They Sometimes Come Out That Way

The God looked like how you’d expect.

He was not a white man. His long gray hair, which stretched past his knees, was scraggly and chaotic yet always, still, organized and placed. His white beard was lush and well groomed. It stretched out from his face until it didn’t and the lines which denoted the boundaries from its end and the surrounding space were blurred— ambiguous. He had no eyeballs, at least not like man, but rather pure white orbs with gray striations throughout that moved and billowed like smoke. He wore white robes that were both baggy yet also, somehow, form-fitting, stylish. His physique was impeccable and his posture beautifully relaxed. He wore perfectly clean white sandals, and a polished silver chain hung from his muscular neck by the weight of a small, sleek (also silver) unrecognizable symbol. He spoke seldomly. He smoked often— puffing unknown substances out of a long white pipe with a silver mouth tip. The puffed smoke he blew out came to be striations identical to those of his eyes and they rested in the surrounding air for quite some time after they’d been blown.

The Man got the sense they had been talking for a period of time altogether indecipherable. One that was at once incredibly vast and overwhelmingly short— as if each moment stayed, stretched itself into a nonlinear sequence, with no clear beginning, no conceivable end. It was impossible for The Man to ascertain any sense of the minutes or hours or days of their meeting.

It was not clear to The Man if this was heaven or nirvana or jannah or moksha or elysium or paradise. It was clear that it wasn’t hell. The Man didn’t know what was wanted of him or why he was talking to The God. He didn’t know how long this would last.

“What are you smoking anyway?” It was the first question The Man noticed himself asking. He didn't know how long they had sat there or if he had said anything before this.

The God did not answer.

The Man became aware of his voice after that question— as if he had forgotten its existence. The question itself came out as if provoked, pulled from a place that wasn’t within his conscious mind. He found himself with an unexpected questioning as to whether or not The God had done it— The God had asked it of himself. Though, it was unclear to him as to why that was the question that he pulled out or if he (The God) ever had any intention of answering it.

Just as The Man began to scan his surroundings in greater depth, another question popped out of him, his face was redirected towards The God unwillingly, forcefully.

“Where am I?”

The Man was not wondering.

“You were dead,” was all The God answered. His mouth did not move. His face did not change. The only hint to his acknowledgement of The Man and his question was a turn in the neck, a glare. The Man noticed, too, the gray striations of The God’s eyes coagulated into a circle which appeared to be directed at him, at his eyes. The God’s voice was booming and soothing but The Man could not tell if it made a sound of any decibel or if he had heard it in his mind, as his own thoughts. The God’s eyes unfocused. He turned away and the striations returned. He puffed his pipe. The Man stared at him, unable to avert his gaze.

The Man realized he did not know his own name.

They were sitting on a couch— or something like a couch. The white fabric which made up its form followed The God’s minimal repositionings as if alive itself, so that it supported his posture always effectively while The Man was left at the mercy of his (The God’s) movements. There was a glass table top in front of them that was always floating at the perfect height for both— though The God was much taller. The Man was seated with his back resting on the cushion behind him and both feet on the floor. When The God raised his pipe to smoke, The Man’s side of the couch sunk down, his knees reached his chest. His face was turned to the right looking at The God who was relaxed with his back on his own cushion. He was looking not at The Man but forward, eerily, at nothing— perhaps enjoying the art of his exhaled smoke (though The Man could make out no continuity or form in their structure). The God’s shoulders stayed hunched, slightly, as he continually smoked. There was nothing on the table except for a bowl of steaming clear liquid, completely full. It was not clear if the liquid was for The Man or not. He did not ask. There was a cat that walked in and out of view playing with an invisible toy. The cat was white. It also had gray stripes of smoke that appeared to billow at the same rate, in the same way, as the eyes. It left The Man with an unidentifiable, uneasy feeling whenever it was present.

They were seated far apart.

“What are we doing here?” The Man again found himself asking. His suspicions that The God was pulling questions from him, that The God was asking himself what he asked through The Man, grew stronger. The Man stayed nearly thoughtless, questionless.

The God’s eyes stayed unfocused. He didn’t answer. He puffed his pipe.

The space around them was white. The gray smoke, the striations, The God had exhaled were everywhere. The Man watched them billow in sync with the cat, the eyes. The Man looked down at himself. He was wearing robes. They were not white but gray instead. He had a tattoo on his arm that was not there in his life. It was a symbol he’d never seen— thick black lines fractalized, looping in complex patterns to infinity. The sight of it was nauseating. The Man thought it might be moving but could not say for certain. When he began to inspect it closely, his eyes were brought back to The God.

