My second story, I wrote it just now. There has been no revision beyond spell check. Is it worth revising and polishing? Quote
An Enquiry
During my youth, I can vividly recall the absolutely intoxicating anticipation which I had held towards eventually going to university to study. From a very early age, my curiosity seemed unquenchable and my propensity to learn new things was unrivaled by any of my grammar school colleagues. Most children had the typical delusions of grandeur you find common place in youth; wanting to become a hero of some sort or otherwise achieve tremendous fiscal authority of some kind. My motives were not, however, rooted in such superficial means as I intended fully on becoming an intellectual authority in my own right, and it was perhaps this relentlessly analytical objective which would eventually lead to my chronic insanity....
But it is, of course, too son to be giving you, my dear reader, such superfluous information regarding the future from the onset of this tale, and it is indeed necessary for me to discuss how it is that I have come to the current state of things.
The year was 1843, and I had been on my way to go to the University of Leinsbeg in order to study Law in the manner which my father had before me. This year marked the 10th anniversary of my mother's tragic death to diphtheria and the sting of her loss was as flesh in my mind as the day during which it occurred. It was June, I remember this because my birthday had been a week prior to my trek to university. I had arrived a month early, so that I could settle into my new dwelling and get acquainted with my surroundings before the year's lessons began in late August.
The allure of the University and its infinite knowledge presented too formidable a foe for me and I quickly found myself spending most nights in the library reading classical literature, philosophy, and developing a fine taste for music. Before long, I spent the majority of my day within the libraries' vast halls and as a result saw the decline of my social skills, and accordingly lost the desire to seek companionship of all kinds; beyond that which was provided by the books which I perpetually viddied.
Perhaps the most fascinating I found myself learning about was religion. Religion had been present my entire life, and until this period it had been merely a passive element in the overall scheme of my upbringing. My father insisted on bringing me to church every Sunday during my adolescence and it was not until his death, approximately 5 years ago, that I had ceased this recurrent trend and foregone church-going.
I had, like all the individuals in my perish, read scripture and made a habit of quoting Biblical prose without much thought but with the loss of the influence of my father and the abundance of objective material to ponder I soon found myself much against this phenomena. I came to fathom the word of the doctrine of the religions, rather than submit to the colloquial usage of those who have taught me these subjects in the past (acquaintances and my father, mainly.) The religious doctrine which had thus enshrined my youth began to experience a metaphorical metamorphosis within my mind from a holy message of eternal salvation to a nefariously aimed means of suppressing human thought and preventing human progress.
This newfound discovery infuriated me. The change in my interpretation was not the source of my rage, as I found myself changing many ideas on various subjects during my study, but the fact that I had been subjected to such indoctrination at an early age fueled my acrimony. How could my father and mother have been so delirious of these truths, which I had just discovered through my fledgling epiphany, during my rearing? Did they willfully project unto me such false conviction?
To answer these questions I could not rely on the books in the library, nor could they be answered by looking into myself. I decided then to attend church that coming Sunday and present these questions to the local bishop with the hope of clarifying the matter lest my indignation consume my very essence.
Sunday morning came, and I had dawned my hose and black coat and made haste to the temple. It was cold outside that day;particularly cold I thought to myself as I listened to the slush give way under the hooves of my horse as he thundered onward to my destination. The town, I noticed as I rode, was particularly bleak this morning. There were no merchants outside pitching their wares, nor was there any sight of merrymaking whatsoever. I instantly remembered my mother's funeral, and the absolute lack of any form of life; the overwhelming gray which found companionship in the plethora of woe and apathy.
I came, at last, to the church and rushed in at once; not willing to allow the feeling of blistering rage the opportunity to chisel more and more of my essence away as it delivered questions to which I had no answers.
"Sir, may I request a moment of your time!" I yelled to the bishop, who was checking the aisles for garbage or other obstructions to the purification of his chapel. He was a well-fed man with a sincere look on his face, although it was clouded with surprise which had been elicited by my usage of the word "sir" as opposed to "father" or some other anointed title.
"Yes, my son, come have a seat here." he responded, as he took a seat on the front row and patted the wooden bench next to him, signaling me to join him in his lounge.
"Sir, I have spent the last few months in the library engaging in a study that is unlikely paralleled in vigor or scale by any student at the university, and during this preponderance I have come to a standstill regarding my youth and the events that transpired therein." I said, displaying on my face a kind of smirk which no doubt communicated to the holy man that I was, indeed, proud of my study and came here not in desperation, as so many others have in the past, but in a triumphant quest to achieve wisdom.
"Go on, my son." he responded.
"Well, during my study I recalled my childhood and the education I undertook during that time. More specifically, sir, I recalled my religious instruction." I said, without the confidence I had had during the previous utterance.
"Yes, and what about this period do you wish counsel on?" he replied, finding comfort in this statement of mine as he was incredibly comfortable with the topic.
