∆

Living in New York, there is rarely anything that surprises me anymore. Reading the New York Times or even the Post is an exercise in despair- to paraphrase Bret Easton Ellis by way of Timothy Price, “In one issue, strangled models, babies thrown from rooftops, kids killed in subway, Mafia boss wiped out, Nazis, various maniacs, surrogate mothers, the Yankees losing again…” When I moved here from Greece, where the most we have issues with is an immigrant doing some crazy thing late at night, it was definitely a surprise. But those times had passed, and I’d go so far as to say that I’m almost an honorary New Yorker now. Nothing could shock me.

Page MM32 did it. May 13, 2012. This has just happened, and you can even read the article on NYT's website, yeah, but it feels less like days ago and more like minutes ago. When you’re reading the Times, bored as hell because your roommate left to the Rangers game, what can you really expect? 
So I see the headline Trouble, Age 9 and really can’t even muster up the courage… To give a fuck. 

Seems like some article about shitty kids, the screaming brats you see more and more often in the markets; the horrible youth that seems to be a staple of the newest generation. “For years, Anne and Miguel have struggled to understand their eldest son, an elegant boy with high-planed cheeks, wide eyes and curly light brown hair, whose periodic rages alternate with moments of chilly detachment.” 
I shrugged. What, it was a bipolar kid or something? I recall saying out loud, “slow news day”, and reaching for the remote control to turn on the television when I looked down at another page of the article- and an excerpt stopped me cold.

Shrieking, Michael ran to the bathroom and began slamming the toilet seat down repeatedly. Dragged out and ordered to bed, he sobbed pitifully. “Daddy! Daddy! Why are you doing this to me?” he begged, as Miguel carried him to his room. “No, Daddy! I have a greater bond with you than I do with Mommy!” For the next hour, Michael sobbed and screamed, while Miguel tried to calm him. In the hall outside his room, Miguel apologized, adding that it was “an unusually bad night.”
From the bedroom, Michael called out: “He knows the consequences, so I don’t know why he does it. I will hurt him.”
Miguel: “No you won’t.”
Michael: “I’m coming for you, Allan.”

To explain just what “stopped” me about that exchange, I’m going to have to go back to a part of my life that I’ve spent many years trying to forget.

There is a significant part of my childhood that I am not proud of. When I was around six or seven, still in Greece, I used to have a nameless imaginary friend. Actually, that would be an incorrect start to this little bit of exposition- she did have a name, but one forgotten to me thanks to the sands of time. She was taller than I, but appeared to be the same age, very pale, long black hair. 

Her sclera was black, and her eyes, gold. 

I don’t know what I called her, but I do remember a picture I proudly hung on the refrigerator- a portrait of us, done in crayon with all the artistic ability of a grade school student. Above me, my name- Antonis. 

Above her, ∆.

I guess that was her “name.” Whatever she went by, she told me to do a lot of things. We were inseparable- I never stopped to question her suggestions for a new adventure. Eventually I was labeled as the problem child, the bad kid, the shitstirrer. Did I really care? No, because ∆ was there for me. I don’t know half of the terrible things I did and the grief I caused my parents, but I do remember one evening, clear as day. I had been made fun of in school the previous week- some kid had called me a headcase, and it was probably true. But I was inconsolable for a couple of days- then she was there. Spoke to me. She never talked any louder than a whisper, but to me, it was like a train whistle, all I could focus on. 

“Why are you crying?” ∆ asked me.

I told her about what had happened, and she wrapped her arms around me and told me just exactly what had to be done.

During that conversation, she stopped, and looked me in the eye. 

“Do you know about the devil?”

Of course I did. Even as shitty as a child I was, I was inherently frightened by him, just like any other kid. 

She just laughed and said, “He did a really good trick and fooled a whole lot of people.”

And I asked ∆, what?

“Making you believe there was only one of him.”

The kid, you can look him up, Kostas Ninis, I stabbed him with a pair of scissors. They were safety scissors, but it still made a mess and, honestly, it was all the validation my parents needed. We moved to America and I was immediately sent to a psychologist. 

Long story short, I took medication for a while, and ∆ eventually disappeared. By the time I was 12, I was essentially “fine” again. But I’m not completely fine. You can see that clearly. I wrote this down to explain how a news article almost caused me a nervous breakdown, and I’m going back into childhood memories I forgot I had. 

