Self-Immolation

Self-Immolation

Everyone was standing with their hands in the air; I stood at the back, slouching, with my hands in my pockets.

I’ve been here for two weeks now, and surprisingly, only four people have died. They post the death notices on an announcement board in the ‘activity room.’ I’ve never seen a place with less activity in it, but as soon as we see someone posting a blue sheet of paper on the board we shuffle over like perfectly healthy and mobile human beings.

The most recent was an old man by the name of Lewis or Linus or something like that. I’d seen him in the activity room not three days ago, and although he looked as hideous as the rest of us, he didn’t look in any danger of succumbing to the illness yet. I don’t know, maybe he killed himself. Or maybe they killed him; they seem like the kind of people that would do it.

Father Cheng stood like a dictator at the podium at the front of the cathedral. He was talking about how we were the damned, and that only through him and his teachings will we be able to walk with God.

“You have all been cursed for your sins. You are all affected physically because you have not kept yourselves morally clean. You will all die here, but if you repent and give yourself to the Lord you will live forever in His kingdom.

It was true, of course. We were all sinners, and we were all ‘affected.’ Repenting was the last thing on my mind – I wanted to stay alive.

“The Lord has punished you, and the Devil has marked you with his disease, which crawls in your skin and makes you his own. Only by forsaking your skin and removing yourself from the coat that will be your death, will you be saved.”

Cheng wasn’t making sense, as usual, but everyone else was eating it alive. God knows why, but they stood right up close to Cheng with their eyes closed and their hands in the air, as if he were telling them eternal wisdom and the secrets of life. Ironically, in Cheng’s mind, the secret of life was that we’re all going to die.

How I’d love to outlive him.

I stopped listening about fifteen minutes into the excruciatingly repetitive sermon, and took looking up at the roof of the cavernous cathedral. I’d only been to two of these sermons so far, but as far as I could tell, looking up at the ceiling could pass for looking to the heavens for guidance. No one would know.

The cathedral was massive and featureless. A 12-foot crucifix stood behind Cheng’s podium like an ominous bodyguard, but aside from that there was nothing but pews, a few windows and the ever-present reminder of how we are the worst human beings on Earth.

Cheng’s sermon finished about an hour later, and though I paid very little attention to the words, I knew exactly what he said. It’s the exact same message each time.

After the sermon I tried to find my way back to my room, but this place is full of winding hallways that either lead nowhere or you find yourself on the walls outside. This place is actually a lot like an Old English castle; the walls have battlements, there are high turrets and a courtyard in the middle. Sadly, there isn’t a mote for us to drown ourselves in. There isn’t a body of water for miles, which is probably why they chose this place. I know that I can get to my room from the courtyard pretty easily, but from where I was on the battlements I didn’t know how to get to the courtyard. It was getting dark, so I simply decided to pick a direction and commit to it until I found a place I knew.

It worked; the hallway I chose after leaving the battlements eventually led to the main hall and from there it was just a few staircases to my room.

I share a room with Nigel and Oliver, who were both lying in their beds when I got there. Nigel is a middle-aged man with a glass eye and is the only other person that shares my beliefs about this place, while Oliver makes me want to kill him with every word he speaks. Once he actually tried to tell me that this isn’t a hospice, but a happy place that will lead us to salvation. I try to avoid talking to him as much as possible.

“Simon,” Nigel greeted me as I walked in. “There’s a letter on your bed from Cheng’s office.”

That wasn’t good.

“And you should really try to get back here earlier after mass,” Oliver began preaching. “The silent reflection after hearing God’s word is the most important part, and you can’t do that outside with so many distractions.”

In the all-enveloping whiteness of the room – white sheets, white clothing, white floor, white curtains – anyone would mistake him from a religious man suffering from dementia. Rather than respond to him, I occupied myself with the letter from Cheng. It was a yellow envelope with none of the grandeur I believed Cheng was all about. It read:

Simon Redding,

You are to take part in the renaming ceremony that is compulsory for patients to undergo after they have been here for the time that you have. You will be given a new name that will set you free from the past of sin that is synonymous with the name you already have. You will be born again with a name from God Himself. The ceremony will take place at sunrise on Sunday morning.

-Father Cheng

Absolutely none of that made sense at first, until Nigel spoke. “The renaming ceremony, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. What’s the deal?”

“He’ll place his hands on you and give you a name that he claims will come from the mouth of God. It’s preposterous of course, so no one takes it seriously.”

“Why not?”

“Because he repeats the same names over and over again, and he can’t remember who is named who, so he can’t keep track of it. I think there’s at least twenty people in here named Granaga or something stupid like that.”

I laughed, even though I was uneasy about the whole thing. “What’s your given name, then?” I asked Nigel.

“I don’t know. During the ceremony I was too busy laughing my head off on the inside. It was just luck that I didn’t burst and laugh right in Cheng’s face.”

“You shouldn’t have found it funny, Nigel,” Oliver sneered. “Father Cheng has very good reason to give us new names. If we hold onto our old lives then we’ll never get to heaven.”

Both Nigel and I rolled our eyes.

“What’s your name then,” I asked Oliver, despite wanting to smother him with a pillow.

“I... don’t want to tell you.”

“Well if you won’t take it seriously how do you expect me to?” I felt I raised a good point, but I really just wanted to hear the name so I could laugh.

“Nigel de-glorified it so now there’s no point.”

“Just tell us.”

There was a pause, and I knew he was about to tell us.

“Granaga,” he admitted, and both Nigel and I thought it was hilarious.

“So you’re one too?” Nigel asked rhetorically. “I knew there was something special about you. Oh, and Simon, this means you’ll have to start going to the support groups.”

I didn’t bother asking what that was, since it sounded pretty straightforward. They were going to help me deal with the fact that I was going to die. Truth is, I’d need more help than they could give.

I got into bed, still laughing at Oliver, and after a while I think it was generally agreed that it was time to go sleep. There was one question I needed to ask though. “What day is it today?” I lose track of days easily, especially in a place like this.

“Friday,” Oliver said. Nigel’s snoring told me that he was already asleep.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Granaga,” I giggled softly and eventually slipped slowly into sleep. In two days I’d have another name that meant absolutely nothing.