general medication. He clears his throat, slips a pill in his mouth and dry swallows.
It sticks, and slides, and sticks and slides down his throat until it settles in his stomach. Almost immediately, Peter feels better.
"Morning, High Priest," a lowly disciple says as he passes.
Peter nods curtly.
-
Karl Marx once said that religion is the opiate of the people.
Peter agrees.
The modern man survives on a diet of religion, politics and sport. And what better sport is there than the sport of war? This is what He says. His word does not make law. It is law.
He does not need a name now. Once upon a time, his name was Lucas Amherst.
Now he is God.
-
God sits behind his desk just like any mere mortal. Occasionally, he shuffles the papers, but mostly he talks.
Says, "You should (thou shalt) have no other God than me."
Says, "My word is the law."
Says, "Welcome Peter, please take a seat."
Peter sits and feels the plush of velvet encase his backside.
"I have a task for you," God tells him. "I have chosen you to head the task force implementing my new laws among the common peoples. You are my most loyal subject."
God's voice is like silk sliding down a smooth leg, sensuous with a tinge of lust. Peter clears his throat uncomfortably and God's gaze snaps back to his face. Peter notices that the blue eyes are just slightly widened and the mouth slightly open. He gulps.
"I accept," he says.
-
Nowadays, laws are easily implemented.
Pill. Water. Swallow. And the mind is altered, changed.
People obey the law.
They have to.
See? This is the result of war.
Or the result of mankind.
Peter isn't sure any more and does his best not to think about it.
-
ii. new laws
-
Mass distribution of mind-altering medication is difficult. Peter muses over the dilemma for days. The current pill form is unwieldy to distribute and he does not trust the commoners to take it daily. Yet other methods of distribution had proven to be ineffective in the past.
Think, think -
And he thinks he has it.
The Tree of Knowledge is the key as it has always been.
He needs to find out how the pill works. Only then can he alter it.
Peter stares at the small white, slightly powdery pill in his hand and wonders what new changes the world was in for this time.
-
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The cogs of the machine spin in time with the ticking on Peter's watch. He watches, mesmerised as the small white pills drop one by one into jars and robot arms screw on the lids.
"We have managed to rebuild this within a matter of weeks," the man beside him says proudly. The bald patch on his head gleams as he moves his head animatedly.
"What do you put in the pills," Peter asks.
The man's face freezes mid-smile. There is a trapped expression on his face and his eyes dart from side to side. Peter is reminded of a pet rat he had so very long ago when he was still a child. "Why do you ask?"
There is a time for questions and a time for backing away. Even if you are a High Priest. He gives a warm smile. "Just curiosity."
The man relaxes. Peter wishes the knot in his stomach would do the same. He stares as the pills drop one by one with small plopping noises and can physically feel the pill from the morning digesting in his stomach. He knows it is impossible but there are no limits to the human imagination. He may be a high priest, but he is still human.
He thinks.
-
If you do anything constantly, at the same time every single day, for months, for years, it becomes habit forming.
Breaking this habit is difficult because the habit is unconscious. Unless you think about it every second of every day, you will find yourself lapsing into the habit again.
This is true for everything. Drugs. Alcohol. Gambling. Even the habit of taking a small white pill.
Pill out.
Pop in mouth.
Swallow.
Simple procedure.
Difficult to break.
-
Peter decides to stop taking his pills.
This isn't an easy decision. In the beginning, he forgot to take his pills for a few days once. His scratchy throat, watering eyes and the wobbling floor reminded him. Withdrawal symptoms. He knows about them but is unprepared for the onslaught of general unease.
Sick leave is uncommon but as a good friend of God, Peter is able to wrangle a week of it. As he sits on the toilet (old fashioned, with a push button), he wonders whether a week is enough.
Headaches. Nausea. Dizziness. Sniffles. And what seems to be hallucinations.
Peter blinks as the room appears in waves around him. Through the waves he can see white, white, white but his room walls are blue. He knows this because he painted them himself. The colour white has always seemed rather oppressive to Peter.
A face appears in front of Peter and he jumps.
