CHAOS: a story about gods and afternoon recess (#ONC2023)

Chapter Ten

Chaos is what I do. It's who I am. I enjoy it and embrace it and promote it.

Or at least, I always have in the past.

I am sad that Emilia is unhappy. I find no joy in spending the day in the gym with the principal, tending to the children who are quiet and subdued.

Things take an even worse turn when a young woman in jeans and a crisp white shirt races into the room and breathlessly scans the group of children.

"What is it now?" the principal grumbles.

"I need Matthew Guy."

The principal charges toward the lady, so, out of curiosity as much as anything, I do the same. We all lean forward, putting our heads close together so we can speak in low voices.

"His mother has been in a car accident," the young woman says.

A tiny gasp draws our attention. Matthew is on all fours between the principal and me. "Mama?" He scrambles to his feet.

The young woman squats down. "She's going to be okay, honey. She got a few big booboos, but nothing the doctors can't fix. Your daddy's friend Tom is going to come pick you up and take you to see her."

With all the strength in his miniscule form, Matthew punches me in my left leg. "You shouldn't have done that!"

"I did nothing." I back away and bump into the principal who scowls at me in much the same manner my high priest is scowling.

"You're always makin' stuff happen. Stuff splodes and people crash into stuff and it's a big joke, but you hurt my mama."

"I didn't cause her accident, I assure you."

"You didn't stop it," he declares. "You could have and you didn't."

Stop it? To stop all the chaos in the world would be catastrophic. Life as humanity understands it would cease to exist. "I cannot stop chaos, Matthew. Some things must happen for no reason at all except that they must happen."

My high priest kicks my shin.

The woman in white grabs him, gathers him into her arms, but he resists her embrace. His body remains stiff with anger.

"I don't wanna be a follower anymore. You need to be a regular guy. No more tricks, ever again."

Power spirals out of me like water pouring down a drain, and I stagger back a step or two. "You musn't—"

"No more tricks!" he shrieks. His tiny fists, balled at his sides, tremble. "Just stop it and be normal. That's all."

The woman in the white shirt holds him tight and, murmuring what I suppose are meant to be comforting words, leads him out of the gym.

I look at the group of children, most of whom are staring at the scene with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Bentley, Matthew, and Jenny are all watching the toes of their shoes. The wild-haired child from Mr. Pattinson's class is sitting on the floor with her back to us as if to express the utmost disdain. We are not even worth her attention.

The principal clears her throat. "That's enough of all that, now. We have work to do. Mr. Zatyafan, please wheel the chalkboard to the center of the stage so we can begin practicing our spelling words." Her tone is softer than I've ever heard it. Shaken, even. But I can take no pleasure in seeing this stout lady brought low. Who is lower than a god, stripped of power by his high priest, forced into the service of children who do not respect him?

Too stunned to do anything but obey, I trudge up the stairs and drag the large chalkboard to the middle of the stage. We practice spelling words and after that we eat lunch. Following lunch is recess, during which time the children quietly toss balls back and forth, swing, and dangle from the monkey bars. Around three o'clock, they file out to the busses and I leave the building to wander the streets. The sun sets and rises again and, uncertain what else I should be doing, still bound to my priest by his first offering, desperately hoping that Emilia will come back, I return to the school. Mr. Pattinson has returned. He teaches his class with as firm a hand as ever. An elderly man stands behind Emilia's desk, peering myopically at the children as they quietly color in the shapes on their worksheets. Mr. Brueller, angry about having the cafegymnatorium conscripted the day before barks at me when I enter the large room.

I am a god without a cult.

I am alone.

The weekend stretches interminably before me. On Monday I begin my job as gym teacher in earnest. I direct the children to run laps and play games governed by sensible rules and safety instructions. Matthew is subdued. He does not act up during my classes. He does not gift me any type of offering. I set up tables and sweep the floors during the lunch hours. On the playground, I remind the children not to run too fast or climb too high. One day rolls into the next. Each day, I repeat the same actions and phrases.

"Good morning."

"I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

"Careful, now."

"Play fair."

"Have a nice evening."

The titanium cords of my power fade to gossamer threads.

I ask, "Matthew, is your mother feeling better?"

He shrugs. "She's grumpy 'cause she gotta spend the whole damn summer on crutches."

The old man in Ms. Williams' room takes down the green cards and packs them in a cardboard box with her coffee mug and seemingly every bright and cheerful item from her room. The space grows stark and white. He posts lists of rules on the bulletin boards.

Again, the sun sets. Again, it rises, and the world moves forward in structured order while I quietly turn to dust.