“How did I get here?” sparked from his mouth right away, again without intent.

The God’s eyes focused but they were not looking at The Man. They looked straight ahead. He puffed his pipe and blew smoke that formed into a screen, an image. The Man watched his death take place. He did not recognize who was in the image though he knew it to be himself. He could not say how he knew that. The Man had no immediate feelings about this, about his death. The smoke cleared and The God’s eyes unfocused.

“Is this heaven?”

The God laughed at his own question. His mouth opened and his head tilted back as he did so. The sound bellowed louder than his voice— the howl came from all angles. The Man was aware that it occupied the space around them, not the space in his mind. It shook the striations of the air, of the eyes, of the cat. The Man was at once more at ease. When The God ceased his roar, his face went void of emotion once more. It gave no hint of the previous laughter. His eyes, the air— both billowed slowly as a weighty silence ensued, and The Man’s ease left as quick as it had come.

“Are the christians right?” was what next came from him– belching from his mouth unwarned, unthought. The Man could not remember conceiving it.

The God’s eyes focused but again were not looking at The Man. He puffed his pipe and the smoke that blew out of his mouth formed, not a screen or words or pictures, but an understanding. The Man simultaneously saw, read, experienced, smelled, ate, heard, shit, received, the totality of the Christian religion. From its birth to its death which were to happen years after his own. Every sector and branch and misunderstanding and debate. Every backroom sacristy of malicious men with little boys. Every war, death, lie, murder, theft, manipulation. The horrors were unspeakable and compounded on one another until all that was left of him was a shaking boy crying for the relief of oblivion. The Man felt alone, degraded, defiled as a feeling of compounding hopelessness shivered within him. The understanding cleared from the air but the feeling, the cold, stayed with him for an amount of time that was both forever and instantaneous. The Man did not know when it ended but he knew that The God had started it, left it with him, and ceased it at his (The God’s) discretion. The God didn’t ask or point or confirm or even look The Man’s way. He puffed his pipe and his eyes, the cat, the surroundings, were more smokey than usual. The Man knew then that he had annoyed The God— that he had been punished for it.

The Man realized for the first time the terror he felt for the creature sitting beside him.

Some more time passed, it must have. The Man found himself wondering why The God was asking himself questions that angered him, and afterwards, punishing him for it. The fear The Man felt had not left.

“You are scared,” The God said after some time. It was the first time he had addressed The Man unquestioned. The Man tried to detect if there was any pride in his statement but failed. Once more, The God’s mouth did not move when he spoke, and it was again unclear to The Man if the sound was external or internal. The God puffed his pipe and blew out a long cloud of gray smoke which at once formed an identically-different, organized and chaotic gray striation that began to billow with the eyes, the cat.

The God did not answer himself through The Man. He sat up and pushed the bowl of hot liquid The Man’s way with a long white staff unnoticed until then. The Man felt his end of the couch nearly disappear before The God sat back into his relaxed posture, puffed his pipe, and The Man was brought back level. The God’s face was not directed at The Man who suddenly found himself taking a large gulp from the bowl though he did not remember wanting to, trying to, or even picking it up. The Man felt a warmth surge from his mouth and into his throat. It crawled into his stomach and from there to his heart. The Man felt, with each heartbeat, a calmness enter different parts of his body. His head became light. His jaw, loosened. His back welcomed the couch in a way he’d never felt as his feet were pushed forward in relaxation. His hands were unable to hold any grip of any weight for any length of time. The Man dropped the bowl. No liquid spilled or glass shattered as it floated back onto the table gently. His eyes closed slowly and he felt unable to open them. The Man noticed he was falling asleep though he had not felt tired before this. He attempted to open his eyes and succeeded in lifting, minimally, his right eyelid. He saw The God’s face— eye’s coagulated into gray circles, no pupils— inches from his own. He passed out.

The Man had no dream.

When he awoke, The God was gone.

The Man found himself lying completely on the couch. His feet were up, now stretched out into the direction The God had been sitting. He had no idea how long he had been asleep.

