It's 12:03 in the morning and I can't think of anything to really do. I have all of this creative energy that I need to pour into something, but I don't really have an outlet anymore... So here we are at LJ. For better or for worse, I'm going to throw down some drabbles that've been floating around in my head.
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I watched as He stood over the man on the ground, kneeling in the runoff rain from the nearby buildings, eyes enraptured. This was sermon, it was communion, it was rapture. The rain fell and it soaked me through, unnoticed, as I watched Him straighten His arm, elbow bending, the notched sights on the end of the pistol lining up with the top of His shoulder, the cold steel of the weapon planted on the kneeling man's forehead.
He blubbers, crying on, but I tune it out -- there are only so many times you can hear someone ask for forgiveness, for mercy, before they all start to sound the same. He begins to speak in his low, even voice, and even the man at His knees ceases his endless noise to hear His words:
"Can you feel it? Can you feel it, here, this electricity... This isn't planned. This isn't recorded, this isn't -scheduled- for, this isn't... fate. There isn't anything else in all the worlds of all the univers except what is right here, in this little alley: There is me, there is you, there is him... and there's what we -can- do, and what we -can't- do."
I've heard those ending words before, heard them murmured in his sleep, heard them whispered into my ear, heard myself drugged with them: "There is only what we -can- do, and what we -can't- do." I'd taken these words from my very first meeting with Him, taken this small part of Him and made it my own; held them close, cherished them, and slipped them into my heart.
For all that His words had been spoken in the presence of another, I knew they weren't meant for the being on the ground -- he was merely a lesson, something to teach with, as much a person as any other book, scroll, or video. His words were for me, asking if I knew why we were here, asking if I was ready for what he was about to teach me.
The rain was the only sound for awhile, filling up the nighttime alley with its harsh, abusive blows to the pavement before I caught Him speaking once again, this time down to the begging man in a soft, almost soothing whisper,
"Liberating, isn't it? To cast away everything that you're supposed to be, to remove the weights that are expectations of how you are to act, to behave, to be in -control-... To let it all go. To let that forbidden emotion rule you -- surrender. To let another take you into their power, to -understand- that there is nothing you can do. That this is out of your hands. To lose yourself, and have it be okay ... There is no guilt here; you are weak, and I have taken you to be my own. You will understand, soon, that it's just as reliving to fall as it is to stand."
His words rolled to me, through me, like a drug, lifting me as I sought to wrap my mind about everything that He was trying to tell me. This wasn't the first time that He'd taken someone like this to demonstrate His point, to teach me. They were always fine in the end, if a bit scarred, and the warrants out for Him just grew longer and longer.
The feeling of a warm wetness, of blood, was my first indication that this wasn't like the others -- the sound of the man's form crumpling down against the wet stones the next, a last, quiet sigh passing before he was dead. Only then, oddly, did the echoing sound of the gunshot reverbrating against the bricked walls reach me... Harsh, grating, but most of all a symbol of what He could do.
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amused
bouncy
quixotic
anxious
