Young Writers Society

1

There is neither (…) slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. - Galatians 3:28.

2

A weak gust of wind sweeps the small rocks off the sidewalk, pushing them in a small puddle of water – an aftermath of the rain that just ended twenty minutes ago. The sun is already back up on the sky, piercing the remaining grey clouds and projecting shadows of all shapes and sizes on the freshly washed ground.

One of these shadows is quickly making its way on the side of the road, crossing puddles of water without getting wet and cracks in the ground without falling inside. The honking of a passing car startles it.

The cat stops, her yellow eyes measuring the street from one end to the other, her firmly pointed ears scanning the area for a few moments, before jumping towards the middle of the road with a quick, agile motion.

Loud sirens start blaring out of nowhere: an ambulance car approaches at full speed, its headlights flashing in a desperate attempt to make the cat move from its path. She jumps out of the way in the last second, making her way quickly across the street to safety.

The driver glances for a moment in the rearview mirror, his eyes set on the being that he had almost killed while on his way to save another. Life has priority, whether the body it inhabits has a tail or an opposable thumb – at least these were his thoughts on the matter. With this in mind, he pushes the gas pedal even further, the drive quickly becoming a slalom through the mildly congested traffic.

Suicide attempt – that’s what the ambulance dispatcher had called it. A desperate woman had called the emergency service line less than twenty minutes ago, reporting (a fancy definition for crying hysterically in the phone) that her ex-fiancé had slit his throat right in front of her. The driver could feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck, as curiosity drove his mind into filling the shoes of the woman.

To the right, on the passenger seat, his colleague is humming something while spitting his chewed nails on the lowered car door window, in a most casual fashion – the rhythm of this tune reaches his ears like from the end of a tunnel. Although far from being a rookie, a rush of emotions and anticipation is running through his body – he figured that this feeling was here to stay and would probably have him wired until his last day on the job.

With a screeching halt, the ambulance stops in front of one of the numerous, similar tower blocks aligned to the side of the main road. Humpfing annoyed, as if he was interrupted from a much more important business, his colleague grabs the first aid kit and jumps out of the car, being immediately greeted by a crowd of curious people – most probably neighbors of the victim.

The sound of the car door closing shut behind him sends a shock to his brain, like a message saying there was no turning back now (not that there ever was, a little voice inside his mind reminds him). A flash of the vacation he had spent on the beach with his own fiancé a few years ago crosses his mind in a hurry, as he feels the hot rays of the sun heating up the back of his head. Before stepping into the cooling shade of the building, his eyes catch a glimpse of the blue, cloudless sky and a calming thought sets him straight: the day was too beautiful for someone to die.

3

A long howl sets the steel mastodont in motion, its wheels gradually increasing speed while carrying it forward. Thick smoke goes up the chimney of the locomotive, gathering above in a dark, nocive cloud; pistons move rapidly up and down, making the engine roar. In a few moments, the train is almost at full speed, sliding along the rails like a sleigh on ice, seeming unstoppable – a true force of nature. That’s the feeling of adrenaline pumping through her veins, brewing up excitement and confidence as she levels the pedal to the floor.

She turns the headlights off, scared that the sight of the parapet approaching might make doubt creep in her mind, much like the drunk uncle who crashes family parties and spoils the fun. The four windows of the car had been lowered and she can feel the cold wind of the night whipping her across the face. She closes her eyes and braces for the impact.

A powerful jolt roughs up the car as it collides with the parapet – for a second, she can’t help but to fear what is about to happen. The fact that this road is on the edge of a cliff is common knowledge for the inhabitants of the city; ice cold water is the only thing waiting for her below. She takes her foot off the pedal and opens her eyes, feeling like a huge weight has just been lifted from her chest. The car is floating in mid-air, the seconds until the inevitable impact stretching to minutes and hours.

The seatbelt holds her in place as gravity pushes her towards the windshield. The metaphorical weight returns on her chest in a most physical manner, taking away her last few breaths of air. A cell phone and a pair of sunglasses seem to be hovering over the dashboard, in a moment of zero gravity. In less than a blink of an eye, they will hit the car roof and break in several smaller pieces.

Waves of freezing water burst in through the open windows as the car dives in the river. Her survival instincts kick in and she tries to release herself from the steady grip of the belt, forgetting for a split second that she had jammed it in place earlier. The incoming water makes it difficult to breathe, but it’s not air she’s gasping for; her feverish mind searches franticly through the chain of memories, looking for his teachings.