The creatures that appeared in his left peripheral looked to be approaching. The Man did not dare look their way. There were two of them— shadows. The Man noticed their movements were unlike walking. They made no sound. The Man stayed horizontal with his back to the couch. His eyes were open but facing upwards. The striations had left. The only contrast to the white surroundings were his robes and the figures, the shadows, who had now arrived. Without addressing him, they began to look him over. They did not speak but appeared to be communicating. The one to the left picked up his arm. It gazed at the tattoo which grew hot— burnt his skin. He stayed motionless. The creature looked at its partner. They both nodded. The Man continued looking upwards. They began to pick him up but struggled to do so gracefully. One grabbed his legs while the other took hold of his torso.

In the commotion of lifting, The Man took sight of the face of the creature at his legs. The torso of a tall, lengthy figure cloaked in black robes commenced in a long gray neck that met a wide, gray face. The eyes of the creature were sunken in as wrinkles of skin on the borders met a gaping blackness. There was no nose. The mouth was slightly open with corners that were turned horrifyingly, impossibly downwards. It turned to look at The Man and his eyes locked with the empty eye sockets. The Man heard a scream though no mouth moved. A vision of cold, manual labor flashed through his mind as he left his surroundings, carried away in the dream. The Man was swinging a sledge-hammer into an empty space. He was freezing. Two feet from the white ground, his hammer stopped aggressively with a loud clang that hurt his hands. He saw nothing, an empty space where his hammer was stopping. The vision zoomed out. There were hundreds like him, thousands— maybe more, swinging hammers. Clanging onto nothing. A rhythmic metallic thunder was produced. The Man heard the vibrations, watched, felt the cyclical labor, four times before he came out of the vision. He was greeted by deathly, inhuman laughter from the two creatures who had stretched, from their necks, closer to his face— still holding him up. He was shivering. The creatures began to carry him away from the couch— silence was only interrupted by an echo of their laughter from moments ago.

“Where are you taking me?’ It was the first time The Man felt like he had asked his own question.

The creatures dropped him instantly. The Man hit the ground hard and splayed his hands and feet. The one at his legs took out a dagger and cut into his throat. Warm, crimson blood rippled over his robes— disappearing into the white surroundings. He passed out to the sound of their laughter.

The Man awoke once more on the couch with The God who was smoking. The cat was in his lap. The striations, the cat, The God’s eyes all shook and vibrated in the same rhythm, and The Man wondered if he was dreaming. He tried to sit up but The God pushed his staff into The Man’s chest with great force. His eyes coagulated into a circle which stared at The Man as he kept applying pressure to his staff. The couch no longer sunk but instead pushed up back into the weight, the pressure. The God’s face stayed blank and his eyes never left The Man’s. The Man was beginning to feel the blunt staff rip through his chest when The God spoke.

“You must not speak to them.”

He released the staff from The Man’s chest. A round indentation was left though The Man felt no pain. The God puffed his pipe and looked away. A gray striation joined the air from his exhale. The Man was unable to speak. Silence blanketed the area while The God smoked.

The Man felt his throat. There was no wound. He tried to put his hands back down to the couch but he found himself drinking the liquid from the bowl again. He noticed his hands were gray. His robes black. The calmness took its seat in his heart as the warmth surged through his body. Again, The Man slept. Again, The Man had no dream. Again, The God had disappeared.

When The Man awoke, the creatures were coming towards him like before. They arrived, began the same process. The Man got the sense that they were different, new ones, though he stayed looking upwards. His tattoo was inspected. A burn. A nod. A struggle to lift. Eyes locked, a scream. The vision came and went. Ghostly laughter filled his ears. The Man, already hefted off the couch, was carried away. He found himself wanting to ask the question again but stayed silent. He kept his gaze upwards for one thousand steps before he was hurled into the air, over the edge of something, and began a stomach-wrenching descent at speeds he had never felt. The Man passed out.

