En Passant

The refrigerator door hung open, setting all of the chilled air free. Leftover rancidity wafted into masculine nostrils. It had been an Ocean Quahog’s age since the man had eaten anything. The light in the fridge had broken, and deluminated food had an unappetizing zeal. However, he knew if he had bothered to fix the problem, he would see that nothing is worth eating.

Man looked for sustenance. He slid his eyes from object to object, hoping that one of the foodish things would look appealing. Alas, all their dates were long expired or their colors had greened, whitened, or blackened. He saw flat beer, bad milk, old cheese, and a mystery dish. He rummaged through the fruit, vegetable, and meat drawers trying to find something edible. The only thing he found was an apple, rolling amidst a sea of crinkly onionskins.

Man decided on the apple– the best of an empty drawer. It was a Crisps’ Pink, otherwise known as a Pink Lady, the superior princess of the apple families. The man’s mouth watered. The fruit looked so succulent. He couldn’t help wondering what sort of taste would drive his buds to Elysiumetic madness. Man maneuvered his way in the dirty, cramped kitchen-section of his dining-slash-living room, the larger space in his small, four-bedroom apartment.

What the other bedrooms were for was completely unknown to the man. He had forgotten. They could have been full of his junked storage, or perhaps where he had misplaced all of the dead bodies (he liked to joke with himself, though no body –but his own– had been inside the house for eternities). He had shared his bedroom with no one. He was alone, and had been so for as long as it took for time to burp and start the feeding over.

He peeled off the Purson Farms sticker and washed the apple in the sink. As the water hit the garbage disposal it lit a match under the rotting food. The man gagged and about dropped his fruit. He flipped the disposal on and dripped some dish soap into it, making a note to clean at some point in the eventuality of his existence in the dismal apartment. The only rooms he used in the trashed place were his bedroom, bathroom, and the living/kitchen/dining room, but those rooms were heavily used. It was like it had snowed rubbish and the man had made snow-demons in all the piles of leftover shit.

Man considered drying the apple, but he had no clean towels of cloth or paper. ‘Oh, well,’ he thought, for the apple would taste twice as juicy wet. He played with it first, feeling the slick skin with his calloused fingertips. He ruined the beauty of the apple with his ugly appendages. His hands were rough: they had done much work, but had forgotten the details of the arrangements. The man had taken many jobs before his unemployment. He had been a landscaper, a construction worker, and a gardener. Indeed, it seemed his fingernails had forgotten about his retirement.

The man had worked where he could. He had just wanted some work– any work. He once had a lot to support, but now it was just the one tenant. He had no need to work. The clocks ticked on without him. Hearts beat and blood flowed without his presence. The world was a well-oiled machine that would roll right into damnation without his assistance. Man could still feel the dirt in the crevices of his fingerprints. He would always be touched by that soil, it seemed– even if it had led to pain and suffering, even if he had lost his job.

It wasn’t so much ‘lost,’ as given up. His family was gone. The nest was empty; the neighborhood was almost, entirely abandoned for better properties– ones that didn’t take as much upkeep. The curb appeal just wasn’t what it used to be. He was alone. People kept trying to contact him– kept trying to get him to poke his head back out into the world, but he was tired. He didn’t want to be a part of society. Man just wanted to be left alone. Though it ached him, he enjoyed his loneliness.

The man tossed the apple lightly into the air. As soon as it hit his hand again, he would have to courage to eat it. It smacked against his palm. Man pressed it against his lips in a sweet kiss. He crunched past its skin with his teeth. It was a big bite, but he would manage. He had never tasted an apple before. He had many opportunities in his past, but now just seemed to be the right time, what with all the chaos on the streets… here at the end of all things.

Man’s tongue tasted the pandemonium of phenomenonality. His muscular hydrostat writhed in juiced ecstasy. The taste buds were in discongress. It was a melding clash of: sweet and sour; love and hate; birth and murder; growth and rot; and an electrifying tablet of utopia versus dystopia. It was a civil war of the mouth organ’s papillae. They had the individuality of the human race. One man’s trash…

-

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

The man tried his best to sleep. The wingèd fiend with the bags –stolen from the hourglass of time– had kept no weight for the tired to sleep. The sandman kept his stores, futilely reserved, for the younger generation and their ability to shoot alertness directly into their veins. Those who wished to sleep could not, and those who had no sands to drip for it couldn’t wake. Man scoffed at Sandy (the bastard); the apartment man could have done a better job. He tried again to drift on placid dreams. Rapid realities raged into his attempts.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

The racket again– the door. The man would have to remember to kill the door when he rose from tried slumber, but then he was reminded that the door was a tree, long dead already. The man forgave himself and decided not to speak ill of it.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

Those banging on the other side were a different story. Man loved, hated, and feared them. They would eat him alive –he knew– if he left the apartment. He would not survive among their temperaments. They tortured him so.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

“STOP!” the man cried to whisper, “…please….”

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

Every night.

He tried to escape from the unrapture by immersing himself in the glowing globe by his bedside. He reached out and gave it a slow spin.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

The man rasped at himself fervently, cursing the sandy sadist, “I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep I just want to sleep I just want to sleep—“

The man’s, house phone joined, to become a cataclysmic cacophony. He was clinging to the past with a shrieking landline in his living room. It was un-stylistically placed on his coffee table.

‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘From every direction.’

The phone continued to blare. The door heartily laughed in booms.

“—IjustwannoosleepIjustwannoosleepIjuswaannasleep…”

Man would have to do something about this. He couldn’t take much more.

RING RING!!! RING RING!!!

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

He ran out into the living room and pulled the cord out of the back of his Shax brand, telephone.

RING RI—

All was silent. He listened intently for the boom of the door, still hyper-aware. Nothing. The door had joined the phone in silence. The man exhaled in thanks and calmed his pulse.

Just as he had calmed—

--BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

He jumped. His heart skipped a beat, and he swallowed as he breathed, catching saliva in the wrong places. He coughed. When the man finished his sputtering, his eyes widened. He was frightened. His lack of sleep had led to his paranoia. His pupils were wide, his irises hidden away in horror. He walked slowly to the door. He didn’t want them to get in. He didn’t want them to get in!

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

He could see their shriveled faces in his mind, their prune’y hands outstretched. Their eyes had flaming claws. They wanted to rip him. They wanted to tear him, grind him up, and drink him. They would feast upon his flesh. They would suck him dry. They were greedy. They wanted in. They wanted safety. They would do anything for the ticket– anything for promises, for the seed of unknowns to sprout futile hopes. They wanted the torment to stop. They would take advantage of the man. He didn’t want to save them. Did he? They were selfish. Was he? He nodded. He was selfish too, it seemed. That made sense. But they would hurt him. It was certain. His body began to shake. What if they broke down the door? What would they do?

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

He crept with each step. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to face them or not. Would they go away if he finally faced them? He wondered, as he placed his feet on the carpet of eggshells. Soft steps. Soft steps. He didn’t want them to hear. Creeping. Creeping. Slow-motion. He was there, the suspense building– eating at him like a high-pitched, screeching note. He swallowed hard, in tears now. He could feel their pain. Their urgency was apparent. Should he open? He reached out his crusty palm. It was sweating. He was astounded that the salty waters had managed to flood past the layer of grime.