She wraps her cold, desperate body in this warm, blazing thought: it had to be done, for her feet had to touch the ground of His Kingdom. A quick glance in the rearview mirror: her features seem to have been washed away, once she had performed the ritual of purifying. Streams of water hit her bald head, tricking down her forehead and her hairless eyebrows. Her green eyes would scream the agony she is feeling if they could, but her mouth is tightly locked in a straight line, which slightly curves into a smile as the water level increases inside the car.

4

With one thunder, everything starts moving in slow-motion on the ground level. One rain drop lets go and falls from the sky like a kamikaze terrorist, reaching amazing speeds and enjoying life for exactly fifteen seconds, before hitting a red traffic light and splashing into a dozen of other smaller rain drops. As soon as the traffic lights go green, the cars resume their race towards the next intersection, their engines roaring like an angry mob, screaming and protesting against their hurried drivers. A thunder reduces them all to silence, as the next set of lights turn red and they are all lined up once more, like horses at a hippodrome.

The crossing zebra is almost unrecognizable – an Atlantis from the bird’s eye view, lost under the murky water; the red lights reflect in it, like it is washing the world’s bloody sins away, into the sewers.

A wave of honking and cusswords erupts as the lights change colors but the race is still on hold: a grey pair of soaked sneakers are clumsily making their way through the holy stream of water, to the other side of the road. Wet, blue-faded jeans are wrapped tightly around the skinny legs, pointy knees sticking out through the homemade cuts, sore from the cold and revolted against the fashion. The oversized jacket seems to have room for at least one more person. While a hood is keeping most of the rain at bay, drops of water fall from her wet bangs, trickling down her freckled nose and cracked lips.

Cars rush forward behind her, their angry skids being completely muffled away by the tune playing in her earphones, the lyrics on her lips an indecipherable whisper, lost in this symphony of hard pouring rain and earth shuddering thunders. She stops in front of one of the tower blocks at her right, her hands fiddling inside the pockets for the keys.

Splosh-splosh. She makes her way up the stairs, leaving muddy footprints on the cold, hard steps. Her shadow hurries confidently forward across the white wall, taking five steps while she takes one, reaching the first floor when she was only halfway there.

Splosh-splosh. Three floors later, she enters a dark corridor, silent as a tomb and unwelcoming as a sterile womb. Her shadow lost all its previous boldness and is now tiptoeing behind her, as quiet as one can be, as she approaches the last door on the left. The slushy, swampy trail stops just outside of apartment 27. The door cracks open with a monotone, bored squeaking.

Once it closes and the girl is inside the well lit room, her shadow stretches victorious across the white floor, a gargantuan shape amidst the other shadows in the room. An umbrella stand falls down, as she throws her backpack around carelessly; the shoes join it, splattering mud on the floor. Her hand grabs and turns the closest doorknob to the left; the door swings open and she stops dead in her tracks.

The bathroom is in the same, sparkling condition that her father had loved it: spotless shower cabin in the center, looking brand new; a gleaming sink on the right, next to the water boiler – its pipes going up on the spotless wall, making a left where they met the ceiling and running along it until the opposite side, disappearing into the wall. The only oddity is the rope tied to it, going down and wrapping itself around the neck of a hanged, naked man.

She blinks twice, three times rapidly, pupils dilating more and more as fear spreads through her mind like a virus. The man seemed to share a handful of features with her father, though the latter would have never shaven his head, like this one had. Her father was a strict, old-school type of man – a real stuck up, if she ever knew one – proud of his rich, blonde hair and beard, but this one had even shaven his eyebrows and chest hair, along with his arms and legs.

Unwilling to accept the truth looming in the back of her mind, the girl turns her attention towards one other object that didn’t belong in this room: carefully placed on top of the toilet seat, as if to not be overlooked, lies a tape recorder.

5

Green light. His boots slush forward through the thread of water running along the sidewalk – two shipwrecks carried by the waves of an ocean. In the hypnotizing rush of the big city life, he is more of a snail, carrying a plastic bag down his back with all his belongings. The inhabitants of the neighborhood had gotten so used to his rotten stink that they decided against wasting their disgusted looks on him a long time ago.

On the other side of the street lies the place where he usually rests his old bones at night: a shabby motel conveniently placed just five minutes from a 24 hours-open market: a perfect spot for an one-night getaway. A hobo living in a motel? Not too bad! One might think, but that’s miles away from the truth. His rusty back hasn’t stretched out in a bed in months; instead, the owner had allowed him to sleep on some cardboard boxes in the yard of the motel, well safe from the cold drops of rain. He even had the habit of bringing him a warm meal, from time to time. Good guy, that owner.

