II

I do a lot of thinking here in Heaven.  Most of the time, life as a resident here is so painstakingly regimented that there is no room for much of anything else... most of the time, I stretch out on the floor against the wall farthest from the entryway to my residency... yes, on the floor, since they don’t even so much as ask me if I would fancy a chair to sit in while I’m under lock and key in my little space... but you can imagine why they don’t even care to bring up the subject...

Anyway, sometimes I think about the way things are, or at least the way I see them to be.  I wonder what a soul has to do to get here, what kind of things determine status and such within the community of Heaven.  Is the size of a residency, or the very state of being a resident as opposed to an emissary or templar, determined by the good one does during life?  It would be somewhat logical if this was the case, but it’s not.  Oh no, of course Heaven doesn’t adhere to conventional thought.  You see, I know that things don’t work this way because of the new people.  Most of the new guys here, they’re residents... the vast majority I’d wager.  To be honest, I’m not exactly sure because of the isolation that comes from being a resident.  The only times I ever see anyone other than an angel is at communion, and that only happens every so often.

Some of the new faces, though... they’re definitely not residents because they come with the angels to take me to the temple or to fling food at me as if I were some kind of mangy animal... the darker angels speak to each other in a language that I can’t comprehend, but it appears that the older one, that one who called himself Gabriel, is giving instructions to the newer one on how to do things.  It really gets me thinking, you know?  How did THAT guy get to be an angel right off while others, most notably myself, have to languish here in the pits of the residency?  It just doesn’t make any sense, especially since this particular guy looks a lot like Gustavo, the mean-spirited Hispanic punk with the leather jacket who always used to peddle cocaine on our block when we were kids.  People like that are the ones that get higher positions here?

They always used to tell us at church on Sundays that the righteous would be rewarded, that the good and the faithful would earn themselves a place in the realm of Heaven under the watch of God... they always used to say things like this, and they always made it sound like such a wonderful thing to love God (“for God so loved the world,” my mother would always chide me) and to be one of the “chosen ones” who would earn a place in Heaven... well it’s obvious that no mention of the residency ever reached the ears of the faithful, or they would have turned to the path of evil in a heartbeat... I shudder to think of something worse than this, so Hell can’t possibly be so bad... and after that we’d all line up to receive the Holy Communion, to eat the bread and wine in remembrance of something or another that I can’t seem to recall (do this in remembrance of me)

Ah, I almost forgot about communion!  Good thing I remembered about that or I’d forget to mention the version here in Heaven.  Once every so often, as I already mentioned, the angels herd out small groups of residents (once again obscuring our vision so that we might not see the splendors outside of our native slum) into the communion chapel.  Each one of us is given a tray, a rather small one, and arranged and ranked into a single-file line of sorts. 

It is here that I can see some of my partners in misery.  Together we – the weak, the downtrodden, the lowly – share in this mockery, share in this realization of one grand, orchestrated lie... yet the other residents at times don’t even seem to be aware of their own ill predicaments.  There is little to no conversation between residents; usually a glare or even the acknowledgment of presence is more than sufficient... besides, even if I had to talk with them, isolation has robbed my voice of its effectiveness... but my mind’s still sharp as ever...

Some of these guys, then, have it pretty bad, even for a resident.  There is this one guy, he’s kind of old-looking, thin grey hair, but really emaciated and looking like he got to Heaven via starvation... the angels have to hook him up to some little device from time to time because the food here in Heaven makes him sick or agitated or something and he has to be nourished manually... and then there’s this girl who seems to think that she should be an angel herself or something, because she’s always complaining about how “that guy” learned how to fly and “they” got rid of him for knowing too much or something like that... I’d believe it too; those angels are ruthless in addition to being cruel...

Oh, I almost forgot about names... we don’t have need for names between residents because we’re never directly acknowledging each other... it’s more of a common sentiment that I feel strongly whenever communion comes up.  That’s why I refer to them as “thin guy” or “the flying girl” or whatever... just generic terms, nothing special...

The actual communion in Heaven consists of a small white cup (go figure) of holy water and another small cup containing little round things.  I’m not sure what the things are, but they are slightly sweet and I have to use the water to make sure that they go down... except I hate it because the communion is another part of Heaven’s farce!  A short while after the whole ceremony has ended and I am cooped up within my residency again, I start to feel really strange.  It’s almost as if some creeping influence enters my very soul and starts to take hold of it... I don’t feel lucid anymore, I feel almost as if the very openings that I see in the fabric of reality are stitched up and hidden away from my eyes in one brief instant of realization.  The first few times I didn’t understand and I was scared... or at least as scared as I could have been given the whole soul intrusion thing... but now I know that the communion “bread” is the cause!  Maybe the holy water makes it more effective or something, but the purpose of taking communion here in Heaven has got to be some measure of control on the part of the angels, or maybe even God himself.