Rubbing his eyes, Peter stares.
"Welcome back to reality, Peter," the bearded man says.
"God?" Peter manages to finally say. "What are you doing here." He looks around at the white room and then down at the pyjamas he is wearing. He realises he is sitting on the ground and struggles to stand but is held back by restraints.
The man shakes his head sadly. "There is no God. It was all in your mind."
-
Reality. Fantasy.
Fantasy. Reality.
The two intersect, cross, and fuse together.
Fairy tales. Wave your hand and the universe rights itself. Fairy godmothers and hungry wolves. Wicked witches and happy endings.
Reality.
Reality, where there are no happy endings and everything has consequences.
Grasp it while you have the chance.
If you want to.
Peter watches as the threads of reality spin around him and reaches out. He's sucked into the vortex but perhaps he has always been there, watching the world slowly, slowly disintegrate around him.
He takes a pill out, drops it onto the floor and crushes it under his heel. In the white dust that remains, Peter can see the universe, dust, ashes and decisions. Always decisions.
Choose A: and you die.
Choose B: and you live.
You don't choose what you become, but what are you but the sum of your choices.
Live, or die.
It's your choice.
-
"Administer this to the other patients," God says and hands a bottle of pills to another man in a pure-white, death-white coat.
"Where am I?" Peter asks. Who am I? his mind wonders.
"I told you," God says calmly. "Reality."
-
iii. reality?
-
Peter finds Reality both familiar and completely different from Fantasy.
Every day, God comes in and educates him.
Says, "You're in the 21st century."
Says, "There was no war."
Says, "That was all in your mind."
Says, "I am not God."
Peter almost believes him. After all, the old bastard is very convincing. But it takes more than simple words and a white, white room to make Peter discard his reality.
The room blurs before his eyes and he finds it difficult to focus.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Focus fucking hard enough and he might be able to see through the lies.
-
"You fed off each others delusions. It was a collective hallucination," God explains to him.
No - not God - his name's Amherst. Lucas Amherst. Peter tells himself this, over and over, but it doesn't stick.
"In the beginning, we thought that it was just a simple industrial accident. But then you all began saying things. Doing things. And then we realised that your physical injuries were the least of our worries."
Peter watches as God tells him this again and again. It's the fifth or sixth time now but it is obvious by the benevolent expression on God's face that he believes that it will make sense to Peter now. Perhaps this time, a metaphorical light will appear over Peter's head and he will say, 'ah, finally, you're making sense. Of course, this is reality."
No biscuit.
Peter simply sits there and stares at God blankly. "Withdrawal symptoms," he mutters to himself. "I'm having withdrawal symptoms."
God sighs.
-
People need certainty.
Without certainty, the human race vacillates. Stupid people get into power. The all-important bureaucracy disintegrates. The population revolts. And other nations back away slowly and finger their nuclear strike buttons.
That's when nations are uncertain.
The results are far, far worse on the individual level.
Uncertainty paralyses people. It makes them imagine things. It feeds healthy paranoia until it becomes an unrestrainable monster.
Peter finds himself uncertain and spends his days shaking in a corner.
-
Reason.
Logic.
Sense.
The knowledge that 1 + 1 = 2 and if that's true then the rest of the universe simply falls into place.
Peter finds himself falling into doubt and is unable to stop.
A thousand maybes swirl around him and dance like two galaxies thrown out in a celestial waltz. He reaches out a trembling hand and grasps a possibility and holds it delicate on the palm of his hand.
Maybe this is reality.
Maybe this is all there is. Stark whiteness and doctors that poke, prod and stare. Maybe there was no war. Maybe Doctor Amherst is right and he isn't God and there is no new fledgling religious order to inspire the people. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
Peter gasps and the doctors rush over with needles to stick in his arm.
He slumps.
-
iv. fantasy…
-
Peter opens his eyes and sees a curled lip.
"I can't believe you live here," the man tells him.
He's back in reality. Or fantasy. Depends on your perspective, really, Peter tells himself.
"We found you here yesterday in a pool of your own filth," the man continues. "You haven't been taking your pills."
