The death of Lazarus, or a return to dust
Streetlamps blazed a fiery orange before a dingy promenade, illuminating the dusty shop fronts and decaying porches for all in the derelict district to gaze upon. They desperately attempted to hide within the folds of a powerful blizzard, but it was no use. The obvious decay and neglect of the entire region had become impossible to hide.
They shouldn’t have bothered anyway. The only man foolish enough to be out this late was one who had no interest at all in his surroundings.
Propelling himself forward at an unnatural pace, he stooped over so much that his nose teased the ground, nearly grazing it; he bore a ragged beard and a pair of bent spectacles, and a greatcoat so tattered it was a wonder that it had not fallen apart completely. In other words, he was undesirable, forgotten by society and hidden from public view, in order not to perturb it. Probably mad, or worse. His death would be either forgotten or celebrated.
However, unbeknownst to the average onlooker, this man was about to do something utterly extraordinary. With an instinctive turn into an alleyway, once again with inhuman speed, he thrust a key into the lock of a door and disappeared inside.
He found himself at his home, if you could call this vacant place of residency a home. The carpet was immaculate, tasteful chandeliers decorated the ceiling and walls were painted in a beautiful shade of crimson. There was even a grand fire roaring in a mosaic fortress, greeting any who enter. A faded image of a couple, smiling at each other hung on the wall, its simple sweetness in stark contrast with the decaying grandeur surrounding it. The whole place seemed, despite its riches... faded. Like the image on the wall, it seemed as if it was some form of memory. A reminder of a long-forgotten time, tragic in its beauty.
Our ancient creature had then stridden through the maze of his apartment; through grand passageways embellished in baroque beauty, conservatories and even a grand ballroom, to a dining room with an equally grand table. The man took no notice of his surroundings. His face retained the same quaint, fearful expression that it had when marching across the promenade. He disappeared into the other room for an hour or so, and, when he returned, had a feast befitting the lord of such a castle- naught but smoked fish and a dash of vodka. He ate with no pleasure, but instead intensely stared into the hearth before him. It roared like hell.
To answer the many questions you must have, dear reader, we must slip like a ghost past the grand passageways and grander ballroom, past the decorations in their multitudes and to a remarkably unassuming wooden door. Then, we shall turn the handle, brush past its smooth plywood surface, and enter. If you have maintained your bravery this far and crept in, you will be greeted with quite the reward for, a wealth of knowledge lies here. Great volumes and papers are strewn across the floor in a hoard of creative detritus; a room full of impossibly beautiful waste, meaningful clutter that could make a man rich if sold to publishers.
Although a wealth of impossible and fantastic tales could be found here, no doubt, I will force us to find solely the answer to our most burning questions. Instead of poring through this sea of distraction, search for a copy of the Bible. It will be turned to the tale of Lazarus, the man who returned from the dead. And beside it will be an old notebook, burned with many scars. It will bear an image of a firebird, reborn of flame from the ashes of its past life, the immortal itself. In here your answers lie.
Dear diary,
I am terrified. I can see their torches as I write, their boots grinding against the ground outside. My diploma, my position, my work, none of it matters anymore.
As you know, I have fallen unconditionally for a woman. I was blind to the signs God gave me, his attempts to dissuade me from my obvious sin. I am a fool.
I remember the love I once had, how I would take note of her every action and imitate it to become closer to Him. Her obliviousness to my true self was the only reason she ever sent any golden morsel of attention my way. Others called it an obsession- accursed infidels!
It was today that I first truly saw. It was my colleague and best friend ; I walked in on them and of course they were together. Devouring each other with such ferocity and passion it was impossible to remain blinded to the obvious truth. Of course, she tried to explain it, with honeyed words and a serpent’s tongue, my sweet, sweet colleague defiling my love. The two battling in her mind, the released witch and her innocent angelic form engaged in war. But that devil was winning. I steeled myself and smiled so ruefully. I knew that she could not be saved by anything other than divine intervention or myself. I gathered my few belongings and knew I had to escape from the demon’s clutches. But then I was overcome.
God Himself.
It was Him that took my body. It was Him that took the knife from the kitchen drawer, it was Him that grabbed her unscrupulously and began to cut into cursed flesh. It was Him that ignored the screams of the demon and its pleas to my long-departed humanity. It was Him that took the parts of her helpless, exorcised body and plunged it into the stove’s holy fire, and it was Him that took her valuables and ran.
The old inhabitant in my body is gone. God killed him and I, a new self, am reborn. I seek naught but revenge on God for what he has done. I am Lazarus, resurrected by Him and I shall rise to his power, for my power is immense. Omnipotence will fall! My revenge will be legendary!
Our prophet had finished his meal by now, and left the dining room without a word. As soon as his feet left the threshold; however, he began to mutter to himself:
“Oh ancient desire, I have achieved all required of me! All tasks set for me, all orders dictated- I have done all! My love, the God which defiled you will die!”