His fingertips were millimeters from the flaking gold of the knob. He saw himself scattered over the reflection, many hims, all trying to grab the original from the inside of the doorknob. Even he wanted in. Even he wanted respite.

-

Later the man stared into the ceiling of his bedroom. All it gave back to him was a blank stare. The banging had stopped, but still he could not sleep.

-

…A chess piece moved into position….

-

The man submerged himself in the water of his bathtub. He needed cleansing, but more than that he needed to drown. He deserved it. He just wanted the feeling of floating in an absolute of water, a world of wet. He needed something more surrounding than the empty of space. He needed to be held by the vastness. He needed the intimacy of his skin being caressed by an underwater world. He didn’t need any more vacuums. He had seen enough of suck.

He rose from the water and gasped for air. It was an amazing feeling: the air filling his lungs after a long lack for it. The urgency of the feeling was another distraction from thought. The man slicked his hair back, the jet-blackness dripping wet. In the hum of the Underwater he could distract his ears from allowing thoughts. Thoughts were painful. White noise could help the man meditate. The rooms of the dark apartment didn’t have enough of the white noise. The man dried himself and put on a grey robe.

Man delighted himself with some red wine, Zagan Häagenti (1998)– the last of his stores. There wouldn’t be time to drink it later. There wouldn’t be time at all. He would sit in the musty, old, olive-green, poofy chair. He would sit with a good book and read. Today’s selection: a dab of Milton. He read book five of the epic as he crunched on dry, tasteless bread. He needed another drink. He sipped. The ruby swish painted his lips and drizzled over the pink dam to the ivory keys. The liquid crashed against the rocky, porcelain shores and quenched the land. The sizzle soaked the man’s buds to new growth. The smell of the inside of the glass was intoxicating, as was the substance itself. The last of it dripped down his throat. The grounds were not watered enough.

Man rose to the kitchen, where he had left the last of the bottle in the grody sink. He clinked the bottle to the glass and the finishing-bit glugged out. He put the empty bottle down and drew the glass to his mouth to sample the scarlet substance. He was about to taste the elixir when a spasm shot through his arm. The glass fell to the sink and shattered. Man watched, disappointed, as the crimson flood painted the drain and dripped to oblivion. Salt water followed and washed from the man’s eyes, making ripples in the lost sauce. Man unleashed the faucet and flooded all of the remnants away. It was over now. No more, forevermore.

Later Man changed into his day-and-night-wear: the grey shorts and white undershirt. He made himself a pot of delicious Loray Bean, Coffee. The Andras Coffee Maker didn’t agree with him at first. It made quite a fuss. The man finally managed to close the broken lid and drip a brew. After the brewing was finished, he took a gulp too soon and burned his mouth, but it was a satisfying burn. He took the mug with him to the kitchen table. A newspaper sat and waited for him, folded nicely in his place– The Marchosias Chronicle. He wondered how it had gotten there, but did not ask questions. What was going on with the world? He would soon see.

He looked at the front page. That’s all the farther he got. It was enough. The print disturbed him and floated –crumpled– to the floor. He would not pick it up– not yet. Perhaps some cleaning later….

Man looked at the portable, Phenex keyboard behind him. It was rather bulky, the electric piano. It sat on its stand in front of the window, the light rays reflecting off of its ivories. The darkness of the intermittent keys interrupted the flow in sinister patterns. They staggered in, jabbing into the white key’s notes and covering the spaces in a constant reminder that they were there. He loved them too. He loved all of the keys. They sounded different, and he loved that… though he wasn’t quite sure what to love anymore. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Where does the darkness go when the light’s awake? Where does it shrink? How well does it sleep?

The man turned his chair to the piano. The sun was bright, even behind the blinds that he kept tightly shut all around the apartment. The light was welcome, though not in full blast. White was to stay out (as well as the black), for this was the home of greys. Color had no presence in the abode of the drab man.

He slid his hands against the potential notes. The man began to play. He imagined the electrical impulses were as old-fashioned hammers striking strings. With each hit of the piano’s imagined Mjolnirs, sparks flew, and a storm brewed. Raijin, the god of thunder and lightning, beat his drums in blasting accompaniment. Man played slow and sad. He played ambient and melancholy. He could hear the thunder applaud as he trembled each note of the score. Rain splattered against the windows of his home. The electronic sound poured from the keyboard’s speakers and echoed in the kitchen. The echoes sang back at him, and he was immersed in sounds. The music washed his soul from his eyes, parallel with the washing of the world.

It rained. It poured. It stormed. It raged—It swirled—It boomed! The lightning clashed in a final lashing, as the serpent struck the earth with forks from its Zeus-whip tongue! …The keys were wet. Man stopped and looked at his grimy fingers. He slid the prints together, testing the waters.

-

Man read about The Fallen in his dusty tome. The phone rang. He placed the book on a glass coffee table in front of his grey, beaten, three-seater couch. Perhaps he would answer the banshee, since he was not trying to sleep. Man stood, hovering above the shrill sound. He knelt and lifted the phone from the base. The man stood, from the kneel, and placed the phone to his ear. The only sound emanating from the receiver was a hideous shriek. They were screams, though he couldn’t discern what they were saying. It unnerved him, and he hung up the phone with:

“Be more articulate!”

He unplugged it again, took a moment to stare at the end of the cord in assurance, and let the wiring fall to the floor. It hit the brown carpet without making a sound. He sat back down in his olive-green seat. The remote was beside him; he was half sitting on it. Man stared at the blank Gusion TV. He watched himself in the Television window, the minutes soaring by like bullet trains. He was a dark reflection, just sitting… just sitting. Watching.

He didn’t want to, but it tempted him so. He grabbed the clicker and pressed the power button. The machine ssss’d to life, as if the screen were lit at the bottom with a match. The igniter boiled the glass up into a picture. The image faded in and filled the square of his old set.

But the sound caught the ear before sight could finish the picture:

It was a News Broadcast: “Hurricane Focalornia devastating the east coast of the United States, while –simultaneously– Hurricane Gaia strikes on the west coast in a frea—“

The image of the news anchor arrived and the man changed the channel.

“—How long will the war continue without U.S. involvement—“

He flipped the channel.

“—Threats of Nuclear Attack with the new Räum Warhea—“

He flipped it.

“—Thunderstorm warn—“

He flipped it.

“—Flash flood warning for—“

He flipped.

“—Softball sized hail—“

He flipped.

“—Vietnam under—“

He flipped.

“—Typhoon 13 hits Japan—“

Flipped.

“—Tornado Warning is in effect for both McPher—“

Flipped.

“—Tropical storm—“

“—Tsunami rages—“

“—Death toll—“

Man turned off the tube and picked up his book. He read, wishing to stay dry with a good book.