It isn't a question but Peter nods anyway. "I was sick," he tries to explain but the man simply ignores him.
"I've seen this before," he says. "People who don't take their pills are subject to hallucinations, visions. Some imagine a better world, a more stable world. Others think themselves insane." Piercing blue eyes stare into Peter's own. "What did you see?"
Breathe.
Breathe, Peter. Breathe. He doesn't know anything.
"I didn't see anything," Peter says, after a brief pause. He can tell the man doesn't believe him but he doesn't pursue the subject. One doesn't question a High Priest. Not in these uncertain times.
"God wants to see you tomorrow."
-
What's in a name?
A wise man once said that but Peter can no longer remember who. It's all blurred into the hazy shape that is his childhood where nothing comes into sharp relief any more.
He wonders.
What is in a name?
Is it sacrilegious that Lucas Amherst is called God?
Is God any more sacred a word than Dog?
Circles and circles.
And circles again.
Peter drowns in a thousand maybes.
-
"Peter," God says kindly. "My Peter. I'm not angry that you failed. After all, you are only human."
But so are you, Peter thinks but can't say the words. They stick in his throat like sawdust. Maybe they aren't true anymore. Maybe the man who was Lucas Amherst no longer exists, submerged into the smiling, benevolent entity in front of Peter now.
"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to keep the status of High Priest now," God tells him. "Not after such a breach of … security."
Peter doesn't understand, but wants to. "I'm sorry," he says helplessly.
"It will all be fixed," God tells him and hands him a small white pill.
Peter swallows. After all, it's routine now. Simple routine.
-
v. backwards
-
Open your eyes.
Open them.
Open them.
Peter prises his eyes open and stares at the blank, sterile wall.
"Time for work."
A white coat is handed to him and he takes it automatically. He can't remember ever doing this before, but the motions come so easily to him. Arms in sleeves. Buttons done up. Sitting on a low wooden stool. Checking each and every pill that goes by. Throwing out the broken ones.
His entire life could have been spent in this factory, but Peter doesn't think so. There are other thoughts in his mind. Other places. Other occupations.
And as always.
One word.
God.
-
God once said Religion is the opiate of the people. Or was that Karl Marx. It doesn't make any difference these days anyway.
-
The days slide and trickle by like the pills on Peter's production run.
He blinks and finds that it is now a new year.
An old man comes by to see him and Peter watches as everybody else defers to him. "Who are you?" Peter asks when they are alone. He feels as though he ought to know the answer but it eludes and slips past his grasping fingers.
"Nobody important," the man answers and smiles. There is irony in the smile, almost as if the man knows the sheer ridicule of what he is saying but needs to say the words anyway. "You may call me Lucas."
The name slides so easily off Peter's tongue. "Lucas," he says.
Lucas smiles, obviously pleased with something. "How are you finding this work?"
"It is fine," Peter says, guardedly. There is something about Lucas that is too familiar. Something about the twisted smile on his lips. Something about the pale, pale blue eyes that always seemed faded. "Do I know you?"
A delighted smile appears on Lucas's face that belies his words. "Of course not."
-
There is a thing about memories.
They always trick us.
Events are warped, first slowly and then quickly, until they are beyond recognition. Misery is smoothed into apathy. Happiness is covered with bitterness. Emotions are twisted until the originals are destroyed and you're left with nothing but a memory.
The past is truly a different country, more and more different with every passing second.
Yet we cannot function without our memories.
As Peter fumbles in his curiously closed mind for reasons, explanations, events, memories, Lucas continues to smile. His smile reminds Peter of that of a cat. Satisfied, lazy and always hiding a secret.
Control of one's own memories is a great feat. But control of someone else's is a remarkable one.
-
Peter dreams too much. Every night, his sleep is broken, haunted by images. He remembers once hearing that dreams are mankind's way of solving problems but he cannot remember where he heard this.
Besides, there aren't any problems in his dreams.
Only images.
Fragmented images like a shattered pane of glass.
Blurred photos of another life that disappear once he tries to take a closer look.