When he awoke, he was swinging a hammer. The cold raked every vessel in his body until reaching his heart which, through each beat, multiplied the intensity, decreased the temperature. He could feel his blood begin to freeze as each heartbeat became progressively more painful. He could see no one else but he could hear the reverberation of thousands. At the climax of each up stroke, he felt every muscle in his body tense as he prepared to slam the hammer down with a force way beyond his own strength. The hammer glided through the air on the downstroke with an unruly speed. The Man was certain, with each descent, that he would drop it though he never did. The swing commenced with an unbearable, painful clatter into his hands after which, every time, The Man attempted to let go of the tool. He watched the hammer fall to the ground but, suddenly— each time, he found it again above his head, in his grip, and his muscles tensing to an incomparable density while he began the process again. The inconsistency was nauseating and more than once, he attempted to vomit. It took an enormous number of cycles before he realized he had no options, his will was without bearing. He stopped attempting to drop it. The Man could feel his skin wrapping around the handle, freezing to it. Each stroke drawing more blood, freezing, then deepening the connection. Another infinity passed before The Man began counting the amount of swings. He got to 300 before he found himself counting backwards, then, suddenly, he was over 5000. Back to 70 before, somehow, reaching 120000. He gave up. A ghostly laughter arose from nowhere but was drowned out by the thundering hammers. The Man began swinging harder, faster. He lost feeling in his hands. His body became a machine, unable to quit. The sharp cold consistently growing. The hammer and his hands merging deeper, the two becoming one. The Man stayed this way for much longer than he had ever lived. He could remember nothing from his past. He had no idea of a future. Another lifetime passed. A third and a fourth. A fifth went by before he began to see a solitary shadow in his left peripheral. As The Man swung the hammer, he watched the figure float towards him but was unable to look away from the ground. The man realized he (The Man) was not excited. He was not scared. He was not happy or curious. Not hungry— without thirst. He did not feel patient but he waited without desiring quickness.

The figure arrived and watched him swing the hammer endlessly. The Man could see it was completely covered in a black robe. Cloth lined every inch of the body including the face. Its arms were crossed gracefully and if it had hands, they were tucked into the sleeves of the opposite arms. Its clothed face moved, followed, with each stroke of the hammer. The two stayed this way for some time, lifetimes or seconds— The Man knew it would be impossible to know. Eventually, the figure reached out and stopped the hammer mid swing. The Man’s physical body relaxed but his mind remained void, empty. He heard the thunder of the other hammers somewhere in the distance. The figure kept its hand on the hammer as its head, in a sudden, speedy movement, cocked in The Man’s direction, and immediately, silence coated the area. The creature looked at the Man, through the silence, the cloth, for another amount of time The Man could not gather before eventually taking the hammer from him. His skin had enmeshed with the metal and it was ripped off in the process. His blood did not spatter but, rather, hung loosely like clay straws. The Man felt as though he had lost a limb. Out of a pocket, the figure pulled a bowl of liquid and poured it down The Man’s throat. The Man felt pain where his hammer should have been as he passed out on the ground.

The Man awoke on the couch with The God who appeared to be in a hurry. He was smoking faster than usual and the air around them was thick with striated smoke. There was no cat. The God’s eyes were focused on The Man completely and he appeared to be evaluating him. After an indecipherable amount of time, he handed The Man his pipe which The Man, without wanting to, trying to, puffed. Instantly, you feel curious. You want to ask God many questions. The feeling overwhelms you. Your mind floods with questions before you realize how scared you are. How tired you feel. You look at your hands which are deformed in a circular shape of the hammer grip. The ripped skin exposes scabbed wounds. You remember the work you had just done. The cold. You think of your sister. Your mother. Was she here? You remember your goals in life. Your name. You wonder how you are remembered on Earth. If you are remembered. You wonder if anyone, or anything, you had ever known was still there. Where is there? Where are you? What has happened to you? What the fuck has happened to you? You begin to cry. You struggle to breathe. You feel grief, grieve your death, grieve everything that had been in your life as your body begins sinking into the couch. Whiteness is being replaced with darkness as you think of your friend from middle school. Your body attempts to throw up but you have not eaten in lifetimes. You remember what food is. You scream. You feel yourself sobbing now as you think of a chess game with your father in the park on some Sunday when you were a kid. You think of the cat you ran over when you were 19 and feel a sense of shame beyond anything a person could tolerate. You are completely engulfed in blackness and you can no longer breathe before God puts his hand to your chest, and everything calms. You look up to meet his gray beady eyes as he leans over you and says:

“You are done. You may ask me one question before you go.”

“Where am I going?”

“The afterlife.”

He takes the blunt end of his staff and plunges it through your skull. You have a vision of your mother though you do not recognize her face.

You die.

—---------------------------------------—---------------------------

“Time of birth: 3:03am– Methodist Hospital Peoria, IL— Father: Michael Hutchinson, Mother: Jenifer Hutchinson. Approximately eight lbs, male. Blue eyes. Name: Beau Hutchinson,”

“Birth certificate is on the way.”

“Perfect. Thank you. Good work on the delivery in there. I know it was a long one but the mother really pushed through thanks to your help. It does not go unnoticed.”

“Only doing what you asked me to. He sure was a screamer though, wasn’t he?”

“He was.”

“And the look on his face… such desolation…”

“Yes, well… they sometimes come out that way.”