A vicarious corollary

The Final Episode

There are realities that are too hard to conceive, believe or to accept. 
Like Death, for instance. Do you fear it? 
If you do, then you have accepted it. If not, you need not bother.
Thine only enemy, is thine only friend.

There was a constant thumping noise against a pole, a bitter cry of a lad and the giggle of a devilish imp.

Two things came into his view now. In color this time.

-----

A green field. A child suspended in thin air. 

The view followed his line of sight and Bartholomew completely forgot that he was being revolved. The long pole sprouted from the ground and came up behind the child where it grew, bent at right angles and continued towards the right. Once there, it bent again and made its way downwards, into the ground and back to its abode. Thin, black thread like structures fell from the beam and filled the space between the poles. The threads crisscrossed themselves into a net. The rope that held the boy in place soon became visible.

The boy’s face grew blood red. A shiny football flew from behind Bartholomew’s head and into the field where it seemed to hover just centimeters in front of the boy’s face for a few seconds.

Or maybe that was the boy’s understanding before the ball rammed into his face.

Blood spurted from his nose like water droplets when a foot slams into a puddle. His head was thrown back and the nose opened in a hurry to let out the crimson torrent. A slow groan, then a sharp wail of pain and some more moaning. The football lay by the boy’s feet. Its facade smeared with blood, like heinous war stain.

Bartholomew was motionless all along the visual, his eyes, opened to their fullest extent and his pupils, enlarged. The mark of shame was written across his face which was contorted with horror.

“Let me tell you what happens next.” The man spoke up, his invisible hand still clasping Bartholomew’s, “You are going to pick up the ball, rub your finger across the blood that is covering his face, go back some distance and resume kicking.”

Two legs came into view and diminished into a small individual with curly hair. The curly haired boy walked over to the ball, picked it up, put his index finger on the bloody cheek of his victim and drew a line from ear to ear, through his mouth.

“And now, let me tell you, what I think of God.” The man began.

The image of the curly haired boy grew in size until they were a pair of legs again and the ball rested under one foot,the blood stain still shining strong under the shadow of his shoe.

When the foot traced a reverse arc, the man’s voice boomed and the hand was as real as clasping a hot iron rod. This was a reality Bartholomew couldn't escape from.

“I think that God was a thought. A worm of thought that was introduced into your head which gnawed away at your happiness till you sought an answer. The thought spawned during man’s most vulnerable period. For instance, the early man, if you may. The early man lived in a very hostile climate, being hunted by the most ferocious and horrendous predators. Every day lived, was a gift earned. If he was rescued, or if he escaped an attack-”

All he could see was the scene in front of him, all he could hear was a discourse on God being played in the background.

The boy’s screams rose to umpteen frequencies as the leg came crashing down towards the football at full force.

“-he considered himself to be lucky. When this happened multiple times, he assumed that maybe someone was watching him. Someone, of a greater power than him.”

The ball took off from the ground and made its way towards the goal post. Its speed, seemed to increase with every cry that escaped the bonded boy’s lips.

“He felt somewhat contended with that notion.”

The immediate second post impact, the boy could feel the smashed bits of his broken teeth on his tongue and few other pieces floating around in the pool of blood that was now in his mouth, being continuously renewed by the valve that was his nose.

“He felt happy.”

The scene dissolved into blackness again, zooming in to the boy’s shattered face. Bartholomew’s breath and thought process had been stopped a long time ago. He was back to being the commoner’s notion of dead again.

The man continued after a pause.

“However.”

Bright flames danced in front of Bartholomew’s eyes.

“This also brought fear. Gradually, his kin started dying for no reason. He did not know what a disease meant. He did not know the cure. He simply thought that they were being punished.”

He could hear the blaze as the man resumed his discourse. The curly haired boy was back, sitting on one side of the street. It was presumably winter, looking at the clothes he was wearing. Bartholomew knew everything that was going to happen. A memory that cannot be suppressed is either a joy or a dreadful entity. 

