Alex Antonopoulos, White marble

I had time to prepare for this; more time than the time that was needed, more time than the time that I wanted.
Apparently, the old clichés held some truth: White marble floor, white marble columns between the white marble walls, and I was walking; walking with my own two feet (was that flesh?) on the white marble floor, through the white marble columns between the white marble walls.
I finally saw. I saw Him? I saw Her? I couldn’t tell; the hair was white –apparently, the old clichés held some truth– but the face was too perfect to belong to sexes. Once upon, that tunic must have been white too; now there was only mud.
I still had a voice, and although my voice was trembling, I spoke.
“Tell me why.’’
God looked me in the eye.
Maybe I had used the wrong word.
“Or how.”
God approached a fish bowl. I hadn’t noticed the fish bowl before. Two purple fish were waiting inside. God’s gaze did not escape my gaze.
“If you send me to that other place, I will understand. I never claimed to be worthy.”
God grabbed the fish. They were writhing in God’s palm.
“Quite an image.” Was that impatience in my voice? “But we all had enough of poetry. Please, tell me.”
God’s palm turned to a fist; the fish were squashed. I hid my disgust with a sigh.
“I am tired. I have been tired since I was young. Just tell me.”
God was now licking the juices; all that had remained from the fish.
“Just tell me the meaning of life, and I’ll go. There must be some words.”
God stood still.
“Give me those words.”
With a sudden laugh, God kicked the fish bowl, smashing the glass on the white marble floor. God’s hand was slapping God’s face. A hysterical laugh.
“Please stop.” I was begging.
God was now screaming; kneeling on the wet marble floor.
“Please stop. I’ll keep on walking.”
I could swear that it was more than one scream. Some of those screams I had heard before.
“Is it this way? Should I go this way?” Everywhere, white fucking marble.
God was crying.
“Please shut – stop it.”
God was holding a gun. I hadn’t noticed the gun before.
God’s gaze did not escape my gaze.
God aimed at the head. Not my head.
God fired three shots; holy blood painted the marble. I ran to God, I grabbed God, I kneeled. I held the Creator in my arms.
I looked at the blood; the skull seemed okay. The skull was okay.
God’s voice –I could barely hear it amongst the sobs– the voice of a child:
“I can’t…”
“What?” My voice – the voice of a child. “What is it that you can’t?” I was holding the Creator in my arms.
God showed me the gun.
“I can’t make it work.”

*For more works by Alex Antonopoulos, please visit: http://www.alexantonopoulos.com

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