Rain drops turn to musical notes as he starts singing with a shy voice (Don’t worry… about a thing!), the song echoing good memories of long lost times. An excited voice joins in, filling out the gaps and correcting the rhythm. Not daring to look at the stranger, he studies his reflection in the window of the car stopped in front of them.

He is a well built, bald man, slightly taller than him; the fancy black suit he is wearing could lead anybody into believing his lifestyle was lavish at least. Everything exposed the man as a neat, tidy person: white shirt with no wrinkles or spots, impeccable red tie with a perfect knot, expensive shoes with nothing but water splashes on them. He is sporting a wide smile and a glimmer of happiness sparkles in his eyes.

One leather glove is wrapped tightly around the handle of an umbrella, which is now covering the homeless man. The timer indicates ten seconds until the lights turn green. Why don’t you hold on to this one? You seem to need it more! Says the stranger, handing the umbrella to him; his smile seems to rub off on the poor guy. Every little thing… is gonna be alright! The rich man sings loud, their little odd choir attracting puzzled looks from the others waiting on the sidewalk.

With three more seconds on the clock, the man makes a quick, unexpected step forward. His body is rammed hard by an incoming bus and drove diagonally onto the next lane, where another car is too late to brake and its wheels go over his neck. The randomness of it all plasters shocked looks on the face of the bystanders.

6

To my dear, beautiful daughter,

If you’re listening to this, I want you to be happy for me. I have finally completed my journey and I am ready to be welcomed into His Kingdom. It was a long and harsh road, but I passed all the obstacles set in my path and I have overcome my weaknesses. I know you must have a lot of questions and I’m afraid I can’t provide any sorts of answers right now. The only thing I can tell you is that I have been in your shoes, walking the path that you’re on right now; it might seem like it is leading nowhere, but put your faith in the right place and the Lord will point you in the right direction. I was a mere lost sheep until my Pastor found me and restored my faith in God. I wished nothing more than to introduce you to him and help your soul, but he denied this to me. He assured me that if you have faith and patience, your paths will intersect and you shall be saved, too.

Until we meet again, my treasure, I urge you to do as I advice; stay clear of Evil and embrace the Lord. I strongly believe that sooner or later, you will encounter my old Preacher. Be prepared to follow his teachings and listen to him like you would your own father.

I love you.

With a click, the recording stops and the room wraps itself into a silent, dark cloak once more. A desk sits in the center of it, its messy surface revealed by the pale light of a computer screen.

At a first glance, it seems like this is the headquarters of a major hoarding company (if there ever existed such a place): stacks of papers sit on top of stacks of files, next to more documents stacked one on top of each other, much like a mini-metropolis. Somewhere in the middle of these lies the computer, flanked at its right by a telephone and a Xerox machine and at its left by a cassette player. On top of the computer screen, barely visible with the lights turned off, is a small, rectangular plaque; the words COMMISSIONER CHAMBERS are engraved on it.

He happens to be just the person who had been listening to the recording – the only being in the room (who else but an overzealous commissioner to work in such conditions?). While his face lies still in the shadows, his fingers follow the headlines of the numerous newspaper clippings occupying the remaining space on the desk. Soft whispers escape his mouth, unraveling a story that is making more and more sense with each read article.

The line of papers starts with several columns reporting a series of suicides sharing one gruesome detail: all the deceased had been completely bald – not one single hair had been found on their bodies. The next ones offer insight into the police investigation: apparently, the victims were all part of a religious cult; the articles were rich on details, but scarce on actual facts, as the he knew.

The part that followed seemed to infuse a satisfying tone in his whispers: a more recent clipping was illustrating the official statement on the matter issued by the city’s police commissioner – himself: after months of investigation (time in which more bodies bearing the same details had been found), they had manage to apprehend the leader of the organization: Alan Grey – The Preacher, as he had been called by his followers, to whom he had been preaching about the afterlife, redemption and about how all human beings are equal to each other. After a number of rituals, the “pupils” would have their body “purified” by shaving it completely, and then commit suicide in order to reach Heaven – The Kingdom.

The words become a blurred smudge on the white paper as his eyes move rapidly, focusing on the computer screen. One new email: He had been found guilty. The case is closed. We won. These are absorbed by the commissioner like a drop of rain by the desert. He gets up and turns towards the door.