-

The man sat at his kitchen table. He had set up a chessboard, though he did not remember doing so. The checker spaces were bare, for the pieces remained in the box. The board itself was a cheap wood that would split at the first drop. It was all ready falling apart from kindly use. The pieces were simple yet ornate and made of wood. Man knew the pieces well, for this was his set– his and another’s from forever and long ago. When he was a child, he used to set up the pieces and play, not knowing any of the rules. He would make them up (they all had super powers and other nonsense). The top of the wooden box that held the retired super-pieces was askew, yet the pieces remained out of sight… save one. Man had a pawn in his hand. He ran his calloused hands over the piece.

It wasn’t colored white, nor black– not yet. It hadn’t decided what team it wanted to be on. It was simply wood, whittled and sanded. It was unstained– virgin. It would be painted soon. But to paint it white or black? The man wasn’t certain. Perhaps he should see what the other pieces looked like. He needed an even amount of light and dark to get started. Had it always been that way? He wondered….

“It’s so small,” he said, gazing at the pawn.

An echo-filled voice melted into the man’s brain, “Come on. Let us set them up, so that we can knock them down.”

The voice was sinister. It had a coldness to it that shook the former man to his core. He shrank to protect his spine from becoming a ladder for dark thoughts.

“No. We shouldn’t,” said the man, aloud.

The ladder failed.

The voice spoke again, sounding familiar, “Why not?”

“I don’t have time.”

“No time?” the wicked voice chuckled. “Are you having a laugh? All you do is sit around all day.”

“That’s not true.”

“When is the last time that you did anything creative? You are not exactly Mister Productive lately. Just one game.”

The man considered Mr. Sinister’s request, but mentioned, “We’d never finish it.”

“Perhaps.”

Man agreed, “Tomorrow.”

-

That night, Man tried to sleep. The sleep would not come.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

The man couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. He thought back to the first day he had lain down to rest in the apartment. His eyes –eager for the closing– had draped themselves in drowsiness, only for his ears to pierce his mind’s lull with precursive chaos. He was still fighting that battle. He would fight that battle to his dying breath.

Man walked over to the door to the outside world. He tenderly pressed his hand to it and felt the vibration of the ragers on the other side. Each boom made a demand. Each boom told a story and said, ‘I am here.’ They were screams… from the outside world. Violent shouts of agony that penetrated the walls Man had established to protect himself from the evils of the dark. Their cries were a testament of the age to come.

‘I never go outside,’ thought Man, ‘And I never will. I gave up on such foolish dreams long ago.’

On a world built upon shards of glass, they walked with boots of iron.

Man sat in the darkness of his living room with his head in his hands. After a spell, he turned on the TV. He couldn’t help thinking that, if better foundation had been laid, perhaps the people of the world could have been protected in the days to come. They cried out for saviors to come and wash away the problems that they could have fixed by their own means, were they but willing to try. They prayed to Gods for peace but bludgeoned their mothers to death with the bones of their fathers.

‘Perhaps I should tell them what I’ve learned in my days of solitude,’ thought the man. ‘Perhaps I should share.’

He turned off the TV.

‘Perhaps not.’

-

Man got into his covers and tried to sleep. The Second Man interrupted, the wielder of the sinister voice from before. The voice was somehow eloquent and knowledgeable. It was less rough. It was smooth and yet mechanized. The voice scared the man. It was his own voice, he knew (he recognized it now), but it was a different him with a different tone– the same voice of a different quality. Man wished that Man 2 would quit using his own voice against him for darker means.

‘And what have you learned?’ the echo’y, disembodied voice asked.

“There is no God,” bit the man, at the smell of failure– like a shark to a paper-cut. “The one they search for doesn’t exist. No one is coming to save them. I wish they knew, though I’ve not the heart to tell them. No one is coming. No one has that power. No one cares.”

‘Do you care?’

Man wondered, but then scoffed, “Don’t lead my thoughts with laughing questions. Don’t poke inside my mind. Leave me be. If it helps them sleep, let them keep the lies. If it comforts their souls and lets them cling to their pasts, let them sit with hands folded. Let their wishes float off into space and fall upon no ears. Let the children have their Religion; I have waking truth. …Though sleep it gives me not.”

Man knew that whenever he fell to his knees –tears leaking hopes of the damned– and prayed… no one was listening. As his voice shook, as his body trembled… he knew that no one was there. There was no one above, especially for him. He knew things. He had lived, knowing secrets and truths that many did not… and still he doubted. Even if a higher power existed, he doubted that they’d assist such a crumbling failure. He was decaying. He was alone.

-

Man washed his face in the sink of his piss-covered bathroom. The very air held the key to everlasting pink-eye. He rose from the washing and looked at his dripping face in the looking glass before him. He realized, in that moment…

“If one is to find no rest,” he told his reflection, “Then one sees what others must sleep through.”

-

He powered on the Television. The speakers vibrated about those disconnected, much like him. The man could feel the world breaking apart, the tower of Babel falling all over again.

“—World-wide famine spreadi—“

“—Miscommunication on the part of President—“

“—A rash of suicides, resulting in—“

“—Bathin Airlines, Flight 216 crashed, because of a loss of communication from the tower—“

"—The Pandemic rages but still we ignore–"

He silenced the box.

“Why do I even bother?” he asked himself.

Himself The Second –this time with lack of echo– answered, “You do not have to be alone in here. You could open the—“

“—Are you crazy?!” Man interrupted Man 2.

“Ironic,” Sinister was amused.

The Lonely Man turned to the sound of the voice. The speech came from the kitchen. It emanated from a gentleman who chose to appear in the same form as our current protagonist. He had the body and face of the original man, but was wearing a black, long-sleeved, dress shirt and black slacks. His black, dress shoes were shined to reflective perfection and hugged the dark silk of his inner foot-coverings. He had a bolder physicality of a professional actor strung up to the sky from the top of his head, like a Christmas tree ornament. Man –lazy and defeated– was a croucher/sloucher version of his dark self.

Dark Man strode over to Man with a kind of elegant glide, as if he floated on the air. It was quite unnerving.

“I can’t!” the man told. “I can’t let them in. I’m safe in here.”

“For how long?” Man 2 glided over to the man with faux concern.

The dark one sat on the grey couch –quite close to the man– and whispered, wicked nothings into Original’s canals.

Man answered the question, “For as long as it takes…”

“For as long as it takes for what?” Dark Man paused.

“As long as it takes for the outside world to diminish into nothing?”

The man considered it and thought he might be relieved by a deep sleep, “Silence is a blessing in the world of faithful screamers.”

Man 2 was hungry for competition, and so he roused, “Fancy a game of chess?”

“With myself?” Man silently laughed. “There’s no way to win. It would be a stalemate every time. I’m allergic to cat-fun.”

“You would be surprised. Come on. One game? But one– we just need one. Winner takes all.”

Man laughed, “You can have it.”

“Have what?”

“…All.”

-

They sat at each end of the tiny kitchen table. Man and Man 2 emptied the wooden box that housed the pieces. They were colored now… all of them.

Man looked up from his work to his adversary, “I assume you’ll be blacks?”

“Hmm?” Dark Man looked up as well.

“You’re clothing,” Man elaborated.

“Astonishing… Judge much?”

