TITLE: "All Hail The Damned"
AUTHOR: Arianna Kanji
ARTIST: Flavija P.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF BLOOD, VIOLENCE, GORE, AND ALCOHOLISM
All Hail The Damned
all hail the damned
all cursed lips and rotting spoons
twisting into molten gold passed from fresh fingertips
like an eagle-eyed game of sorts.
all hail the damned
skin in little bumps
seeds spread out on weary porch steps
splintered and cracked at the edges of crows feet.
all hail the damning
shuddering on mountaintops
speaking love into crumbling insides
tearing them away like wounds burning on skin.
all hail the demons
sent to bow on bleeding knees
stripped to their essence like soldiers
shivering frigid fingers on the back of a ruined radio.
and all hail the unknowing
all craggy skin and rancid breath
slicked back hair and beady eyes
who face their fate with nothing more than a laugh.
may they never be forgiven.
Somebody was bathing me in fire. Why else would my bare skin be mangled and raw? My fingers withered away to mere bone, unable to grip even an orange rind? But there was no hiss of the flame, not even a scream leaking from my mouth. Something, whether a metal bar or the tip of a drill, pierced my shoulder and I slumped. There used to be warmth.
Where had all the warmth gone?
There used to be light, too. Now, only darkness engulfed me. If I did flail, my bones did not understand and merely fell to the floor, limp and uncomprehending. Sins pooled from my mouth, my chest, dripping down my legs.
Something slinked through the shadows and I flinched. My bones creaked, shifted by an otherworldly being. I sank backwards in anticipation, blood running cold. There was a tune. A sanctuary. I pushed myself towards it like a dying man to water, gasping for breath.
“The lists have been compiled,” rasped a strange voice. Before me was smooth, level darkness. A wall.
A lowly murmur rippled through the gloom. Warmth washed over me, so similar to the sensation of before that my insides shuddered. Or at least, the hollow cage in which my insides used to lay, like a grave waiting to be filled. But everything was muted. My fingers creaked.
“It seems he is but a man.”
A voice. There was a swish of fabric, a small click, and then another responded:
“Aren’t they all?”
“In essence, yes. Now, we agreed you’d have the floor first?”
“That was the deal. I trust all of your materials are in order?”
“Yes. Seems you have significantly more.”
“Perhaps I’m just better prepared.”
They were too calm. Pulling my body forward, I slammed into the wall, dragging my nails against it, digging deep. They made no sound.
There was a loud boom and the wall crumbled. Stones clashed with the stringy essence of my skin. A pebble lodged itself between ivory and gum. I felt the urge to spit, but couldn’t find the strength.
Then, a sudden and distinct lack of pain. I wondered suddenly if there was no wall, and I was merely constructing a barrier to explain the frigid cold slowly staining my fingertips blue. For there was darkness, now, but it was punctured by soft murmurs, the shift of fabric, and, finally, a clear voice.
“Recorder of the right, you may begin.”
At the young age of seven, I’d been playing ball with my friends and accidentally sent one whizzing through the window of my father’s car. It smashed into the radio built into the front, and he claimed until the day he died that it never sounded quite right after that. It’d cut out, he’d complain in his gravelly hum, and shiver like cold winds were upon it. We’d still listen to it, though, every single day until it finally went dead. Peeling oranges and raising them to our chapped lips, commenting on the slivers of scratchy music. Watching the other boys playing baseball in the distance, flicking through the newspaper on his lap. I could almost remember the way his eyes sunk into his skin, becoming hollow. He’d needed help to peel the orange, in the end. He shuddered with every bite.
We got rid of that car over a decade ago. I never thought I’d hear such a sound again, but here it was. Flickering in and out of focus, one of the figures from before began to speak. Pinpointed through a layer of static were oddly familiar names; charities, people whose words I have tattooed on my back, whispers of garden hoses and grocery bags. Oranges, too, peeled and eaten. A droplet of blood leaked from the side of my skull, dripping down my skin. Something warm wiped it off. Home cooked meals, mentions of curries I’d long forgotten but whose tastes still filled my mouth. When the list came to an end, the glowing shape stepped back, and another one took its place. This list was smaller.
“Mary Condell.”
My heart dropped from my chest and splattered on the floor. There was a short sigh, and then somebody shoved it back in. It slithered around for a few moments before finding its place.
Bright Mary. The one with the strange eyes, almost as if she were looking right through me. I vaguely remember the scent of her blood on my lips, yet it came to me almost as a dream. She was always smiling. Always laughing.
Until I peeled that smile away.
“Aged 22. Pretty. Kind.”
“But was she?”
Yes? Was she? I waited to hear the verdict, stretching my muscles as far as they’d go. Or was she merely a shell, maggots twisting under her skin?