Peter tries to figure out these dreams but it is as if he has a gaping hole in his mind. It's as if somebody's cut out, excised, a part of his brain. A necessary part. An essential part. And he can't figure out anything without it.
Even reality seems like a dream to Peter nowadays. He walks through the days in a daze until a co-worker asks what's wrong.
"I'm missing something," Peter tries to explain but Jack doesn't understand.
Peter isn't surprised or disappointed. After all, how can Jack understand? Peter isn't even sure. Somehow he knows that only one person would believe and perhaps even be able to help.
Lucas.
The memory of the name evokes an unpleasant image. Lucas sounds like the feeling of snakes slithering in tall grass, lying just out of reach of a resting foot. Lucas sounds like the stabbing feeling of betrayal as you find your lover in bed with somebody else. Lucas sounds like an oath screamed at a virgin sacrifice. Lucas sounds like an invocation of power.
"Lucas," Peter whispers.
-
A memory:
Lucas's hand is resting on his leg and Peter can feel the heat through the thick robes. A slow smile crosses Lucas's face and he can't help but smile back. There is something infectious about Lucas's smiles. Something about how his eyes light up and you feel like the only person left in the world.
"Do you know that they call you God now?" Peter comments and watches as the other man's smile widens.
"Ironic." Lucas's voice is the low baritone of a man in the prime of his life. "They destroyed the gods but can't live without them. I'm only providing a necessary figurehead."
Peter stiffens and feels the hand on his leg retreat. "We are fighting to enlighten the world," he says quietly.
Lucas's expression is kind. "Haven't you realised by now? The masses can't be enlightened. We're working to save them from a lifetime of servitude to churches, synagogues and temples that are all as false as each other. If we use some of their methods against them," he spreads his hands, "who can blame us?"
Peter is sure there is a flaw of logic in there somewhere but can't seem to look away from his friend's, his lover's compelling blue eyes.
-
People change.
This is a fact of life.
Peter watched over the years as Lucas's personality warped and twisted until the man he knew as Lucas Amherst no longer existed. He was still great, undoubtedly. Brilliant, even. Bright shining fragments of personality held together by the most delicate of tape.
Standing in his shadow, Peter found it hard to breathe.
Encased in his brilliance, Lucas was invisible.
It is very hard for a man to wear a mask for long enough and not become the mask. And Lucas was no exception to this norm.
He had become God.
After all, what is God but a being who through collective belief has been infused with enough power to rise above mere mortal laws. God doesn't balk at changing the past. He doesn't even balk at changing your past.
The past is more than a different country. It no longer exists.
-
Peter wakes up shaking.
-fin
Status: Applicant
Summary: -
Genre: Dystopian, science-fiction, I believe.
Word Count: 3588
Note: I was debating between submitting this story or another one that I wrote. I finally decided on this one because the other one is a bit too Douglas Adams-esque. If you want to see it, just ask, but be forewarned that I use the same names a lot in my original fic, so it might be ... confusing. :p
Fracture
-
i. victory party
-
They've won.
They've won.
Victory. Victory. Victory.
The sound of the word chimes as sweet as church bells in Peter's mind.
But there are no more churches. They were all burned down in the first of the purges. No more murmured prayers and reverent eyes. No more veiled attacks against the Mormons, the Buddhists, the Hindus, the Muslims, but most of all, the dreaded atheist. No more stories of Saint fucking Peter, somebody Peter could never live up to.
But they've won and that's all that matters.
It's eerily quiet as Peter walks down the street. Even the trees are motionless, their stark branches like twisted metal spires outlined against the grey sky. Everywhere, he sees huddled bodies, rags entwined with flesh until they merge into one grey amorphous mass. If he looks closely, he can see some of them breathing. But nowadays, nobody looks that closely.
It's a better system, Peter tells himself. He can barely hear any sound but the click, click, click of his metal capped boots.
There is a sudden sound to his left and a clawed hand clutches at his coat from within a recessed doorway. "Did we win?" It's impossible to tell the woman's age. She could have been ninety or forty. Her face is ravaged by age, disease and war.
Peter stares at her hand on his coat until she lets go. "We won," he repeats quietly.