On the opposite end was an empty oil barrel, ablaze and burning bright against the darkness of the alley he stood in. In his hands, he cradled a small puppy. Shivering, it was frail and thin. Starvation had infested this little one. On his lap, a bottle of milk was placed. The puppy shivered and urinated. The curly haired boy swore and took it near the burning oil barrel. At a safe distance, the puppy relaxed a bit and the boy covered it with a piece of wet cloth he’d found. Gently, he placed the bottle of milk at its mouth and held it at an inclined position to facilitate the drinking. The puppy quietened. 

“That was his logical assumption. Since he believed that he was the only person who was slightly better than the rest. Because ego is a disease that plagues all. The others engaged in acts that disgusted him. Hands and legs twisted in a manner to expose their bare bodies. One on top of the other, one behind. He had concluded that they were bad and hence, the punishment. This caused a widespread panic in him. He began requesting the almighty every day, aloud. The prayers had begun in their earliest form.”

The cloth was soaked with oil from the barrel.

“And thus, the concept of a supernatural being stuck strongly with him.”

The curly haired boy threw the puppy into the blazing inferno and gave a squeal of excitement. This was followed by a squeal of agony issued forth from the puppy's mouth. 

“And he, communicated.”

Boiling flesh kept writhing around in the inferno that was its final home. The shrieks and squeals added to his bubbling enthusiasm. His eyes reflected the fire, and shone with a happiness that only a baby could mimic.

The scene dissolved. Even though it was complete darkness now, Bartholomew knew that his vision was blurry because of the tears that let themselves flow freely during the last few minutes. His carefully hidden dark side was being exposed to him and him alone. Although this was nothing to be afraid of, Bartholomew was being made to feel. To feel every diddly-squat essence of pain from all the people he had dealt with.

“From then on, God got updated. He got powers, he got faces, he was divided, segregated, he got names, millions of them. He was worshiped, he was given shrines, wealth, and greatest of all, undivided attention for a lifetime, from billions of people. He became irrefutable. He became invulnerable. He became invincible. Even with a form of an intangible idea, he became omniscient. He also became a word that describes himself. He became, simply, God.”

From deep within himself, he heard a languid sputter.

No.

This time when the scene came, and although Bartholomew was braced for it, he was certain that this was a final blow to teach him the lesson he deserved to learn.

This was judgment, he understood. This was Death’s game. And he had to play in the crucible of its agnostic fire.

A white rectangle hovered above his eyes for a while before finally being lifted upwards to make it discernible. 

A piece of white cloth. 

The person who had tied it across his eyes came into full view. It was Bartholomew himself. In his full adult glory.

“You proclaim that God created you in his image, but is it not otherwise? You preach that we are all his children, and that we all are equal. Yet, you do not see the difference and the disease and the pestilence. Would you call that equal? Would you call being broken and twisted equal? Would you, prefer being that way?”

The child, tied to the bed looked up dizzily. He caught hold of the hungry Bartholomew standing on his knees, just beside him, his eyes like that a hungry wolf. A fraction of a second later he noticed Bartholomew’s stiff log of a member protruding from between his thighs.

“I think not. What I think is, from one tiny particle, existence spawned. How that particle came to exist, can be compared to how dust exists. It was always there.

The darkness in space is a constant. That is the being you all sprung from. That is the womb. This ‘dust’ accumulated and the aftermath is you. You are the child of the Dust. This idea may be refuted and I may be wrong.”

His phallus pulsed with a longing he’d never experienced. The veins throbbed and stood out like the roots of a great tree. The boy’s clothing was limited to his genitals. Bartholomew threw the piece of cloth away, and hungrily pounced upon the boy.

A goat ready for slaughter. A buffet for a starved man.

“But I can tell you one thing with certainty.”

Bartholomew began at the boy’s lips. He kissed them fervently, with rushed passion. The boy cried and turned his head this way and that. He bashed his skull against Bartholomew’s nose. Bartholomew gave a cry of pain and slapped the kid. He touched his nose with a finger and wiped away the trickle of blood that had sprouted at the point of impact. He placed his knee on the soft stomach and applied his weight on it. The boy sucked in a deep breath and his eyes rolled upwards. Bartholomew went back to working on his lips. He put his tongue inside his mouth and felt all his teeth. He sloshed around his tongue. He bit his upper lip and nibbled on it. He let his tongue slip across the boy’s neck and let it linger around the fissure of the chest. His mouth worked up towards his nipple and sucked on it. His lips molded on the stalk of his nipple and he sucked it in. His let his fingers pluck it and turn it around. He kissed his midriff and caught the boy’s thighs. 