“Fine,” Man rolled his eyes. “You can be whites.”

“No, I will be blacks.”

“Ass.”

“I prefer the terms ‘lights’ and ‘darks’ for my game, however.”

“You would,” Man set up the game.

“You seem like the type of guy with a gold diploma up his butt.”

“I will take that as a colorful compliment.”

Man was curious, “I haven’t played chess in a Procyon lotor’s age. Do whites still go first?”

“No, actually,” Man 2 snapped quickly. “The sodding UN assembled and unanimously voted to change the bloody rules of chess.”

“No need to spit your venom. I always remembered it as: you start with a white canvas and then you color it black with charcoal.”

Man 2 came back, “You could start with a black canvas and color it white. Really it does not even make sense that white would make the first move. Perhaps you should look at it again. Perhaps the UN should assemble.”

“Why does it not make sense?”

“Well, if you are going biblical here, Dark existed before Light.”

Man looked at the second man as if his nose were bulbous red, “Am I really that much of a dumbass that I just said that to myself?”

“Let there be light, my friend. Dark before light.”

“Bullshit. White goes first because that’s how the game is played. I’m not changing the rules, just because Captain Coffee-shop put on his Christian Pants and wants to play Deep-Thinking today.”

“You are quite right, of course… I am merely suggesting that perhaps there is something we are not seeing, something that the light does not reveal about its counterpart. Suppose the game is based only on action mo—“

“--That’s enough let’s play,” the man interrupted his reflection.

“Very well, then.”

Man moved one of his pawns two spaces. The second man moved one of the black pawns one space. The piece chosen was far from the first man’s. Original Man moved the same pawn again, this time one space. Man 2 choose a different pawn to move the opening two spaces. Man 2’s dark pawn was situated directly beside the first man’s. Dark Man knew that his opponent could not resist the move.

“Why did you do that?” Man asked himself.

Man 2 merely smiled. Man moved his white pawn diagonally so that it ended up in the empty space behind Man 2’s on the way to the Dark Man’s side.

“En passant,” the man proclaimed, confused. “You knew that I would do that…”

Man took the dark pawn from the board and put it in the out-of-play box.

Man continued, “…Why did you set that up?”

“You should know why,” Man 2 thought that much was obvious.

“A sacrifice? But it serves no real purpose here.”

“Few really do. Perhaps at the end of the game you will come to some realization and see the true meaning for the move.”

“No. There was no reason for it. It did not make a difference. It changed little of the game.”

“But it is in your head. It will be remembered. When you win or lose, you will still remember the move and the possible futility of it. I will wager anything your other pieces will remember it too. They will murder in the memory. Perhaps some will have forgotten –thinking the life of the pawn unimportant– but some will remember and carry out countless unspeakable acts.”

There was a quietus that fell upon the battlefield of squares. Man 2 of course cared not for the pawn. He just wanted the first man to second-guess the purposes of sacrifice.

Man 1 became angry, “Why must pawns always be sacrificed for the moves of the power players?”

“Hypocrite,” Man 2 declared.

“Why?”

“I saw you move your pawns out first. You are no different than the rest. That is what they were made for, to be slain to pave the road for kings,” Man 2’s eyes flared with hidden knowledge. “Can you see how this game will end yet?”

“No.”

“Then let us continue,” Dark Man smirked whilst moving a knight.

Man reached for a piece—

Dark Man urgently moved to stop him, “—I would not touch that.”

Man was shocked by the warning, “Why not?”

Man looked down and saw that his hands were covered with blood.

“Oh,” the man looked confused, “I’d better wash up.”

“Certainly.” Getting up, Man pre-scolded, “Don’t cheat now.”

Shrugging, the second man joked, “You would know if I did.”

In the bathroom, the man washed his hands. There was nothing on them. He was just scrubbing away at the palms of his hands. He rubbed them vigorously, in vain. Man looked up at himself in the mirror. He could see that there was a devil inside of him. It was in the hidden recesses of his mind, slinking silently within secret synapses. He had thoughts that cried for air and –were he to give them any– they would suck the life out of all whom breathed. Lungs would languish under the mighty grip of fate. Man could hear the ticking… slow ticking in his gray. The matter at hand would wait– would wait for the Earth’s Last Day.

-

“Please, go away,” Man whispered from his bed as the pounding continued.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

“Go away!”

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

The phone began to ring. Man put a pillow over his head to block out the sound.

-

…Another chess piece moved into position….

-

Man looked sickly. He was starving, but felt too ill to eat. His skin had become a greenish color. He sat in his oliveen chair and lazed with the Telly on. Man watched as an image of him –in the green chair– stared back at Man, uninterested.

“Good viewing?” the dark one called from Man’s side.

Man 2 sat in his place on the grey sofa. Man looked to his left, towards the kitchen. He saw himself playing chess with another Man 2.

“What’s going on over there?” Green-Chair-Man asked.

“They are playing chess,” Grey-Sofa-Man-2 told him. “Do you not remember?”

“No… Did I invite them?” he turned to Grey.

“Well, yes. You know, I believe you did,” Grey answered. “I need more coffee,” said Green turning to the Telz.

“You have already had three pots,” his dark, living-room counterpart assured him.

“A shower then…” said Living-Room Man. “When’s the last time I had a shower?”

“Day before yesterday?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie to you? More importantly, why are you even asking me? I’m you. We know the same thing,” Grey-Couch-Man-2 paused. “When are you going to move?”

“What?”

-

They were playing chess in the kitchen.

“I said,” clarified Kitchen-Chess-Man-2, repeating himself, “’When are you going to move?’ It is your turn.”

“Oh,” the Kitchen-Chess-Man snapped out of it.

“The game cannot continue without you. You must make a move.”

Man considered, “What if I don’t?”

“The pieces cannot move themselves.”

“And if the master does not move them?”

“Then the game is ended.”

“No. The game continues.”

“If the game is not in play, as in ‘in action,’ it is ended.”

“No,” Man argued, “The game just continues indefinitely until someone else moves. It’s like that book about the jungle game. The game is in play forever if one person refuses to continue playing. It’s up in the air.”

“But the game cannot continue forever. Do not be insufferable. You must choose a space. You cannot pass, and we cannot sit here forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because those are the rules of the game. If you want to concede or call stalemate, you may. I have the right to refuse. I do not think a stalemate is in order at this time. There are still many moves to make. You must follow the rules.”

“Rules of the past, written by men who no longer play.”

“They still - matter.”

“Why?”

Two was enraged, “Because it is their game!”

“Games can be adjusted for time. The queen was new. The double jump was new, once upon a time. The move ‘En Passant’ was new. The game changes– the rules and pieces. They can be made of many different materials whether glass, metal, wood, or plastic. Not all pieces are strictly white and black; they can be: gold and silver; copper and limestone; or milked glass and clear– etcetera. The pieces evolve and adapt.”

“Do they?” Man 2’s head tilted like a curious dog.

“…Yes.”

“Do you?”

The man paused and continued, ignoring Man 2, “Suppose we break the rules? Or… suppose we gift the pieces with the ability to move and govern themselves, playing on their own choices.”