“I am as God, not to be subject to his judgement,” he uttered with little reassurance while he left his dead palace in and was expelled into the slum.
“I fear no hellfire, for it is at my command!” he screamed into the worsening storm. Buffeted by the wind, he somehow managed to stay stable despite his frail frame being at mercy to the winds. A blazing lamp burst and died, its glass no doubt also frail and at mercy to the ice and snow. Lightning flickered tentatively, dying in a cycle of stillbirths, but the thunderclap did nothing to influence the man’s stride. Driven by love and hate and the unstoppable purpose of a broken mind, he found his way to a dark and foreboding building. Made of rusted and corrugated tin, this derelict warehouse attracted no visitors save himself.
In, the creature crept. The lair reflected his personality far more than his grand apartment. His egotism and tragic self-pity were present in the oily stink of the cursed place. Even in darkness, his hatred and loathing for the God that forced him to do this could be seen like black light. His obsession with one long dead too was visible. And even more, a fatal faith in himself and his destiny could be heard in the oppressive silence that bowed to his cackles. It was his den, alive, unlike the apartment which imprisoned him.
He flicked a hidden switch, and lights like the eyes of the Inferno flickered into life.
With that flick of a switch, it was proven! For the lair was not a warehouse, but a deity’s temple! Here would be the birth of the church dedicated to him, usurper-king, a new God!
The first noticeable attribute of the fortress was that the majority of it was frugal or decaying. A scrapyard of broken machines that told of its former use as a cruel sweatshop; staffed by children, no doubt. A row of pews had been set out for future believers, of rusting metal. The differences between this lowly worshippers’ area and the front, for God Himself, was obvious. A clear pathway was visible from the front to the back, and a marble pedestal, gleaming white, held an urn of ceramic with some verse upon it. But behind it was the altar where the gleaming, sacrificial knife bringing sweet death and deliverance from our good Lord! There it was, created by Him, a mess of wires that came from a box attached to the ceiling, trailing into a massive engine with a multitude of pipes; but before it all, the most astounding and impossible wonder- there it was! A Crucifix, with clips attachable to the arms and feet! Made, not of profligate gold or savage wood, but blessed, utilitarian iron! For us to behold the messiah's birth!
The man now strutted to the crucifix with glee. Above it was a crown, with a word scrawled upon it. ‘Apotheosis’. Ascendence. Yes, that was what he named it, for here was to be his apotheosis, where he would kill God himself.
“Deux Ex Machina” he whispered.
“Or rather, Deux Ex Hominin. Deus Ex Mihi! Deus Ex Egomet!” His cackles occupied the chamber. He ascended the steps to the crucifix, the first steps to an even greater ascension.
Just as he reached the stone steps he spun round, no doubt sensing some disturbance to his sacred peace. Past the urn on wall was inscribed the following passage:
Quoth Solomon of the unseen:
All shall return to one destination,
Ashes unto Ashes,
And Dust unto Dust.
A passage she had said long ago. A passage which he had inscribed the night after her death, while hiding in an abandoned warehouse. He remembered those quaking sobs. His vows of vengeance.
“Nay, sweet believer. Yea also shall be resurrected, angel of perfection that you are. Never for you ashes, and never for you dust,” his soft, worshipful speech was directed at the urn which he knelt before as his shrine.
The urn trembled. Moved out of fear or a flight of his imagination. It was the ashes, they moved; independent of life or death or the laws of physics, they gained power to revolt. And that they did. One small vibration was all it took for him to reach tipping point.
He roared.
“Dare you defy me! I care not for the life nor the death of you! Ten years! Ten years I was your disciple! But you- you betrayed me! You betrayed us all! I had to kill you! I had to!” His voice had become an inhuman screech, and it was only then that he realized what he had just said. He slapped his hands over his face.
The urn toppled.
He broke down. Fell on his hands and wept at the realization of what he had done. The ashes fell through his fingers- so fragile! They fell through his fingers like water, impossible to catch.
“I... love you.”
No, that wasn’t true. He’d loved her- and she was gone now. Killed by God and divine retribution. He was not the same man, besides. Old obsessions died with his old self.
He returned to his machine. Muttering something about resurrection, he turned the switch and grabbed the clips. The beast whirred into motion; electricity crackled, steam hissed from pipes and gears began to crank into obedience. The time had come! Would he dine on the flesh of a broken God or would the phoenix die? Would his machine break and kill his feeble body? Perhaps this world, his houses and even the beings over whom he obsessed were naught but the figment of a mind broken by tragedy!
His eyes rolled back into his head. His mind screamed, convinced it would die, but then-
“I. Am Transcendent.” he hissed.
Ionized air finally gave way. Sparks of impossible voltage flew as his body burned, and he was reduced, as prophesized, to naught but ash.
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