It all begun with the thought of killing Him; a single thought that sprawled to this ungodly verdict of slaughtering such practical horrendous pig. I thought if there’s anyone who should take His life, it should be me. No, not even God should take his life. He, after all, took mine. It’s time that I do what I always knew I had to do. It is foretold that it in my own hands, He shall perish.
But it didn’t happen. Yes, I killed Him with my very own hands, but not because I wanted to. It’s because he wanted me to kill Him.
He pleaded and crawled on my feet. “Kill me…kill me please,” he said.
I cried. I cried very very hard. But not because I felt pity for Him, but because I hated Him more than I ever did. I want Him to die without Him wanting to die. I want Him to plead for Hell to swallow Him whole. I want to hear Him curse God for allowing Him live. I want Him killed. But I don’t want Him to want it.
I screamed at the top of my lungs while kicking His face and groin alternately. “Fuck you! Fuck you! You fucking pig!"
He started spitting blood. And I want more. So I kicked him more and more, harder as the next one. On his face. Groin. Legs. Chest. Blood spurted from His mouth. Face. Groin. Legs. Chest. More blood came out of His mouth. Face. Groin. Legs. Chest. More blood.
Once, He told me that it is okay to like whatever that would give me joy. I believed and lived such philosophy. Torturing Him to death gives me joy now.
Finally, I am convinced that every single cell in my body is happy. Finally, I am whole again; no longer that the shadows of my shattered years would haunt me. No more rejections. No more pain. Finally, I am free.
His mouth moved like He was trying to utter some words with the little breath left in Him. He failed.
I took the dagger and slowly slash a cut in His dank right cheek. Not only blood begun trickling down, but trails of tears could now be seen dripping from His eyes. I look at them and there I saw no anger for me, instead I saw nothing but remorse. And with that, a burly surge of anger rose from within my chest like it was there laying dormant for centuries already. For the last time, the dagger danced along His chest and its silver blade looked never the same again.
I never heard His breath again. Kneeling beside His lifeless body, I closed my eyes like a triumphant warrior not wanting to see any remnants of the finished battle. But instead, like a curse, I was plagued by flashes of disconcerting images.
A blind woman, barefoot, traversing a busy side-walk.
A silver-haired child swaying in a canopy.
A rusting tin can with paper bills in it.
A man hanging by his head inside a dimly lit room.
A mechanical pen.
A blank bond paper.
I opened my eyes once more. And as tears came falling like beads of Heaven, I begun praying. Our Father in Heaven, holy be Thy name...
“They say it’s the last song
They don’t know us, you see
It’s only the last song
If we let them be.”
-from the cult film “Dancer in the Dark” by Lars von Trier
The movie keeps haunting me for days and I keep on having nightmares like this ever since. It is a nightmare, I know. But I also know that my nightmares are always real. Always.