Breaking Young Divinities

Chapter 15

What is this shadow, or glimmer, or point of light amidst chaos;

where the body and the mind

are fortified by resolve while tossed in a sea of fear;

the soul, emboldened by love while trudging through

a swamp of hate;

and the heart, daring onward with courage against

the forces of cowardice,

makes the essence of humanity shine, sacred,

in a world that thrives, profane, on things mundane?

Whatever drives the soul of a man toward the profound,

and away from the obscene,

does not drive me (or has not for a while).

No, it drives me into the arms of wickedness instead.

Whatsoever makes one love, and not hate,

does not abide inside me.

Where there should be love,

I would hate instead.

Where there should be hate,

I have only love.

But this is nothing new. In all of history, from the beginning to the end, evil has been our eternal companion. Hate, anger, pettiness – these things have always been here; have always been a part of us. So this is nothing new; I am nothing new; my problems are nothing new.

The bruising on my stomach had faded after several weeks. It was early December and I was busy drinking when possible, studying when necessary, though it was never necessary, and cursing at the world outside my bedroom window. Out there, in the world, the sky was persistently grey. The city was constantly grimy. I was relentlessly grim. The soul-chilling cold of winter was still held off by the remnants of autumn, and so in place of snow there was rain.

And the rain fell in hardened clumps, frigid and stinging the skin like thousands of tiny daggers. It did not bother me much. Nor did the dampness in my bones bother me. Nor did my unwashed matted hair bother me. Nor did the coming-and-going breathing sounds of the cold west wind bother me.

For me everything was dead and dying. I saw a newborn baby on the streetcar, held tight and warm in its loving mother's arms, and it was already deteriorating right there before me. A teenage girl sitting on the steps of her high school, trying to look more adult with her face caked by mascara, already wore signs of old age. A middle-aged man, working hard to support his family, was just a heart-attack in the making. Death was just giving them a few begrudging days of grace.

So one day, between the drinking and the bouts of depression, I ventured outside for a stroll in the grey, despicable autumn day. An autumn day which seemed to mock and pity me. The sun's rays seemed to sneer at me with its garish yellow-blue beams peering down between the clouds. It laughed at me by illuminating the life all around me. By pointing out all these living things, the sun only reminded me of her absence.

As I walked around aimlessly that day, as the rain poured in spiky little daggers, as the sun beamed down with its hideously patronizing beams, and as Death punched the clock on everyone and everything, I found myself absorbed and oblivious.

I stepped onto the first-floor balcony of the dealer and tapped lightly on his window. After a minute, he peered out from behind the curtains bleary-eyed and confused. He opened the window a crack. He looked around cautiously.