"Well, sir, I have found that the message of the Church, and indeed the doctrine which it touts to be a false one. I find no value in it, as I had during my youth, and I have come to the realization that the Church, with all of its grand halls and lofty rhetoric is in fact a repressive variable in the overall progression of mankind. It is, as I have come to realize, a wicked vice with which humanity can do without." I said, genuinely shocked by the ease of which I had when delivering this message to a man of his position.
The bishop stood and turned away from me, walking towards a portrait of some saint or perhaps an apostle of the church of which I was not familiar. He stopped just short of the picture and hung his head down, clearly he was jettisoned from his comfortable state by my condemning words and now found it difficult to conjure the right words with which to rebut my statement.
"I feel there is more than this, sir, as you have suggested earlier the relevance of the instruction engaged during your youth?" he replied, with a fatherly tone of disappointment in his tone. I took especial note of his use of the word "sir", in lieu of the title "son" which had henceforth used during this discourse with me. Perhaps he now saw me as something foreign, a bringer of destruction or some other unwanted stimuli which he wished to rid himself of in an expedient manner; or possibly simply detach himself from me in order to preserve his own cleanliness. I didn't care what the reason was, as I had come for answers to my questions; not to make friends or satisfy this acolyte of the Church was I had begun to question.
"That is correct, sir, I have spoken of my instruction because it has come to present me with tremendous unrest. Why would my father and mother teach me these lessons when they are so clearly in error? Did they not have the same capacities which I now possess, or did they simply forego their use in order to extend in me the blind faith in the Church which they had been branded by their parents before them?" I replied, shaking off my inquisition of the bishop's word choice.
"Your parents have taught you what they believed to be best, sir. They can do no more than that and they should do no less. They have come to possess the same capabilities which you and I now possess; the ability to reason and deduce for ourselves what extent to which we ought to find value in this Church. To condemn their motives in this is to condemn and deny them their humanity, sir, and for this reason I urge you to cool off the rage which you have dawned in the twilight of these revelations." he said to me, this time with a sincere tone in his voice which was non-judgmental.
For some reason this infuriated me even more so than my original discovery had. I began to loathe this man more than I had loathed any villain which had previously terrorized me. His words came to me to reflect the deception and manipulation I had found so prevalent in the Church's doctrine. Suddenly I lost the ability to keep these burning manifestations of rage inside of me, and I yelled out:
"Sir, this answer is entirely insufficient! You have used these words, as the Bible has done before you, to conceal the evils of this mistakenly hallowed church!" my hollering filled the temple as well as the bishop's sermon had prior to my visit there.
"Condemning the Church and it's teachings proves to be equally insufficient! The doctrine sits as an non-sentient being, sir, and thus it is the humans; who possess free will and reason, that I should levy my contempt unto!" I said, now shaking with rage to the point where I no longer remembered the conversation up to this point.
The bishop, visibly shaken had slowly backed up until he found his back against the wall, holding his hands in front of him as if to block the advance of a charging thug.
"Sir, you are a scoundrel! You are a wolf in sheep's clothing, and you intend on bringing nothing to the human race but pestilence! I shall subject myself no longer to your foul presence!" I said, turning quick and leaving the Church leaving only the terrified bishop and a few beads of sweat which had collapsed off of my brow during my haughty speech.
In my flustering rage I had made my way back to my home without any memory of the ride. I no longer noticed the peculiar cold I had felt on the way to the Church, nor did I take any notice in the townspeople's actions around me. It could have been a scene of total mayhem and I would not have recalled it in the slightest. I had come to hate the people of the town as much as I now hated the bishop and the damned temple in which he dwelled. They have all allowed the temple to stand free all these years, they have allowed the foul perish to pervert the youth of the town and they continue to fund it themselves! They are just as guilty, not to be idolized nor respected in any manner!
I opened the door to my home and walked inside. The Gothic arch in the entrance of the main room reminded me of the church from which I had just escaped; and the rage flared up once more. I immediately reached for any object within my grasp, which turned out to be the lit candle of my bureau, and flung it across the room at the archway. It made impact with the archway and exploded into a wave of waxy bits which rained down onto me, still warm from the fire which had illuminated my home during my hiatus.
I immediately collapsed into the chair in my lounge and fell into a deep slumber. During my rage, I had not noticed how much energy I had expended in such a short time and accordingly I did not wake for several hours, when I heard someone rapping at my door. I sprang up with the intensity one might witness when a lion ambushes its prey, fueled by the adrenaline of the hunt. I looked around for my shoes, and finally found them next to the fireplace, which had grown dim due to a lack of lumber.
I opened the door and saw two men, about 20 years old, standing in the stead of my home clenching close to them copies of the Holy Bible. These men were no doubt sent on behalf of the Church which I had graced with my presence hours earlier.
"Greetings, sir!" rang one of the men, in an overly cheery voice. "May we request a few moments of your time?"