Her face breaks out into a toothless grin. "Bless you," she croaks. "The rebels deserved it. Every last one of those bastards."
He nods curtly and walks off.
The buildings lining the street are getting progressively better now. No more dilapidated ruins with the public huddled inside and on the doorstep. Instead, Peter sees antiseptic white and shining steel, a memento of civilisation. It's the Centre for Redevelopment. The beacon of hope for their world.
Peter refuses to find it ironic.
-
Sit around and let me tell you a tale:
A tale of war.
A tale of struggle.
A tale of peace.
And as always, a tale of blood.
History is a cycle, always circling in on itself and Peter travels along the path of history, borne along inexorably by the tidal wave of fate.
But we control our futures, hold them precious, soft, in the palms of our hands. We make what we become.
Clothos, Atropos and Lachesis. And the triangle of fate is twisted.
-
The gleaming, polished surfaces make Peter feel dirty as he enters the building. There is a light film of dust on him from the outside. It is impossible to go anywhere nowadays without attracting it. This is the reason why most of the New Order have chosen to live inside their buildings. The buildings they own and have sanitised to a pre-war cleanliness.
Peter still lives in his old house.
This is regarded as something rather suspect in a normal disciple but Peter is above it all. As a High Priest of the New Order he is untouchable.
But there is something he loves about unfiltered air, filled with contagions from the war, the smell of human sweat, the feel of wood, the beauty of the rising sun. It feels real. As does the scratchiness at the back of his throat this morning, a reminder to take the general medication. He clears his throat, slips a pill in his mouth and dry swallows.
It sticks, and slides, and sticks and slides down his throat until it settles in his stomach. Almost immediately, Peter feels better.
"Morning, High Priest," a lowly disciple says as he passes.
Peter nods curtly.
-
Karl Marx once said that religion is the opiate of the people.
Peter agrees.
The modern man survives on a diet of religion, politics and sport. And what better sport is there than the sport of war? This is what He says. His word does not make law. It is law.
He does not need a name now. Once upon a time, his name was Lucas Amherst.
Now he is God.
-
God sits behind his desk just like any mere mortal. Occasionally, he shuffles the papers, but mostly he talks.
Says, "You should (thou shalt) have no other God than me."
Says, "My word is the law."
Says, "Welcome Peter, please take a seat."
Peter sits and feels the plush of velvet encase his backside.
"I have a task for you," God tells him. "I have chosen you to head the task force implementing my new laws among the common peoples. You are my most loyal subject."
God's voice is like silk sliding down a smooth leg, sensuous with a tinge of lust. Peter clears his throat uncomfortably and God's gaze snaps back to his face. Peter notices that the blue eyes are just slightly widened and the mouth slightly open. He gulps.
"I accept," he says.
-
Nowadays, laws are easily implemented.
Pill. Water. Swallow. And the mind is altered, changed.
People obey the law.
They have to.
See? This is the result of war.
Or the result of mankind.
Peter isn't sure any more and does his best not to think about it.
-
ii. new laws
-
Mass distribution of mind-altering medication is difficult. Peter muses over the dilemma for days. The current pill form is unwieldy to distribute and he does not trust the commoners to take it daily. Yet other methods of distribution had proven to be ineffective in the past.
Think, think -
And he thinks he has it.
The Tree of Knowledge is the key as it has always been.
He needs to find out how the pill works. Only then can he alter it.
Peter stares at the small white, slightly powdery pill in his hand and wonders what new changes the world was in for this time.
-
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The cogs of the machine spin in time with the ticking on Peter's watch. He watches, mesmerised as the small white pills drop one by one into jars and robot arms screw on the lids.
"We have managed to rebuild this within a matter of weeks," the man beside him says proudly. The bald patch on his head gleams as he moves his head animatedly.
"What do you put in the pills," Peter asks.
The man's face freezes mid-smile. There is a trapped expression on his face and his eyes dart from side to side. Peter is reminded of a pet rat he had so very long ago when he was still a child. "Why do you ask?"