“That is heresy. That would be chaos.”

“Would it? It could work. But… No. I suppose that could lead to chaos. Perhaps… if we gave them suggestions? We could call commands, but with the option to follow or not follow.”

“If we gave them suggestions, do you honestly think that they would listen to us? Since they are the pieces –the persons in question– don’t you think that they would have a better grasp on what it is to be them and what kind of moves they are able to make?”

“They do not have the same vantage point. We could team up.”

“Do you not think that they would at least feel that way and curse your name? Would they not feel the need to cut their ties with you? You would be as a silly king in a far off land, shouting commandments or enforced suggestions, when the peasants but wish to live on their own choices. The temptation is too great to take the suggestions, even though you may see more clearly from your bird’s eye.”

Man struggled, “But… but if we give them… give them the gift of listening to us. Like with some sort of interp—“

“--It sounds far too complicated to me. They would not understand you. They would go mad.”

Man was disappointed, “I suppose you’re right.”

Man 2 caught an idea and suggested, “Now if you used fear…”

“…Fear as a tool to persuade? That could succeed. And punishment… Warnings with consequences… but then… what of their own wills? …No.”

“You could use power to tower above them.”

“Or…”

“Yes?” Man 2 coaxed.

“Or we could…” Man started, but halfway through he realized how idiotic it sounded and knew the second man would think him a fool, “Love them… into… obeying?”

Man 2 burst out laughing. Man laughed with him.

Man 2 could not believe it, “You are kidding? Correct?”

“Yeah, I guess that would be pretty stupid.”

“And anyway, if the pieces moved themselves and had their own choices, what would be the point of us even playing?”

“Yeah…” Man struck –what he thought was– a brilliant idea, “Unless we were the pieces.”

“Do not be deep, dumbass. Obviously, we cannot be the pieces,” Man 2 made a funny. “We are not tiny.”

Man laughed a bit and elaborated, “Not necessarily a piece itself, but controlling just one of them to tea—“

“—Enough.”

“We could have positive incentives for—“

“I said that is enough! That is an absurd concept. It will never work. ‘Tis futile. They are inferior to the masters. They will still feel like you are towering above them, except you will not have the actual threat of being big anymore to back you up. They would not listen. No more blabbering. Damn you. Make a move.”

Man moved a knight, “Why do knights move in L’s?”

Man 2 grew tired of the questions, “Because I ate a unicorn’s face? How am I supposed to know? You want that I dig up ancient-ones and ask for a revision? Who cares? It just makes them different. It spices things up.”

“And why is he different? He is the only piece to not move in some sort of a straight line. Even diagonal is straight.”

Man 2 moved his queen, “He still moves in straight lines. He just moves in two. He turns a corner very sharply –I might add– in a magnificent pivot. He moves differently because he is the only dude in the entire checker-board community with a bleeding horse.”

“You move your queen out too early,” Man commented.

“Do I?” the Dark Man smiled.

Man looked up and into the living room, “Who is that?”

“That is you,” said the second man from the kitchen table.

“You are watching TV right now. Don’t you remember?”

The man in front of the Television said, “No, I don’t remember.”

The Man at the chessboard stood and walked over to sit in his green chair and watch the TV screen. Man 2 was still sitting on the grey couch, watching with him. There was another Man 2 at the kitchen table watching them both.

“What am I watching?” asked Green-Chair-Man.

The Man 2 at the chessboard got up and moved to the empty grey couch where he had no longer been sitting, “I don’t know. Nothing interesting.”

Green-Chair-Man looked to the kitchen, “Can I change the channel?”

Man -sitting at the chessboard- said to his Green-Chair self, “I already did.”

The man at the TV noticed, “Oh, yeah. I did.”

The Television was off.

Man 2 leaned in as if talking to a confused, elderly person, “I think it is off.”

Dark-Chess-Man –still sitting at the checkered board– asked the Chess-Man, “Are you feeling okay?”

“No,” Chess-Man answered, “I’m actually feeling kind of ill today.”

“Maybe you should lie down?” Dark-Chess-Man suggested, "Perhaps it is something that you ate? Yes, lie down."

“It’d take more work than standing up.”

The man at the TV got up and headed to the door, calling back, “I’m going to get some air.”

“NO!!!” The Chess-Man screamed.

The man at the door turned to look.

The Chess-Man reminded him, “You can’t go outside. Remember? They’ll find you. They’ll get in. They’re waiting for you out there. You can’t let them get us.”

The Second-Chess-Man mentioned to his opponent, “You are bleeding.”

Chess-Man looked confused, “What?”

The Dark Man on the grey couch pointed finger at the Door-Man, “Your chest…”

The man by the door looked down at his chest. His entire front was covered with blood, the white under-shirt soaked crimson. There were multiple rips as if the man had been stabbed repeatedly.

“I think I will lie down,” the Door-Man gasped out, in shock.

The Chess-Man wondered, “Didn’t I already?”

-

He could not sleep.

RING RING!!! RING RING!!!

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

RING RING!!! RING RING!!!

BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

“Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it– STOP IT!”

The man ran to the phone. He picked it up; it still rang as if he had not. He slammed it back down and continued to slam it, hoping for silence. He tired of the battle and ripped the cord out of the phone line. The cord broke at the end. It still rang. Impossible! He ripped the power chord. It still rang. He picked up the entire base and slammed it down. The carpet absorbed the impact. He stomped on it with his foot and it just kept ringing, accompanied by the banging at the door. It shrieked and shrieked. Man took the receiver to his knee and broke the phone in half. The shrill voice of the contact machine still screeched into his ears.

The man took the entire base of the phone to the entrance hall and threw it at the door in anger.

“STOP!!!”

The base slammed into the door. The rumpus… it silenced. Man looked at the door, and his eyes started to wet themselves with regret. He shouldn't have done that. He kept thinking that he shouldn’t have done that. But he had. And now nothing could take it back. He struggled to breath as he felt the repercussions rumble through his chest.

The next morning, Man sat in his olive-green chair, not watching anything. He was just sitting, the remote lonely by his side. The Dark Man lazed about on the man’s couch, like he owned the place.

“Don’t you want to know?” The Dark Man asked him.

“No,” said the original man, “I don’t want to know.”

The second man urged, “Well turn it on anyway. I want to see what is going on in the world.”

“I don’t want to know,” Man told his evil twin.

“I know you are curious. You are not immune to the cat’s reaper.”

“Fine,” Man conceded and turned on the set.

“—Devastation caused by the Haures Meteor Shower—“

“—Death toll in the billions—“

“—No cease-fire for the war, and the threat of a new attack in the weakened state of our nation—“

“—Won’t let up even in the wake of this disaster. They say that the launch of a full-scale nuclear attack is now under—“

Static.

Color bars.

Technical difficulties.

Of the air.

Darkness.

Blueness.

Dead air.

Man turned off the TV.

“I read in the paper the other day,” the dark twin told him, “that a woman was raped and beaten to death on a subway in the middle of the day. Everyone on the subway did nothing but watch. Four other people ended up joining the attacker, two of them being women.”