What scared me so much is that kid in the article, Michael, reminded me of myself. I knew exactly how he worked, what made him tick. Initially, I had thought it was ∆ herself, whatever name she was under now, but I remembered what she said. 
There are a lot of devils out there.

Nous Sommes le Bélier

Down here, we can't even cast a shadow. We've not even the right to that. 

The circular chamber is soundproof and naturally integument; it's deep underground, the very inverse of the empyrean. Down here, below the undercrofts and the catacombs and the crypts and the trenches, it's as if we are millions of miles away from civilization- an alien concept that seems to have no place here. 

Torches line the stone walls of the decagonal structure- just enough to see ahead of you. Along each wall stands a Défenseur, nine of them, draped in blue robing, with the tenth wall occupied by myself, agneau sacrificiel. I am blindfolded, bound, naked, down here Mise an Abyme- but I know why I are here. 

In the center of the room lies the pyre. 

"We are imperfect and unworthy. Nous méritons tout. We are the ram, the black princes, the heretics, and we are here today to once again call upon thee for forgiveness."

We step forward and I can feel the heat along my face. My breathing quickens. 

"I am a sinner and I wish only for a fraction of your forgiveness," I call out. "Recognize my penance."

I step forward 

through the pyre- no pain, none of what I surely thought would accompany me in my journey. The air is dry and arid and harsh winds greet my face. I have been told this is how it would be, and yet I am still disquieted by my shift. Below my barefoot feet I can feel sand, and as I walk forward, still not daring to remove my blindfold, it seems like that wherever I am, it is vast.

"Purgatory," I say, and I am crestfallen.

You're not there.

I tear the blindfold from my face, unsure of what to expect. 

Upon seeing The Passenger of Teeth, Million Legs, Great Lord Abraxas- my god- I fall prostrate, almost crying. I have not been abandoned. 

"Have I been- have we finally been forgiven?"

And Abraxas looks down on me with his thousand eyes, and I can hear his voice like the sound of waves crashing in my head: 

Not even close.

FEAR ME: PATIENCE, OR THE ILLUSION OF STRENGTH

Patience is a girl I need to forget.

Patience, the virtue I could never truly prove,

The “smoking in bed” of benefits. I was always told in Sunday School that you could not rush these things, and yet the malaise I feel now is something less than clarity. Everything happens for a reason, I am told. A person dies, someone with a mother, a father, a brother, sister, son, fetus in fetu, hookworm, all caring for it. They die of a complication from surgery, or something. And this is what happens for a reason.

Dying a virgin, or dying a child or even worse, dying during childbirth, it’s all for a reason. I recall bleeding out during those first nights alone. You circling the drain, and all that I can hear from this old lady is hate from the language of gods. The book of forgiveness becoming a tome of broken vows.

God bless everyone that isn’t me.

We hate everyone equally. Stay out. You are not to be seen with me, we are genocide, extermination, assimilation, whatever. Fear me in the same way that you fear the night stalkers and rapists and thieves. I walk like sex with a stranger and the illusion of strength. I am a deceiver and I will do nothing but hurt you. This is all in the book.

Think of the vultures tearing these children limb from limb, think of rotting from the inside. Think of hate blocking out the sun. We are eclipse.

God, protect everyone except the damned.

SURELY HEAVEN, OR DEATH, OR BOTH

Consider me the mirror that no longer reflects.

I am an android of skin of monsters of gods of books of fairytales of magic of hate of despair of betrayal of bones of life of death of vomit of blood of sweat of tears of air of carbon of nitrogen of hydrogen of the reason seperating me from you, is that you are not on fire, not in the same way I consider myself to be.

I am the swept-under-the-rug of a generation that was an accident. Consider me the future that will never arrive. I feel the cherub in red crushing me. This is a veneration of some sort. Do not be alarmed; we will look upon these black days in history books or essays or short stories or dissertations or articles or encyclopedias or almanacs or powerpoints or pictures or slideshows or files or novels or novellas or written on the ground in chalk or on the walls in a liquid of unfound origin. And we will look upon these black days, and we will laugh.

And we will then pollute again. We are bad men in bad times.