“She was. We have records to prove that, if you so wish.”
“That won’t be necessary-”
“Then let me continue. Or would you like to stop now?”
A pause. And then, “Continue.”
“Thank you.”
With every word, the lights before me swayed slightly, tilting from left to right. Mary. I hadn’t heard that name in a good long while. Not since I was young and bony. Back when every single day was the end of the world, and I couldn’t even remember why.
“You were drunk.”
Ah yes. Isn’t that always how these stories begin? With my head slumped backwards, eyes drifting in and out of focus? Maybe I’d learned it from the newspapers stuffed into the backseat. Like when I’d reach for them, and my father would tell me to twist my fingers and grasp the slim glass object beside them instead. Or when I’d gaze out of the car window at the boys playing baseball in the street, my fingers fiddling with the bottles poured open in front of me. Shards cluttered on the floor, mixing in with translucent orange juice.
But there was more, wasn’t there? Perhaps there’s a reason I can never quite remember her face, or why she never seemed to meet my eye.
“You were always a little bit drunk, back then. Today wasn’t a bad one. You could think. And you could see well enough to recognize red-haired Mary as she was crossing the road.”
No.
“But she was young. And she was pretty. And the day before, she’d made a small comment about your sweater. The one you’d gotten from your father.”
He’d worn it every day until he died. He couldn’t think well enough to choose anything else. The ends of it used to get caught on his car radio. Splintering the sounds.
Something bubbled just near the surface of my skin. There were no chains. Nothing binding me to the ground except for my own guilt. Twisting free from its grasps, I bounded forward.
Something akin to strong arms yanked me back.
“You saw her, and you crossed the street. She knew you, didn’t she? Recognized you, and waved to you.”
My lips cracked and my body lurched, fingers digging deep into my skull. Sullen and hollow, that’s how I remember her. Unfocused eyes and fragile fingers. Always smiling, still. Her laugh twisted itself through the swift movement of the trees, hiding there. She’d never destroy a radio. If she were here, the marks on her face would stretch themselves taunt.
“Poor Mary was in the hospital for three full days, wasn’t she?”
I thrashed. They led me away. Pushed me, in fact, smooth fingers against my bare bones. There’s nothing we could’ve done, they whispered into my ear. The wall returned, shuttering me off from that beautiful warm light. You know this.
Please, I found myself begging. Fight for me. Promise me I’ll win.
The real you will win either way. We promise.
And then I was begging to my own heart as it lay, smashed, on the floor. Pieces pouring out of it like the seeds of a pomegranate, caking my fingers in red. From behind the wall, soft murmurs punctuated the silence. I could make out none of the words, but I imagined the claims they must be hurling. Mary wasn’t the only one I forgot, was she? How much blood did I truly have on my hands?
I suppose I could have begged for mercy. But mercy was for those whose souls rumbled around on earth. My fate was decided the moment mine left. Why? Why must they dictate my fate, anyway? They did nothing but sit on my shoulders with their lists and their glowing light, collecting the deeds. Perhaps all the hearts I’ve broken and the wounds I’ve opened and the palaces I’ve burned are behind me. How could they know?
Do they know who I am? Who I could have been?
I raised my fist and smashed it against the wall. A burst of pain ran through my body as it lurched forwards. The next moment, I was immobile. My fingers could only twitch.
I’d put money in the hands of those who didn’t deserve it. I’d slammed a girl’s head against the wall in 10th grade, and I couldn’t even remember why. I left them all too soon. Eons later, when my hair began to turn gray, I saw Mary walking down the street with that smile on her face and ran. I mocked those with fragile bones, and laughed at their every hobble, until I had no choice but to join them. Sunken eyes. Hollow bones. I threw the empty orange peels at the man shivering near the side of the road. I was cruel.
But aren’t we all?
Silence. And then, the swish of fabric. This time, the two figures came into view up ahead.
“Well that was entertaining.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“We’ve been on his shoulders since he came into being, fair friend. We knew this day would come.”
“Yes. I suppose we did. And now what?”
“We’ve done our part. He’ll just have to wait for the verdict.”
Their gazes crossed over my bare bones, brittle fingers, pleading eyes. I could see, finally, the differences between them - one half-broken, the other half-fixed. Angels, some might say. The lists in their hands had been scrubbed away and burnt, ashes littering their blurry features.
“We wish you luck on your path.” As we always do. Then, finally, they were gone. The silence enveloped me once again. All my years, tainted red and blue and pink and gold, spiraled before me in a panic. My life wasn’t flashing before my eyes, but rather my deeds - the things I could control, to a certain extent.
The wall crumbled away for the last time.
“This was a difficult decision,” the raspy voice stated, “but a verdict has been reached.”
I spit out the pebble and fought the urge to laugh.
Comments