Speaking of God, I have actually met him a couple of times during my time here in Heaven... quite incredulous I know, but God isn’t as condescending as his underlings; he just has a lot shorter of an attention span and doesn’t seem to care too much about things that go on outside of his own mind... something that I can relate to, because my mother was the exact same way in my youth.  Always scolding me, always thrusting her Bible at me, all the while lost in some make-believe world of devils and sin.  You’ve got to remember the Lord and praise Him in everything you do, she would always say.  I never got any attention from her unless it was some form of preaching or another...

I’m sure that God has many forms since he is pretty much lord and master of the entirety of existence (or so my mother seemed to drill into my head), but he always seems to take the same one when dealing with me... or maybe it is my own projection of God, my mind’s own method of visualizing and perceiving the infinite... but whatever.  God appears to me as a middle-aged man, balding with a little bit of pepper still left in his mostly salty hair (that which remains anyway).  He’s kind of rotund but not horrendously so, since such a form would be a physical manifestation of vice... and he wears this white overcoat that seems so regal, so distinguished... it’s one of the only white things in the entirety of Heaven that I can look at for more than two seconds before having to suppress a gag reflex...

God comes into my residency hole and looks down at this little book that he is carrying with him... I’m not really sure what it is but I think it might be the Book of Heaven... you know, where they keep the names of all the people that get to go to be with God in “paradise” or whatnot... regardless, he checks over this little list, makes a few notes to himself, and then comes inside and sits down with me (on the floor even!  What a guy this God fellow is!) while the angels stand watch outside.  I often wonder why God needs bodyguards but that’s really not a big deal... after all, He is the boss and can do whatever he wants.

So God chats with me for a little while, and at times it’s kind of hard because I get such scant opportunity to actually TALK to someone.  He’ll ask me questions about how I’ve been doing, how my residency is holding up, and stuff like that.  Every so often, after I answer a question for Him, He’ll make some more notes on his list.  The only thing that bothers me about these talks with God, though, is that He doesn’t seem to really care in the least when I tell Him what the angels are up to.  He barely acknowledges me when I talk about the bad feelings I get after communion, or the denial of letting me see the view en route to the baptismal chamber.  It’s like He either doesn’t listen, doesn’t care, or maybe even a little bit of both.

Sometimes these conversations make me think that God’s an idiot.  Yes, He is in charge here... but that doesn’t mean that I have to do what he tells me.  Besides, when was the last time I saw Him anyway?  Days, weeks... I don’t know. 

Ideas keep coming into my head, rapidly and quite powerfully, almost as if they were hypnotic suggestions (worship me all shall be thine)  I like them so much, however, because of their stark contrast to the nature of this place that I loathe so much: the thoughts are dark, they are obscure, mysterious, almost expressly forbidden in a way... perhaps the devil’s influence extends even into the holiest of places, creeping up through some tiny yet reachable fissure like runover from a heavy storm into a home.  Surely it is his dark, malicious whispers reaching into my mind, planting themselves within, taking root and waiting for their moment to reach repugnant fruition.  If my mother was here in Heaven (where’s your faith gotten you now, Mother dearest?), she would surely die again if she knew of my recent acquaintance.  You’re bound to let the Devil into your heart, she would say to me at times, usually when I had done absolutely nothing wrong to begin with.  Satan will take root and drag you straight to the fires of Hell, and you will cry and gnash your teeth and wish you’d loved the Lord with all your heart.

Once again, the woman was wrong, for the devil didn’t have access to me or to my heart here in Heaven until I carried out the greatest idea of all: abstaining from communion.  Yes, it required a bit of trickery on my part, having to pretend to swallow the little holy wafers and then spit them out in solitude, hiding them away in a very small opening in my wall... but it was completely worth it.  Their control mechanism was gone, no longer could they impose their self-righteous will upon me...

I was free of spirit, and soon, said the devil, I would be free of Heaven...

III

The plan to escape was simple enough; it was genius in its simplicity, however.  I knew this because the devil knew this, and as his sinister whispers (you shall want not) became more and more profound within my head, I surrendered my will to his dark purpose. 

God, said the devil, would come to visit me soon enough (he will come but you will be ready)  He had, he claimed, finally noticed my abstinence, and such non-compliance could not be tolerated by the Heavenly Father.  How wrong I had been, assuming that He paid little heed to the meek (god wants only to control his subjects) such as myself here in His kingdom.  The devil imparted the Truth (i am the true power of existence surrender to my will) to me through his smooth yet chilling revelations, haunting my dreams as well as lingering in my head through each and every waking moment.

When the Father did come to visit me (be still my son and listen) I was to reveal nothing of my commune with the Dark One... that would, said he, be my own bitter, gruesome end.  Instead, I was to remain as calm and passive as possible, waiting much like the Serpent himself for my oppressor to show a moment of weakness, and then strike.  God may be infinite, the devil explained, but His physical manifestation is as mortal as the rest of us (he can be killed you can kill)  Once this was accomplished, he would lead me to “true freedom” as well as vengeance upon all of those who were against us.

