Just wanted to do something. A bit longer than I wanted, but I liked it. Not sure how long the story is going to be, exactly.
1: Jim Alderson
One of the Lord's better creations has been the Burning Bush... more specifically, the ganja.
I bring up the blunt to my mouth, and fire off. I can feel the smoke, the nicotine, entering my body, going into my lungs, and settling. I breathe out, and it comes out, but not all of it. It shall corrupt this body, and soon, roughly twenty years, forty one days, and six hours, a tumor will star developing. It would have been my twenty seventh tumor in this materialistic lifetime.
There is a car crash, and then a body tumbles out of the windshield of the car. He lands on the ground, and rolls like a rag doll. He slams into a tree, and, even though I am four miles away, I can hear his spine crack, can feel the neutrons unable to get to the brain. Within four minutes and twenty two seconds from this exact time frame, he shall die. If I act, I can save him. If I don't act, he shall perish.
I appear before him by taking a single step. Material boundaries are of no importance to me, unless I wish it so. Every now and then, I get into a fugue, and feel as if taking off the bounds of materialism would destroy me. However, however, with the feel of the cannabis in my mind, there is some light-headedness that I feel. I cared not for the feeble limitations of this world at this moment.
I stood before the man. His right eye twitched, and was the only one open. Although his body tried to open his left eye, it did not work, and his eye did not respond. He could see me, although it was blurry. He was, at this moment, four minutes and six seconds away from death. If the ambulance arrived here, within exactly forty nine seconds, he has a possible chance, albeit slim, to be saved.
However, they would not arrive. He was destined to die within exactly three minutes and fifty eight seconds, unless I intervened.
I breathe out a mouthful of second hand tobacco smoke into his face.
His name was Jim Alderson. He was thirty nine years old, was tall, fit, and wore a suit. He beat his wife, his daughter once half raped him and then blackmailed him for money, and he was just fired from his job.
Life problems. These stupid humans.
How sad is this human, and his life that he has wrought. Humanity is the effect of the subjects which make it up, and yet humans are subject to whatever effects humanity reaps upon each individual.
Jim Alderson was born to Reverend James Alderson, whom, quite ironically, I have once met. James Alderson was the pillar of the community, the type of person whom everyone goes to help, the type of person whom everyone can count on, the type of person who would have been one of the corrupt Inquisitors if he had been born in that time frame, and the type of person who chains up his son whenever the son blasphemies God. Funny man. Funny is men.
The moment Jim Alderson had turned eighteen, he had left his home, after pondering if he should have burned down the house. He didn't which was good, because if he did then he would have been caught. Jim then proceeded to go to finish high school at an entire different state, and then went to an Ivy League college. Afterwards, he had gotten a position within a company, and had risen through the ranks, passing all of the job firings, sometimes narrowly.
He had gotten back in touch with his childhood friend, Marian. They had dated, and the two fell in love. They got married, and had a single child, a girl.
However, then came the pressures of the job. The longer he worked there, the more responsibility he was given, and the more responsibility he was given, the less time he had to spend with his family. A hundred hours of the week were spent inside of the office, at the least. His girl grew up without knowing her father's name. Seeking attention, she did everything; she got perfect scores, she did all the work around the house, she slept with boys when she was twelve and started doing drugs. Eventually, like he did, she stopped caring.
One night, she visited her father's office, which convenient had no cameras, and strapped him down. With a camera set up, she proceeded to rape her father. Taking as much money as possible, she then left, with her body as her only asset, no pun intended. Depending on this night, he would never hear from her again.
He was promoted the next week, ironically, and spent more time than ever, even doing meaningless overtime. The household flowed with money, and yet it was empty of life. His wife was not satisfied with this; she was angry and depressed, spiteful yet loving. The pool boy outside, though, apparently could satisfy. As the pool boy screwed the mistress of the house, Jim's name was screamed in ecstasy, a wife for a love that was missing.
For two months, this continued, until one day Jim collapsed at work. The management had always been happy with his work, more than happy, so no one cared if he went home early. He found his wife being screwed right on the kitchen table.
He smacked her.
Turning around, he left, revving up the car, just pressing on the gas peddle, no care for the world. It was inevitable that he would crash into a car, flying out, and then would lie dying.
"How does it feel," I asked him, "to have your life summed up in five hundred and ninety words, with a margin for narration?"
"Will you die? Can you die? Will you cry? Can you cry?"
Three minutes and thirty seconds left.
"How did it feel," I asked him, "to smack her face? The sound as skin touched skin, the feel of beloved flesh bruising? You once kissed her with your lips, you once pleasure her with her hands, and now she wants to kill herself, you are killing yourself."
Three minutes left.