The room has a perfect squared shape, resembling a cellar, with its dump, musty smell; windows are missing from its four, cold walls, leading one to assume it was under the ground level. His shadow hurries to the door and he is gone with the sound of it closing, the scent of excitement and victory trailing behind.

7

Any final words?

Final words are to be said before our Lord Father, during our Last Judgment. Do you claim to be God, commissioner?

Mr. Grey, the law states that you are entitled to your last words, before you are to serve your sentence. I’d gladly press the button and off you right now, but that’s just a matter of personal taste. I’m only gonna ask you one more time-

Now that you put it like that – yes, I do have something to share with you all.

Cold trickles of sweat are slowly making their way down his forehead; he tries to wipe them off with the back of his hand, but the tight ligatures around his wrists remind him that was no longer an option: they had bounded him to the vertical table, his hands outstretched like he was being crucified.

Before finding God, I had found love – or at least I thought I did. I was nothing but a foolish lad, still wet behind the ears, fresh off the neatly polished desks of the Law Academy. I was well on my way of stepping into my father’s shoes as a lawyer and I had a most beautiful fiancé – the apple of my eyes, as they say. Turns out, sometimes the most disgusting worms lay their beds in the best-looking apples.

Behind him, out of his view but their reflection slightly visible in the window before him, are three cylinders, together with monitors measuring heart rate and other machines that he doesn’t recognize. He is determined to look his killer in the eyes while he does it, but there are still a few minutes to pass until then. His last moments alive.

As I got home in a lovely summer day, one year and a half into our engagement, my beloved half confessed that she had been having an affair for quite a while. Apparently, our life as a couple had entered the inevitable routine, which pushed her into the… erm, arms, shall we say, of her tennis coach. What a terrible cliché, don’t you think?

The Police Commissioner had asked to personally press the button that would end his life, so he was in the room now, watching carefully, but not really listening. Yes, they were all watching, the ones behind the window glass too; the reporters and Civil Rights supporters, and everybody else who had come here today to watch him die. But were they truly listening?

Of course, looking back on it all now, it seems like an extremely bad tragicomedy – but at that very moment, I lost it. Can’t say exactly if my love for her pushed me into doing it, or if it was the bitter taste of being a failure in the eyes of my parents; all I know is that in that particular moment, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Two women and three men – he had counted them earlier, in lack of better things to do – were jotting words down on their notepads; they were probably journalists, ready to publish his story and distort his words in ways beyond repair. He stops his speech for a second, his reflection in the glass almost making him sick to the stomach: for the past weeks, they had placed him in solitary and forbidden him to shave; hair had already grown short on his head, while half of his face was covered with a thick, black beard. He rotates his head, examining this stranger, and lifts his chin: the scar on his throat is still there, so that man must be himself.

We were in the kitchen when she decided to ease her conscience; she had been cooking before my arrival. I remember the knife, glimmering in the light of the sun, calling for me to grab it and use it. And so I did: I carved a nasty cut on my throat, from one side to the other – not very professionally, I might add; more like a butcher than a surgeon. Personally, I blame the heat of the moment for the poor execution!

Open your eyes wide and listen carefully, for this is the moment that changed it all. The ignorance running through your veins – I had that too, and I’ve tasted it as blood poured from me like from a slaughtered pig. Immediately after, I blacked out, losing touch with everything around me. Next thing I know: I’m tired like I’ve been walking thousands of miles. I open my eyes and I find myself in the biggest room you can ever imagine; ceiling so high it hurts your neck to look up. Larger than the Notre-Dame, I’d say.

Crowds of people surrounded me. Two of them approached and it was then when I truly noticed their appearance: completely bald, as everybody around me. No hair at all on their bodies, no piercings or tattoos, no clothes on; nothing that could separate one from another, but the spark of life in their eyes. They reached out to me, welcoming me, but before I got to touch their pure skin and accept their help, I got dragged back into this world.

Hear me, you bunch of pitiful sinners! Rid yourselves of all earthly goods! Cut these ties that hold you down and spread your wings towards The Kingdom, for down here, you are many – but in the eyes of our Father, you are all one! One son, beloved and cherished above all else!

He is panting and his throat is burning. Right now, a glass of water would sweeten his pain and ease the thirst. No matter: soon enough, he will join Him at His table and drink honey from His coup. He turns his head and looks the commissioner dead in the eye.

My family awaits; I shall join them now.