“They’ve gone mad,” Man grumbled.

“Right… because I am sure that they all see a copy of themselves and talk to it.”

“It’s not my problem.”

“You think that just because you isolate yourself that your actions do not have consequences?”

“I sit and do nothing. The fact that little Cambodian children are starving is not my problem to solve.”

“Those people on the subway sat and did nothing. The consequence was the rape of the woman. It was due to their inaction.”

“They do not control the rapist.”

Man 2 leaned in, “They encouraged him with their silent stares. They, clearly, could have prevented the atrocity.”

“Why?”

Man 2 was astonished, “What?”

“Why prevent it? Your words are lost on me.”

“Surely, you must realize the absurdity of that statement.”

“I can’t help them. I leave them to their feasts of heads on busses and public rapes merely watched for a jolly. I cannot help them. I don’t have that power,” Man drifted into daydreams of horrors and saddened, “And even if I did…”

“Even the people right outside your door? A can of food would suffice.”

“They’re on their own,” Man turned his head –bitter– toward the dark self. “If I were to step foot outside that door, I would be stoned to death with curses to my name. Those bastards love to blame people. They need something– someone to slap a steaming pile on. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. Those people don’t really need me. They can blame their other neighbors. I’m sure one of them is a molesting pedophile. I’m sure that will be just what they need to start a blood-frenzy. No shark needs me. None really want me. No one wants a leper in the palace.”

“You are the leper? Why is the Earth a palace?”

“They’re all kings, right? Any two-year-old, with an internet connection, considers himself a ruler over someone. He’s got plenty of buttons and combinations of letters. Plenty of things to say to tear down walls and crack skulls. And he’s safe there, until someone does it to him. But by then it’s already too late. The Tarbuck knot slides. The children are already taking the last swing of their lives, having sung the final note. They got the initial push, but now the inertia is all their own. There is no one left to swing them. They are forgotten. Other children take knives to their own flesh, making ruby rivers in their skin and flooding the bathroom tile with their crimson rain. Grouts, as the rivers in Egypt, do flood.

“For every two feet, there is a new hill, and for every hill, those fighting to claim their kingdom… fighting with savage civility and courteous brutality, and for some reason there has to be those lower. There has to be someone to rule. But all they rule is a graveyard. It’s silent, for the dirt has caught the throats of the underdwellers. They cannot breath. If they break out of their underground prison, all they are greeted with is a toxic fume. The soil is watered with blood. The blood soaks into the living-corpses and grows more hate and bloodshed to again quench the human realms’ thirst.

“The trees of the cemetery are adorned with precious garlands of entrails. The ornaments of hell are hanged babies with no more tears to shed. Hell is Earth, thriving only from the minds of mortals. Their words and actions bleed into each new generation and create the eternal torment of the underside. Wicked Imagination. Beautiful Damnation. No one cares. They don’t care… nor do I.

“Those kings will weep when they see that they are alone, but then they will masturbate and feel better for a spell, or call their concubines to give them a tug. They don’t need women though. Fuck life and the future of the planet. All they need is a rubber hole and some lubricant. Women are useless if the next cycle is continuously damned. Men grow to realize that males are just there to fill a hole, but if the hole is useless then so are they. Each generation dives a little deeper, drowning in the defecated world.

“They’re all alone –the bastards– discarded. They are blind to their situation, for they’ve torn out their eyes. They no longer feel. That’s the end of it. The kings are blind and deaf, for if they saw the truth they would swing like the children who’s hearts have been juiced. Instead they grow old– useless. They are but jesters on hilltops, with mirrors as their only audience. The décor of their courts a crimson leak, they splash in the puddles with thoughts of self-merriment. Let them jest to their hearts content… or consent… whichever comes first– Zeus willing.”

There was a silence.

“Check,” the other man proclaimed.

-

Man and Man 2 were playing chess in their usual spot.

Man 2 asked, as he waited for Man to move, “Do you prefer lights or darks?”

Man was gazing at the board –only half listening– looking into the future, a future that looked bleak, “What?”

“Do you prefer the light or the darkness? "

-

Man was lying in bed. There was a pounding.

-

Man and 2 were playing chess in the living room.

“Hmm…” the man thought in response, as he moved his piece, “The Light, I suppose. Yes, the Light.”

Dark Man rubbed his chin, as his eyes flashed with excitement, “Interesting.”

-

As the man tried to sleep, the phone joined in sinister symphony.

-

“And why is that?” Man 2 asked him, as another move was made.

Man watched the black piece slide slowly into place and then considered his own move, “I don’t know, really. Safety? You get options, having the first move.”

“Actually,” the second man watched the first’s move, “The more I think on it… Light does not have the first move.”

“Huh?”

“I felt it before. It is what I could not quite see. Dark’s first move is just to exist, to lie in wait. The inaction of Dark, allows it to view the rash actions of the light, to coolly determine the best way to continue. The dark is patient. Light is reckless. Having the first action-move is a giant risk. It could fail. Perhaps, from your first move, you paved your own way to destruction.”

They continued to play.

-

Man –angry– ripped his covers off and stormed out of his bedroom.

It was night in the man’s apartment. Man hurried wildly with a hammer in his hand. He threw the phone to the carpet and beat the mechanized crap out of it. The pieces flung to the entranceway. He followed them in his vendetta. The phone has stopped its ring, but it was not enough for the enraged inhabitant. He charged at the door and pounded right back at the outsiders. He pounded with all his might. If he could not sleep then they would not either. How did they like the pounding coming back?

“What’s all that racket anyway?” Man asked Man 2 during their game of chess.

The light from the window silhouetted the Dark Man and hid the detail of his form, “I think there is someone at the door.”

“If that’s another guy with The Watchtower, I swear to—“

-

The pounding continued. Man could not sleep. He ripped off his covers to see what the noise was.

‘No,’ Man heard the disembodied voice of Man 2 say.

‘It is you.’

“Me?” the man asked as he left his bedroom to see about the clatter. There were two sets of knocks now like flams on the timpani.

-

“Yes,” said the second man at the chessboard, “Banging at the door like a wild man.”

-

The Night Man exited his purposeless bedroom to the living room. The living room was dark– too dark to see.

“I can’t see him,” Man said. “Hold on.”

Man reached for the light switch– the room erupted with light! It was like falling into the sun. It was blinding. A dreadful screech jumped from each wall, rebounding about the space. The souls of all those fallen sang in a high-pitched wine and a low rumbling hum that vibrated the man’s heart– a tectonic terror. A tsunami of blood splashed out and onto the lobes of Man. He clasped his hands over his ears. He slammed against the wall. It was hot. It was bright. It was loud. It was painful. His head was splitting.

He couldn’t stand it. It had to stop.

“PLEASE!!!” the man cried to the chorus of screamers. “Please…”

The man’s tears slid along his cheeks and dripped from his chin to the carpet. Man slid to the floor and cowered in the fetal position, just wanting it to cease. He couldn’t take it. He would do anything for it to just be over.

“No! No!!!” the man yelped, begging. “Turn it off! Please, turn it off!!!”