I could hardly wait.  It all seemed so simple (it is simple)

He did come to visit me not long after, looking much as He did during the other meetings, but there was a particular look of worry about Him.  His usually well-combed half-head of hair was particularly disheveled (not yet, be patient) 

Thick-rimmed glasses hung on top of his nose, focusing His gaze on the all-too-familiar notepad which He always carried (let him think that you are harmless

he will realize his mistake soon enough)  He was trembling as He opened my residency door, probably due to excess stress.  Yes, He definitely had the air of troubles around Him (he is already weak soon you will have your freedom) Strange, I remember thinking, what does God have to worry about?  Then I realized, or rather was informed by my infernal patron: (he knows)

Yes, He knew about the Dark One’s presence... He had to have known!  How foolish of us to think otherwise!  If I was going to escape this wretched hell-hole for that of my benefactor, I had to do something fast... my very afterlife was at stake, and there was no way that I was going to be left there to suffer.

As he closed the door behind him and began to speak to me, that same nervousness reflected in his unusually meek voice, I struck.  I lunged at him, clutching at his throat and squeezing with all of my might (tear him apart)  His limbs flailed as he tried to fend me off, trying to breathe or to scream for his angels’ assistance, but it was all in vain.  The fear in his eyes was all too human, a fact that I found only slightly disturbing.  Soon, as he wriggled frantically for release, I felt a strong pop from his neck, and his struggling ceased.  I released his neck at that moment and the Father’s body dropped to the floor with a weighty thump. 

I knelt beside His lifeless body and looked at his blank, empty stare.  I then realized what I had done (you have secured your freedom) and stared in horror at my open hands.  I had slain God, maker of Heaven and Earth, and for what?  (liberation from this illusion) I went to look back into His eyes, my own glare moving across His chest, across the label on His holy robe that read “Dr. Thompson,” in hopes that the dead Father could see the remorse in my eyes and forgive my sin even here in Heaven.  Yet as I reached His face, it was not His at all that I saw staring back at me, but rather... my mother’s...

Many an idle residency daydream flooded my conscious mind then, giving an identity to the faceless victim lying underneath my bloodied hands.  I had been weeping over the body of my mother, her neck snapped much as God Thompson’s was now, staring at my own hands (yes, now you see) The horrid scars on my wrist were pulsating and oozing a steady stream of red; a jagged knife on the floor gleamed out of the corner of my left eye (we have done this before)  Echoes of another maternal scolding raced through my turbulent mind, increasing the fervor and emotion of my maddened weeping.

Forgive me, Mother.  Forgive me, God Thompson, for I have sinned...

I had to escape now, had to leave as Lucifer had commanded (you belong with me now)

I left my residency and quickly began to follow the only path (path to me) that I had ever really known in Heaven: left, 20 steps, right, 7 steps.  I closed my eyes so as to better approximate my self-memorized directions, and no sooner had I (turn right) turned right than I heard the voice of Gabriel.  “Dyos-mee-oh” he screamed, and then I heard footsteps chasing me.  All of the sudden the residency was alive with screams of confusion and fear, for the others did not know what was happening.

I continued on and took my seven steps when I felt a cool breeze as I often do.  I opened my eyes and beheld a large portal of clear glass, through which I beheld the beauty of the realm outside the residency.  Clouds littered and endless sea of blue and heavenly light as far as my eye could see, with a literal sea far below.  It was here that I would have to escape.  Surely this exit would put me in no worse a situation than I was already in, plus I would escape (escape the lie) from this farcical afterlife. 

The thundering of running footsteps sounded behind me, and I whirled around.  Gabriel, Angelo, and that young angel protégé of Gabriel’s were chasing after me frantically, their dark features contorted simultaneously into expressions of fear and of frustration.  “Lah-ben-tah-na!” screamed Gabriel as he pointed in my direction.  I knew not what he was ordering his companion angels to do, but it could not be good.  I turned again toward the glass portal and knew exactly what had to be done. 

I began to run toward it as fast as I could, and the brief period of time that followed seemed to me to stretch on indefinitely.  The angels behind me continued running down the long corridor, futilely attempting to catch me before I could escape.  I heard another familiar voice, distinctly feminine, yelling with a happier, almost confused tone behind me.  “Yeah man, fly!”  The voice of Flying Girl erupted behind me (ignore her she is nothing)  It was making her day to see one of the residents achieve the angel’s abilities of flight, and she was letting me know exactly how she felt.  No sooner had this cheering reached my ears than the weight of my body collided with the glass, shattering around me and tearing swiftly through my flesh as I fell through it with ease... 

... which leads me up to about right now (fallen and still falling)  My time in Heaven was quite brief, but after the atrocities I have committed both before and during my afterlife, I know now that I do not deserve to be there in any form, as bad as it might have seemed.  I am rapidly descending (falling to Hell with me) both from Heaven and in my spirit.  Yet I still have hope.  Perhaps things will be better for me in...

(splash)