There is a time for questions and a time for backing away. Even if you are a High Priest. He gives a warm smile. "Just curiosity."
The man relaxes. Peter wishes the knot in his stomach would do the same. He stares as the pills drop one by one with small plopping noises and can physically feel the pill from the morning digesting in his stomach. He knows it is impossible but there are no limits to the human imagination. He may be a high priest, but he is still human.
He thinks.
-
If you do anything constantly, at the same time every single day, for months, for years, it becomes habit forming.
Breaking this habit is difficult because the habit is unconscious. Unless you think about it every second of every day, you will find yourself lapsing into the habit again.
This is true for everything. Drugs. Alcohol. Gambling. Even the habit of taking a small white pill.
Pill out.
Pop in mouth.
Swallow.
Simple procedure.
Difficult to break.
-
Peter decides to stop taking his pills.
This isn't an easy decision. In the beginning, he forgot to take his pills for a few days once. His scratchy throat, watering eyes and the wobbling floor reminded him. Withdrawal symptoms. He knows about them but is unprepared for the onslaught of general unease.
Sick leave is uncommon but as a good friend of God, Peter is able to wrangle a week of it. As he sits on the toilet (old fashioned, with a push button), he wonders whether a week is enough.
Headaches. Nausea. Dizziness. Sniffles. And what seems to be hallucinations.
Peter blinks as the room appears in waves around him. Through the waves he can see white, white, white but his room walls are blue. He knows this because he painted them himself. The colour white has always seemed rather oppressive to Peter.
A face appears in front of Peter and he jumps.
Rubbing his eyes, Peter stares.
"Welcome back to reality, Peter," the bearded man says.
"God?" Peter manages to finally say. "What are you doing here." He looks around at the white room and then down at the pyjamas he is wearing. He realises he is sitting on the ground and struggles to stand but is held back by restraints.
The man shakes his head sadly. "There is no God. It was all in your mind."
-
Reality. Fantasy.
Fantasy. Reality.
The two intersect, cross, and fuse together.
Fairy tales. Wave your hand and the universe rights itself. Fairy godmothers and hungry wolves. Wicked witches and happy endings.
Reality.
Reality, where there are no happy endings and everything has consequences.
Grasp it while you have the chance.
If you want to.
Peter watches as the threads of reality spin around him and reaches out. He's sucked into the vortex but perhaps he has always been there, watching the world slowly, slowly disintegrate around him.
He takes a pill out, drops it onto the floor and crushes it under his heel. In the white dust that remains, Peter can see the universe, dust, ashes and decisions. Always decisions.
Choose A: and you die.
Choose B: and you live.
You don't choose what you become, but what are you but the sum of your choices.
Live, or die.
It's your choice.
-
"Administer this to the other patients," God says and hands a bottle of pills to another man in a pure-white, death-white coat.
"Where am I?" Peter asks. Who am I? his mind wonders.
"I told you," God says calmly. "Reality."
-
iii. reality?
-
Peter finds Reality both familiar and completely different from Fantasy.
Every day, God comes in and educates him.
Says, "You're in the 21st century."
Says, "There was no war."
Says, "That was all in your mind."
Says, "I am not God."
Peter almost believes him. After all, the old bastard is very convincing. But it takes more than simple words and a white, white room to make Peter discard his reality.
The room blurs before his eyes and he finds it difficult to focus.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Focus fucking hard enough and he might be able to see through the lies.
-
"You fed off each others delusions. It was a collective hallucination," God explains to him.
No - not God - his name's Amherst. Lucas Amherst. Peter tells himself this, over and over, but it doesn't stick.
"In the beginning, we thought that it was just a simple industrial accident. But then you all began saying things. Doing things. And then we realised that your physical injuries were the least of our worries."
Peter watches as God tells him this again and again. It's the fifth or sixth time now but it is obvious by the benevolent expression on God's face that he believes that it will make sense to Peter now. Perhaps this time, a metaphorical light will appear over Peter's head and he will say, 'ah, finally, you're making sense. Of course, this is reality."
No biscuit.
Peter simply sits there and stares at God blankly. "Withdrawal symptoms," he mutters to himself. "I'm having withdrawal symptoms."