‘Why?’ the sinister self spoke into his mind, as if the light was just what the man had wanted, ‘I thought you liked the light?’

“I was wrong!” the man spat out, desperate.

‘What is Light?’

‘Just-end… it - all,’ Man screamed inside his head. ‘Quick. Over. Let it… be – ov – er.’

“HARSH!” the man’s voice strained and then softened for his own recognition, “Even in its warmth… it is an unwelcome reminder that everything exists. It is so loud. It is so loud.”

‘Meaning?’ Dark asked.

The man added to the screech with his own lasting scream. No matter how hard he shut his eyes, the light would take a knife to his lids and pierce his self-darkness.

‘Meaning?!’ Man 2 revealed his true nature– his probing harshness.

“You can…” Man struggled to get out, for it felt as if the light were killing him with its radiance, “You can see everything, even things best left unseen. Light is the great revealer. It shows you things you do not want to see. There is no hiding in the light. It will find you– expose you. You will see the truth under its gaze. The star is unyielding. It is unkind and blunt. The twinkles are dead wishes that are full of pain. In the light all is seen, and then when too much is seen… there is blindness– where nothing is clear but what has already been unkindly burned into the retinas. In the light… in the light… nothing is safe.”

Man wept, “I was wrong. I was so wrong. And it’s all my fault. It is my - fault. I listened. I wanted. I saw the lack. I was all wrong. Light is the abomination. Light is evil. Darkness is good. The dark is safe. The dark is quiet. The dark is peaceful. The dark just wanted to be left alone, but light intervened –the epic bully, cosmic conqueror– and tried to rule all, just as mankind has done. Just as white flesh has tried to rule the pigments. Light is a fool that does not belong.”

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

It was big. Did Man want this? It was big. He knew the Dark Man would not wait much longer. The absence of the man’s tongue-flapping was growing impatient in the slumber. Man had to do something. It was too painful. The light was too bright. Dark was anxious. Light shouted at Man’s eyes and bared his soul for all to see. Truth. All was illuminated. It couldn’t stay this way. He wept. It could not stay this way.

It was night…. The room was dark (illuminated only by a blue hue), and the man continued to bang at the door. The rage blasted from his fists to the wood of the door. He raged. He raged! He raged. They would have it. They would have all of it. They would feel the pain that his waking mind could stand no longer. They would feel his wrath. But this time… they would feel all of it. He would use it up.

-

The adversaries were playing chess. It was day.

“What if you were to lose this game?” The Dark Man asked the white-shirted man.

“To lose to myself? Impossible. I know every move before I make it… on both sides. I have the will to survive on both sides. The only way for you to win… the only way to lose at all… would be for me to willingly… knowingly… concede.”

“To lose yourself?” Dark Man pushed

“To give up. To let it all be over. To let the flood wash over me and give me a watery grave. Let the wall of water come and sweep away the dirtied land. That would be the only way for me to lose. I would have to let me lose– to ignore one side of myself.”

“And fall upon a blade.”

“But could I?” Man asked.

“You tell me?”

“I… I- No… No! I couldn’t do that?” but he was unsure.

“What if I told you that you already have?”

The man’s eyes widened, “What?”

“Maybe you’ve been laying bricks to damnation from the very first jump of the pawn. The pawns have no need to lie. They speak for you. They know how big they move and how little they are. They know of the power that you abuse. They know the blades that await them. Have they any need to be loyal to a cruel king?”

“I am not cruel.”

“Does it matter if you no longer rage about the board? If you don’t play, what happens? When the pieces are forgotten? Is the master needed? Does the game continue without the puppeteer? Watch as the marionettes swing from their own strings– hangman’s knots –in unison– applied. The knight is purposeless without his king. His L’s form rectangles in trepidation. He’s out of moves and can only bide his time while his king falls to his knees and is beheaded. What does the last horseman do then? Where has the light led him? To rectangle’d circles in a dead game. He’s a pawn himself. Just like you are. Pawns exchanged for Powers; then the Powers fall.”

“No…” the man looked at the board and all the mistakes he had made.

Was it too late for Command Z?

“That’s right… The moves run low. You’re losing… but to lose at all… You would have to give up,” Man 2 told him. “You would have to give in. Therefore…”

-

“No!” the illuminated man shrieked. “Shut up! Shut up!! Shut up!!! Shut up!!! SHUT UP!”

‘I see know,’ Man from the chessboard spoke to his illuminated self, ‘Illumination is The Great Illness.’

-

They were in the kitchen, playing a rousing game of chess. Their wits were pitted against each other. One was losing the battle, the battle that had raged for his entire existence. His mind was exploding. His brain’s super nova would form a black hole in his brain to suck the synapses into a spaghetti’d oblivion. His world was falling. “No…” the man tried to escape from the idea. “That would never happen.” The second man leaned in, from across the table, “Know thyself.”

-

Man was in the bathroom trying to wash the blood from his hands.

-

Man was pounding at the door– giving the world a taste of their own medicine.

-

Man was in the living room. The light was still present. It had not dimmed. It had not silenced. The multitude was shrieking. It was too much to bear. “The light… is…” the man rasped out, sunburned– his lips chapped.

His tongue was dry and struggled to move. Paste had long since left his lips. With his sol barred, his tears boiled on their way out of his eyes. They evaporated in the heat. His skin bubbled and frothed. Boils erupted from his melting flesh. He would catch fire soon and burn to nothing– he knew. He was sure. He could see a burning– two piles in the dark… two piles burning. This was the end. He must decide. What to do? What to do? The urgency of it was overwhelming. His body was about to shatter apart. He could feel the pain of all and every. His mind was twisting and bursting.

He knew. He knew now. He knew, but he did not want to know. He did not want to be the one.

“The light…” he struggled, “The light is… b-bliiiinding….”

“Well…”

“Please, I can’t… I c—It’s blind… blinding.”

“You can do something about that!”

“It’s blinding!”

“You can change that!!”

“They can see. They can see me!!”

‘So say something,’ the second man bit, in rage-filled climax, ‘Anything!!!’

…

The man took a breath, in despair, and mustered all of the self that remained to shatter the universe, “LET – THERE – BE – DARKNESS!!!”

-

The light went out. He had undone the done. And all was cool and quiet.

-

In the darkness, the TV flipped on. It flipped itself through every channel. Every channel was nothing but static. It was nothing but white noise. The land of the tongues had been severed and silenced.

-

They were playing chess. The light filtered in through the dusty blinds. The man had not cleaned. He had not gotten around to it. He had thought that there would be plenty of time for that later… eventually… always eventually. The man’s flesh was not burned. The man’s flesh was fine, as it had been.

The Dark Man moved his last Dark piece, stepping on the light’s square.

“Check… Mate,” he said.

-

There was a silence. No booms. No hums. No screeches or screams. No rings. No bangs. …Nothing. No white noise. The dark called, silently. Man’s eyes were wide, looking into the eternity of The Dark Man’s eyes and seeing nothing. He gazed past the second man and still… saw… nothing. His mind went blank. The moment lasted forever.

