Hermetic Eyes

Island of Souls

The names rang true to the end of the hour. What was the purpose of life? The man by the boat asked me, and it rang true. It ranged the depths of the blue, purported in the very front of my eyes. By the time I entered a house that was unlikely to be built for me, there were three men, their feets hanging by a vine. The vine had grown wildly from the ceiling of the house. Their bodies were entangled, their legs wrinkled a pair above one another. In hindsight, they seemed like the five-legged beast the fascists were so afraid of. One that crept up one's dream and haunted the remainder of their life. The first man spoke in candor, and the second spoke by names I hadn't heard. I could hear a pattern from the second bite. It was three words being spoken over and over again that drove me insane. The third one hadn't spoken as I was already outside, seeking fresh air.

I didn't have problems the first week settling in, apart from the constant crashing of the sea waves that bloated the inside of my eardrums, precisely the left one. It had been loose before I got here, a fact, though I couldn't imagine, living in quietness would drive one-half deaf. Was it the way of the world? To be a man without the surrounding was to be a half-broken man? They ripped whatever was left of my soul. They wanted to make a monster out of me, but I couldn't simply accept their idea. I had a bearing of my own, a motive, ever so sweet it was to have purposes.

Until that very day, I still couldn't go to the main room. I could hear them hanging by the vine. I had to drill a hole from outside that led straight to the bedroom. I had to, I swore. I couldn't bear looking at those three entangled men in the living room. Only the rain would make me feel as livid since the water could come heavily into the bedroom, and I had to clean it always in the morning. The cloud brought the precipice, and I had no choice but to fight the thunder. It was always that way. Three safe nights and four days of rainstorms, a pattern associated strictly with that island every week.

I wanted to explore once. But the thought dashed through my mind, slipping away after hours of waning the crashing waves on the coastline. I read through the waves and found fish. They were all staring at me, "Mycah." They hissed once; I swore that I had not gone mad. I went to the doctor who resided right over the hill. The only person I spoke to on the damned island. The doctor was not kind. She had administered me with remorse. She talked every time I visited, and it was never the kind talk. It was always about me and my past, something I had long forgotten. I always thought the doctor was gaslighting me. She, too, wanted to make a monster out of me, so I persevered. I resisted.

Just like many hours of the world and just like Alexander conquered the world, I became brave. It was only after my last visit with the doctor. That day, I was endorsed with supplements for youth. I was probably 39 years old, but I had the spirit of Amun's priest. I felt it within me, the rich energy overflowing. It was the same energy that flew through the ventricles of Alexander. It was the very same energy that went powdered upon the Eucharist or the matrimony between young princes and princesses. With an immediate alarm, I ran straight to the beach, and the fish started talking more.

"Mycah," they screamed more. However, the recursion ended with a base case of another name in their glistened mouth. "Hya pol," I heard them saying, though I was unfamiliar with the latter. The second word of the sentence. Just like the second coming of the savior. I watched the world sink into the drowsy flames of greed and vengeance. Of love for their country. Of the devil prince being resurrected to the zenithal. I saw him standing on the very top of the world. Sat in front of him, an infernal chair made out of the marrow of the backbone that belonged to a false prophet. A prophet whose life had been spent sitting on a chair, spewing lies and hatred upon the tablecloth. It was only then the followers and their kind realized he was not the savior the world was obliged. He was only a man. He, too, had sins, however not original. If birth gave sin, then that man gave many sins. His children were the comeuppance of the false-eyed one. The one who spoke of the horns. "Hya pol," said the fishes, but that time around, their call woke me up from daydreaming.