When the boy regained consciousness, Bartholomew’s fingers were clutching his penis.

“There is only one omnipotent being. Take the stars, the animals, soil, you humans, take anyone and they end, with the same being. He is the one you go to when you’re hopeless, the one you seek when you've given up. The one you detest, when you’re happy. The one you’re scared of, when you approach him. The only being, who can justify almighty. The only one who can give and take. The one everyone fears because they know just one part of his many faces. He is Justice. The only being you can trust with your life. Literally.”

The boy screamed till the throat felt like it was rubbed with sandpaper. Bartholomew’s hands constantly worked the little boy’s drooped genitals. He spat on his right palm and rubbed it across the boy’s phallus, gently. Then he clutched his own organ with his left hand and worked it. After a gentle slap on the testicles, he untied the boy’s legs. With renewed vigor, the boy kicked Bartholomew’s stomach and face. 

Bartholomew caught his left leg and twisted it. While the boy was shrieking, he slowly turned his torso around, tied the legs, undid his left hand, and tied it to the right side of the bed. Few minutes later, the boy lay on his stomach with his hands and legs spread wide and tied to the bed.

The boy wept and banged his head repeatedly against the pillow. Bartholomew held the cheeks of his buttocks in both hands, pulled them apart slightly. His eyes bled with lust and he held his penis in his right hand and slowly, pushed it into the boy’s anus. Bartholomew let out a grunt of ecstasy and thrust it further in.

“He is, the terrible reality you choose not to accept.”

Bartholomew’s cries intensified as he watched himself throw his head back in the final climax. All sound ceased. He let out a muted cry of self-loathing. The rigidity was gone. Blackness engulfed him once again as he began preparing for his lifetime in hell.

-----

When Bartholomew opened his eyes, he was back in the darkness. Sitting on the solid floor of black, legs crisscrossed. He knew what had to be done. The decision was left to him. He knew what to say.

And thus, he began.

“I cannot say that the things I've done shame me, because they don’t. I have enjoyed every moment of it. You, whoever you are, taught me a lot about my beliefs in God. I for the tiniest part of my life, never believed in God. It was during my final moments that I did try deflecting towards the good side. I think now that we all have created God in our image and not otherwise. I don’t know how you judge my actions, but they all say that I deserve the cruelest of all punishments. 

So, do your worst. I am dead anyway. Only a miracle can save me now. And only one person can bring about this miracle. If given a second chance, I will turn my life around. I won’t make promises now, but I know what I’ll do. To make myself better. Probably even confess and make way for some jail time. But all those, if the miracle happens. For only then, will I be able to believe in him. For only then, you are Justice.

So do what you have to, I know that I cannot stop you.”

-----

Sometime later.

Hours or days or even weeks later.

We can never tell, because we do not know. This information hasn't crossed our minds and nor will it. 

By now, he would have decomposed in his grave. Or, he must have been given the second chance that he so desperately craved. 

We will never know, how Bartholomew cried from beneath his grave. Asking and pleading to set him free, to dig him out. To let people know how his life was going to change. 

We will never know, for we could not hear. We will never know if he came back from the dead, only to stare at his coffin.

He tried his best to tell us all, he really did. His punches form inside his coffin never traveled to the outside world. Bartholomew lived a miserable life buried inside his coffin, throwing hopeless, undying curses at whatever crossed his mind. His fingers, scraped against the coffin, his teeth trying desperately to bite the wood, his head, colliding against the ceiling of his new home. The lining of which, bore the remains of his nails and teeth.

Or, did he?

Did all this happen, or am I just speculating?

I can’t tell because I do not know.

I have no information about what happened after his death, do I?

Sure, I don’t.

But you?

I think you do know what happened.

You, sitting there and contemplating his final tries. Relief, washing over you as you finally agree with the fact that Justice, is a dish best served with a dash of malice. Or a jar full of it.

Yes, you definitely know.

And I won’t tell if you won’t. 

The End