God sighs.
-
People need certainty.
Without certainty, the human race vacillates. Stupid people get into power. The all-important bureaucracy disintegrates. The population revolts. And other nations back away slowly and finger their nuclear strike buttons.
That's when nations are uncertain.
The results are far, far worse on the individual level.
Uncertainty paralyses people. It makes them imagine things. It feeds healthy paranoia until it becomes an unrestrainable monster.
Peter finds himself uncertain and spends his days shaking in a corner.
-
Reason.
Logic.
Sense.
The knowledge that 1 + 1 = 2 and if that's true then the rest of the universe simply falls into place.
Peter finds himself falling into doubt and is unable to stop.
A thousand maybes swirl around him and dance like two galaxies thrown out in a celestial waltz. He reaches out a trembling hand and grasps a possibility and holds it delicate on the palm of his hand.
Maybe this is reality.
Maybe this is all there is. Stark whiteness and doctors that poke, prod and stare. Maybe there was no war. Maybe Doctor Amherst is right and he isn't God and there is no new fledgling religious order to inspire the people. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
Peter gasps and the doctors rush over with needles to stick in his arm.
He slumps.
-
iv. fantasy…
-
Peter opens his eyes and sees a curled lip.
"I can't believe you live here," the man tells him.
He's back in reality. Or fantasy. Depends on your perspective, really, Peter tells himself.
"We found you here yesterday in a pool of your own filth," the man continues. "You haven't been taking your pills."
It isn't a question but Peter nods anyway. "I was sick," he tries to explain but the man simply ignores him.
"I've seen this before," he says. "People who don't take their pills are subject to hallucinations, visions. Some imagine a better world, a more stable world. Others think themselves insane." Piercing blue eyes stare into Peter's own. "What did you see?"
Breathe.
Breathe, Peter. Breathe. He doesn't know anything.
"I didn't see anything," Peter says, after a brief pause. He can tell the man doesn't believe him but he doesn't pursue the subject. One doesn't question a High Priest. Not in these uncertain times.
"God wants to see you tomorrow."
-
What's in a name?
A wise man once said that but Peter can no longer remember who. It's all blurred into the hazy shape that is his childhood where nothing comes into sharp relief any more.
He wonders.
What is in a name?
Is it sacrilegious that Lucas Amherst is called God?
Is God any more sacred a word than Dog?
Circles and circles.
And circles again.
Peter drowns in a thousand maybes.
-
"Peter," God says kindly. "My Peter. I'm not angry that you failed. After all, you are only human."
But so are you, Peter thinks but can't say the words. They stick in his throat like sawdust. Maybe they aren't true anymore. Maybe the man who was Lucas Amherst no longer exists, submerged into the smiling, benevolent entity in front of Peter now.
"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to keep the status of High Priest now," God tells him. "Not after such a breach of … security."
Peter doesn't understand, but wants to. "I'm sorry," he says helplessly.
"It will all be fixed," God tells him and hands him a small white pill.
Peter swallows. After all, it's routine now. Simple routine.
-
v. backwards
-
Open your eyes.
Open them.
Open them.
Peter prises his eyes open and stares at the blank, sterile wall.
"Time for work."
A white coat is handed to him and he takes it automatically. He can't remember ever doing this before, but the motions come so easily to him. Arms in sleeves. Buttons done up. Sitting on a low wooden stool. Checking each and every pill that goes by. Throwing out the broken ones.
His entire life could have been spent in this factory, but Peter doesn't think so. There are other thoughts in his mind. Other places. Other occupations.
And as always.
One word.
God.
-
God once said Religion is the opiate of the people. Or was that Karl Marx. It doesn't make any difference these days anyway.
-
The days slide and trickle by like the pills on Peter's production run.
He blinks and finds that it is now a new year.
An old man comes by to see him and Peter watches as everybody else defers to him. "Who are you?" Peter asks when they are alone. He feels as though he ought to know the answer but it eludes and slips past his grasping fingers.