"Is it your fault? Is it your daughter? Or are you both a product of humanity? Because of your dad's extreme religious zeal, you believed not in God, which was okay by my standards, and you did everything you believed was right. You never stole, you never lied, you just worked, like the good little worker bee everyone wants you to bee. You did everything you were supposed to, yet now, it was because of that that you now lie here."
Two minutes twenty four seconds left.
"Shall I heal you?"
Jim Alderson can be healed. By a miraculous recovery, rightly so, he shall live. For the next five months, he shall be in rehabilitation. Then, he shall finish with barely a limp. He shall go home, and the first thing he will do would be to pleasure his wife, tell her that he loves her, and say it all night long, never leaving her side. Then, he shall use the excess money he has to find his daughter. Two years later, he would find her, a half used prostitute that would even make her own father pay. He shall then take her home, spank her, and then make up everything. He and his wife, Marian, shall bed again, and she shall be pregnant with his seed once more. Their son would receive the love and attention that all children of God needs, and then shall grow up to be a good and righteous man of god, saving thousands of lives with the two foundations he shall make.
Yet, Jim Alderson could very easily die here as well. I could just leave him here. He worked in a variety of jobs at his company. One of those was to fire people. He was cold, fast, and effective. People would leave, crying, begging, pleading for their jobs back, and he would look back into their eyes and then deny them. Four people have committed suicides because of his coldness, which could have easily been remedied if he had chosen to. Yet he didn't. His daughter, because of his neglect, once also slept with a married man, and the crazed wife of that man proceeded to kill that man as well. Could this also have been blamed on him?
On one hand, Jim's life could help others.
On the other hand, he deserves to be punished for what he did.
I stand up, no longer leaning over. He sees me, his dying mind.
One minute and fifteen seconds left.
The dying can see angels. Sometimes the figure they saw was interpreted, depending on culture, depending on beliefs, but it was always an angel.
And it was always me.
One minute and two seconds left.
If I heal him, he would forget this encounter, except in his deepest nightmares and most hedonistic dreams. I would be but an illusion, a dream that would disappear the moment he awoke.
Forty six seconds left.
"Do I help you, child of God," I asked him, "or shall I leave you to die?"
Twenty seconds left.
"I am not an angel of God anymore," I whispered to him, "I am an angel of man, and your life is my choice."
I made my decision, and then left. From that moment on, I would care not about Jim Alderson, because I had made my decision.
I am no longer an angel of God.
I am now an angel of man.
I am Lucifer.
1: Jim Alderson
One of the Lord's better creations has been the Burning Bush... more specifically, the ganja.
I bring up the blunt to my mouth, and fire off. I can feel the smoke, the nicotine, entering my body, going into my lungs, and settling. I breathe out, and it comes out, but not all of it. It shall corrupt this body, and soon, roughly twenty years, forty one days, and six hours, a tumor will star developing. It would have been my twenty seventh tumor in this materialistic lifetime.
There is a car crash, and then a body tumbles out of the windshield of the car. He lands on the ground, and rolls like a rag doll. He slams into a tree, and, even though I am four miles away, I can hear his spine crack, can feel the neutrons unable to get to the brain. Within four minutes and twenty two seconds from this exact time frame, he shall die. If I act, I can save him. If I don't act, he shall perish.
I appear before him by taking a single step. Material boundaries are of no importance to me, unless I wish it so. Every now and then, I get into a fugue, and feel as if taking off the bounds of materialism would destroy me. However, however, with the feel of the cannabis in my mind, there is some light-headedness that I feel. I cared not for the feeble limitations of this world at this moment.
I stood before the man. His right eye twitched, and was the only one open. Although his body tried to open his left eye, it did not work, and his eye did not respond. He could see me, although it was blurry. He was, at this moment, four minutes and six seconds away from death. If the ambulance arrived here, within exactly forty nine seconds, he has a possible chance, albeit slim, to be saved.
However, they would not arrive. He was destined to die within exactly three minutes and fifty eight seconds, unless I intervened.
I breathe out a mouthful of second hand tobacco smoke into his face.
His name was Jim Alderson. He was thirty nine years old, was tall, fit, and wore a suit. He beat his wife, his daughter once half raped him and then blackmailed him for money, and he was just fired from his job.
Life problems. These stupid humans.
How sad is this human, and his life that he has wrought. Humanity is the effect of the subjects which make it up, and yet humans are subject to whatever effects humanity reaps upon each individual.
Jim Alderson was born to Reverend James Alderson, whom, quite ironically, I have once met. James Alderson was the pillar of the community, the type of person whom everyone goes to help, the type of person whom everyone can count on, the type of person who would have been one of the corrupt Inquisitors if he had been born in that time frame, and the type of person who chains up his son whenever the son blasphemies God. Funny man. Funny is men.