Finally, he moved. The air was heavy– all was slow, like a dream. He moved in slow-motion as he flipped the board. Man threw a tantrum. Dark Man was still, sitting in his chair, as he watched the game flipping through the air. The board spun. The board turned– over and over. The pieces flew from their domain and fell to the ground. Man stood and watched them fall.

The table was gone as the chessboard fell. It landed on the pieces. The pieces themselves were in smaller pieces. The thin of the wood had not held in the fall from their height. The pieces bounced, rolled, and finally stilled, with the exception of two selected pieces that still rolled. A horn sounded and did not stop, like a tornado siren stuck on one direction.

The apartment was black. Nothing could be seen. It was all darkness. The man raged throughout his home. Man ripped through the air like it was nothing. It was not heavy any longer. Though no sound could be heard, he raged. He bolted into his room and pulled at his sheets. He ripped them to shreds. He grabbed at anything that hit his desperate palms. The globe’s inner light was still shining on his bedside- but dim. He gripped the globe and threw it into the living room.

-

In the man’s dark bathroom, Man smashed the mirror and looked upon the fragmented forms of himself.

-

In the darkness of the living-room man thrashed about, shattering his glass coffee table. He ripped his favorite book to shreds. He chomped at the spine and crushed it in his mouth. He took his newspaper and ripped it in half. He took the halves and continued to tear.

Man took his illuminated globe and threw it to the ground. He stomped on it, and it shattered– the light evaporating. He beat at the broken pieces of continents and oceans until there was nothing left but dust. His knuckles were bloodied. The man picked up his Television set and threw it to the wall. He took a knife from the kitchen and stabbed at both his Olive-green chair and the grey couch, that had been the cushion of his adversary. Stuffing covered the room as little bits of snowfall. He took the piano and slammed it against the kitchen counter, the keys scattering to the tile floor. The dark keys remained situated.

In his tirade, he had knocked the browned apple-core to the floor. It sat there, eaten, rotted. It had served its purpose. The master had tasted it for the first time. And now He knew.

When the furniture was in shambles, the man took to just throwing himself about the room. He threw himself against the walls and beat holes in them. He slammed his head against them. He pounded his fists against the floor. Finally, he took the large knife to the carpet and stabbed in a frenzy. But where was the other?

Man looked up from his tattered carpet. The Dark Man was watching, smiling wickedly. The teeth somehow shone through the everlasting darkness. Man flung his blade, slicing in a berserk wrath. When he felt the blade catch, he knew where to strike. He plunged the blade deep into the crunch and squish.

The metal dove into the body of the Darkness over and over. He couldn’t stop stabbing the second man. It was his fault. This was his. This was all his will. Man felt betrayed. It had been a trick. His anger peaked in one final stab. And then, all his energy had been expunged.

The eyes of the white-shirted man had finally adjusted to the darkness. Man 2 was full of holes, deep lines that the blade had made in his torso. They were mighty canyons that wept scarlet fountains of glowing, gushing blood onto the carpet. Blood sputtered out of The Dark Man’s mouth. Then the second man smiled with his reddened teeth.

The blade dropped to the floor. The horn blast cut out immediately. The blade was covered like the teeth, painted with the life of the second man. It was a blade that would remember– that would keep a piece of its victim. Man’s hands were covered and dripping with the same memory. Man’s eyes dripped accompaniment of the oceans’ contents, a slow, silent drip. A solitary tear stood out from the rest and down. He had dried them, the oceans. But why was his other self grinning? Man… very slowly… looked down to his own torso. It was gushing its own contents. The rivers were running together and making new oceans to replace the ones that had dried in the world.

Man pressed his hands against the wounds. They did not stop. They would not stop. He did not stop leaking. He soaked the carpet with the downpour. He could feel it. All of the pain he had inflicted on the second man– he could feel it. Man looked up, and blood oozed out of his mouth. It dribbled down his chin. It slid down his neck and joined his painted chest. The white shirt was stained deep in the contrast. Man looked for The Dark Man, but he was gone. Man suddenly realized the truth.

The Dark Man had always been there, but had never been there. He was The Dark Man. He was The Man. He had finally chosen and fallen on His sword. The failure would be rectified. It would all be fixed, now that He had conceded. …But the man was not so sure. He had lost His faith in all. He had lost His faith in Himself.

-

In the kitchen, where the table had been, two chess-pieces settled. The dark king stood tall and resolute. The light king rolled to the feet of the dark king, defeated. They were just pawns of themselves– the both of them. They were strong in weakness.

-

He wept with the realization of it. He despaired and fell to His knees with the cumulative agony. It was the end. He would die… He had thought himself immortal– or at least beyond a cease of existence. He had felt more powerful than that, and yet weaker– but this was truly the end of him.

It was then that he noticed the door slowly swinging open with an elongated creek. It had been kicked open, busted by the lock. Perhaps it had happened in the man’s, murderous rampage. The world outside was now just a dark void. It was a world of black… but there was a small bit of light where His yard had been. Man slid against the white wall, giving it streaks from His insides. He used it to hold Him up as He made His way to the door. He stood on His own, with much effort.

With one foot in front of the other, He walked out of the door. Now remembering His origins– thinking on all He’d done. Not far from the door –about fifteen-feet– there was a pile of letters in white envelopes. It was His mail. A mysterious light hovered, illuminating the pile. These had been the booms at His door. These had been the messages trying to get in. They were all labeled for Him. They were all addressed and thrown at His doorstep. He had ignored them. This was just a sample of those that had gotten through at the last minute, when the mysterious man had lost His battle with Self.

One of the envelopes had a special seal that had been broken. It had been opened. He picked it up. The envelope was empty. It had been sealed with a kiss that had interpreted itself as a special, red, wax stamp. He spread the envelope. Nothing at all. Where was the letter? Perhaps it was somewhere in the pile. He looked at the address on the front. It had the handwriting of a child. He felt the lettering with His, dirty fingertips, and He could feel her: the little girl whom had written the letter. She had sent the message, and bled the lettering with her tears. All three of the letters had been watered into a wobbly address.

He didn’t care. He would ignore her. He took a lighter from his pocket. He lit the bottom of the envelope and threw it on the pile. All of the letters caught fire and burned into non-existence. They were the last words of a dying race. And He would ignore them all. He watched them burn, the heat of the flames stinging His eyes. He was too close to the bonfire. That was when it happened.

There was a burst, a mini-explosion in the crackling flames that licked the darkness. The letter from the little girl floated down to the man’s feet. The smoke from the burning letter entered His nostrils. As He smelled it burn, the girl’s words wafted up into His brain. He heard her. His fists clenched. His jaw tightened. He heard her speak. He looked down at the letter. The words would be remembered. They would be carried on. But…

His eyes pierced down at her letter.

“Dear God, Please help—“ it said, and the rest had burned away.

He opened His mouth to speak, to answer the desperate, little girl’s, request in her hour of need.

“No,” God said…

…And with His one, last wish –sent to the reaches of the void, in an empty echo– God faded from existence. The letters burned to embers and stilled as ashes. The hovering light doused itself. His purpose had been served.