"Nobody important," the man answers and smiles. There is irony in the smile, almost as if the man knows the sheer ridicule of what he is saying but needs to say the words anyway. "You may call me Lucas."
The name slides so easily off Peter's tongue. "Lucas," he says.
Lucas smiles, obviously pleased with something. "How are you finding this work?"
"It is fine," Peter says, guardedly. There is something about Lucas that is too familiar. Something about the twisted smile on his lips. Something about the pale, pale blue eyes that always seemed faded. "Do I know you?"
A delighted smile appears on Lucas's face that belies his words. "Of course not."
-
There is a thing about memories.
They always trick us.
Events are warped, first slowly and then quickly, until they are beyond recognition. Misery is smoothed into apathy. Happiness is covered with bitterness. Emotions are twisted until the originals are destroyed and you're left with nothing but a memory.
The past is truly a different country, more and more different with every passing second.
Yet we cannot function without our memories.
As Peter fumbles in his curiously closed mind for reasons, explanations, events, memories, Lucas continues to smile. His smile reminds Peter of that of a cat. Satisfied, lazy and always hiding a secret.
Control of one's own memories is a great feat. But control of someone else's is a remarkable one.
-
Peter dreams too much. Every night, his sleep is broken, haunted by images. He remembers once hearing that dreams are mankind's way of solving problems but he cannot remember where he heard this.
Besides, there aren't any problems in his dreams.
Only images.
Fragmented images like a shattered pane of glass.
Blurred photos of another life that disappear once he tries to take a closer look.
Peter tries to figure out these dreams but it is as if he has a gaping hole in his mind. It's as if somebody's cut out, excised, a part of his brain. A necessary part. An essential part. And he can't figure out anything without it.
Even reality seems like a dream to Peter nowadays. He walks through the days in a daze until a co-worker asks what's wrong.
"I'm missing something," Peter tries to explain but Jack doesn't understand.
Peter isn't surprised or disappointed. After all, how can Jack understand? Peter isn't even sure. Somehow he knows that only one person would believe and perhaps even be able to help.
Lucas.
The memory of the name evokes an unpleasant image. Lucas sounds like the feeling of snakes slithering in tall grass, lying just out of reach of a resting foot. Lucas sounds like the stabbing feeling of betrayal as you find your lover in bed with somebody else. Lucas sounds like an oath screamed at a virgin sacrifice. Lucas sounds like an invocation of power.
"Lucas," Peter whispers.
-
A memory:
Lucas's hand is resting on his leg and Peter can feel the heat through the thick robes. A slow smile crosses Lucas's face and he can't help but smile back. There is something infectious about Lucas's smiles. Something about how his eyes light up and you feel like the only person left in the world.
"Do you know that they call you God now?" Peter comments and watches as the other man's smile widens.
"Ironic." Lucas's voice is the low baritone of a man in the prime of his life. "They destroyed the gods but can't live without them. I'm only providing a necessary figurehead."
Peter stiffens and feels the hand on his leg retreat. "We are fighting to enlighten the world," he says quietly.
Lucas's expression is kind. "Haven't you realised by now? The masses can't be enlightened. We're working to save them from a lifetime of servitude to churches, synagogues and temples that are all as false as each other. If we use some of their methods against them," he spreads his hands, "who can blame us?"
Peter is sure there is a flaw of logic in there somewhere but can't seem to look away from his friend's, his lover's compelling blue eyes.
-
People change.
This is a fact of life.
Peter watched over the years as Lucas's personality warped and twisted until the man he knew as Lucas Amherst no longer existed. He was still great, undoubtedly. Brilliant, even. Bright shining fragments of personality held together by the most delicate of tape.
Standing in his shadow, Peter found it hard to breathe.
Encased in his brilliance, Lucas was invisible.
It is very hard for a man to wear a mask for long enough and not become the mask. And Lucas was no exception to this norm.
He had become God.
After all, what is God but a being who through collective belief has been infused with enough power to rise above mere mortal laws. God doesn't balk at changing the past. He doesn't even balk at changing your past.
The past is more than a different country. It no longer exists.
-
Peter wakes up shaking.
-fin