The moment Jim Alderson had turned eighteen, he had left his home, after pondering if he should have burned down the house. He didn't which was good, because if he did then he would have been caught. Jim then proceeded to go to finish high school at an entire different state, and then went to an Ivy League college. Afterwards, he had gotten a position within a company, and had risen through the ranks, passing all of the job firings, sometimes narrowly.
He had gotten back in touch with his childhood friend, Marian. They had dated, and the two fell in love. They got married, and had a single child, a girl.
However, then came the pressures of the job. The longer he worked there, the more responsibility he was given, and the more responsibility he was given, the less time he had to spend with his family. A hundred hours of the week were spent inside of the office, at the least. His girl grew up without knowing her father's name. Seeking attention, she did everything; she got perfect scores, she did all the work around the house, she slept with boys when she was twelve and started doing drugs. Eventually, like he did, she stopped caring.
One night, she visited her father's office, which convenient had no cameras, and strapped him down. With a camera set up, she proceeded to rape her father. Taking as much money as possible, she then left, with her body as her only asset, no pun intended. Depending on this night, he would never hear from her again.
He was promoted the next week, ironically, and spent more time than ever, even doing meaningless overtime. The household flowed with money, and yet it was empty of life. His wife was not satisfied with this; she was angry and depressed, spiteful yet loving. The pool boy outside, though, apparently could satisfy. As the pool boy screwed the mistress of the house, Jim's name was screamed in ecstasy, a wife for a love that was missing.
For two months, this continued, until one day Jim collapsed at work. The management had always been happy with his work, more than happy, so no one cared if he went home early. He found his wife being screwed right on the kitchen table.
He smacked her.
Turning around, he left, revving up the car, just pressing on the gas peddle, no care for the world. It was inevitable that he would crash into a car, flying out, and then would lie dying.
"How does it feel," I asked him, "to have your life summed up in five hundred and ninety words, with a margin for narration?"
"Will you die? Can you die? Will you cry? Can you cry?"
Three minutes and thirty seconds left.
"How did it feel," I asked him, "to smack her face? The sound as skin touched skin, the feel of beloved flesh bruising? You once kissed her with your lips, you once pleasure her with her hands, and now she wants to kill herself, you are killing yourself."
Three minutes left.
"Is it your fault? Is it your daughter? Or are you both a product of humanity? Because of your dad's extreme religious zeal, you believed not in God, which was okay by my standards, and you did everything you believed was right. You never stole, you never lied, you just worked, like the good little worker bee everyone wants you to bee. You did everything you were supposed to, yet now, it was because of that that you now lie here."
Two minutes twenty four seconds left.
"Shall I heal you?"
Jim Alderson can be healed. By a miraculous recovery, rightly so, he shall live. For the next five months, he shall be in rehabilitation. Then, he shall finish with barely a limp. He shall go home, and the first thing he will do would be to pleasure his wife, tell her that he loves her, and say it all night long, never leaving her side. Then, he shall use the excess money he has to find his daughter. Two years later, he would find her, a half used prostitute that would even make her own father pay. He shall then take her home, spank her, and then make up everything. He and his wife, Marian, shall bed again, and she shall be pregnant with his seed once more. Their son would receive the love and attention that all children of God needs, and then shall grow up to be a good and righteous man of god, saving thousands of lives with the two foundations he shall make.
Yet, Jim Alderson could very easily die here as well. I could just leave him here. He worked in a variety of jobs at his company. One of those was to fire people. He was cold, fast, and effective. People would leave, crying, begging, pleading for their jobs back, and he would look back into their eyes and then deny them. Four people have committed suicides because of his coldness, which could have easily been remedied if he had chosen to. Yet he didn't. His daughter, because of his neglect, once also slept with a married man, and the crazed wife of that man proceeded to kill that man as well. Could this also have been blamed on him?
On one hand, Jim's life could help others.
On the other hand, he deserves to be punished for what he did.
I stand up, no longer leaning over. He sees me, his dying mind.
One minute and fifteen seconds left.
The dying can see angels. Sometimes the figure they saw was interpreted, depending on culture, depending on beliefs, but it was always an angel.
And it was always me.
One minute and two seconds left.
If I heal him, he would forget this encounter, except in his deepest nightmares and most hedonistic dreams. I would be but an illusion, a dream that would disappear the moment he awoke.
Forty six seconds left.
"Do I help you, child of God," I asked him, "or shall I leave you to die?"
Twenty seconds left.
"I am not an angel of God anymore," I whispered to him, "I am an angel of man, and your life is my choice."
I made my decision, and then left. From that moment on, I would care not about Jim Alderson, because I had made my decision.
I am no longer an angel of God.
I am now an angel of man.
I am Lucifer.