With the presence of these two men something inside of me snapped. Some infinite source of rage was released; despite the cheery demeanor of the two men. I shudder now at this liberating sensation. It was as though the collected passion of my whole life sprang upon me all at once, overtaking my reasonable self in a flurry of emotional autonomy. The joy turned quickly, as it typically did within me, to a rage which I had become quite familiar with. I managed to keep my composure, however, and managed to eek out the following:
"But of course, gentlemen, I have never been one to turn down company!" I said, stepping aside and allowing a narrow pathway for the two men to enter into the large center room of my house.
"Thank you, sir, we have come to discuss with you the message of this good book" he said, holding up his Bible with the pride one might expect from a child holding up an award which he had just secured.
"I expected no less, my friend, but surely you wouldn't discuss such a grand subject, on such a cold day such as this, without a fair supply of warm tea? Let me fetch that for us, you gentlemen get comfortable, I'll be but a moment!" I said, turning from the two men and taking up a smile which is seen seldom on anyone but mad men.
I went to my kitchen and passed through it, leaving the teapot undisturbed, and proceeded into the back where I had cut wood for the fire, which now stood on its dying breath, earlier that week. I looked around, with great intensity, for the axe which I had used chop wood and found it currently penetrated in the base of a tree which had been chopped down years before. I pried the axe free and made a calculation of its dexterity by running my hand along its base. It was somewhat rusty, as the frost had melted on it in winters past, and the base was a bit swollen from the frost as well. Despite this, the axe proved a competent tool and I became committed then to satisfy the blade's lust.
I turned and marched back into the kitchen and stood for a second, still contemplating the act which I had decided, on an impulse, to indulge myself in. My reason was thus blinded by the rage and contempt in my soul, which was now free to move about as it wished, and I knew at once what to do.
I exploded into the room where my visitors sat, gathering their strategies and discussing how best to deliver their message to me. They both turned and beheld, much to their terror, the fanatical look on my face and my new companion firm in my hands.
I lunged immediately at the fellow who I had spoken with in my doorstep earlier and took a mighty swing. The axe ripped into the man's shoulder felling him with a deafening sound of bone and muscle giving way to accommodate the axe's hungry blade. Due to the intensity of this blow, I was grounded myself from the momentum of my charge and the abrupt manner by which my advance was halted. The man collapsed on my table, and screamed in agony as he pathetically thrashed around in the wake of my righteous battery.
His comrade was white in the face at the sight of his comrade now writhing in pain on the shattered remains of my table. His face became flushed and he began to back himself against my wall; pressing against the portrait of Goethe which I had displayed there, now obstructed with a bit of blood which had projected itself onto the painting preceding my attack. In utter disgust of the gore to which he had unlikely borne witness to prior, the young man vomited on my floor before sliding down onto his knees in a subjective manner before the Gothic archway in his wake.
I regained my composure and looked at the man who had the misfortune of knowing my wrath, as his thrashing slowed and became, after a time, to be mere spasms as though he was shaking from some cold or illness. I stumbled over to him and wrapped my fingers around my satisfied tool. With the application of minimal force, the man cried out in pain and regained the ability to thrash about.
"Stop! Please, oh God please stop!" shouted the man across the room, now a blubbering mess of tears - stewing in his own vomit.
"What a feigned action that is - asking God to assist you now! What has that monstrous spirit done to help you, ey? Has he not lead you here, today? Has he not pre-destined in you your entire life this eventual event? You have nobody to thank for this but God, sir!" I spat at him as I released the axe and tried in vain to rid my robe of the blood splatter it took in the line of my duty.
"P-P-Please....S-S-Stop....." the gentleman managed to eek out, in a very silent whisper, before slumping down in his own filth; completely and totally in submission to me.
My eyes went from him, to the soiled Goethe portrait, to the wall opposite of the fireplace which had my family's coat of arms; with two swords crossing each other. I walked over to this artifact and slammed it onto the ground, the echo eliciting a sharp twitch from the man who had been spared my axe. I then leant over and chose from the wreckage one of the swords and examined the acuteness of the blade. With this test complete, I then slithered to the man who managed, barely, to maintain consciousness. I rose my newly freed blade and brought it down hard, severing the man's head which then rolled across my rug to the mantle of the fireplace; now completely dead due to my shoddy upkeep of the flame.
The rest of the man's body collapsed forward and belched out a torrent of blood which formed a thick puddle on my floor, which now claimed my shoes. The sword's deed done, I dropped it on the floor, and walked toward the other man as the sharp sound of the sword's collapse pierced my halls. I checked for his pulse and came up empty.
After all this carnage, I walked over to my record player and put on Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The sound rung throughout my house and filled me with intense glee that I cannot accurately portray with words.
I suppose to you, my dear reader, my actions seem to have been somewhat brash and unwarranted; and to these accusations, I agree. What ill manners I have hitherto displayed by not sharing with them such glorious music.
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