Creation. Evolution.
Creation. Evolution. God punishes man. Sticks and stones. Fratricide. Cain slays Abel; God punishes Cain. Bronze, iron, gunpowder, nuclear power. Destruction. Repeat.
13 years, 6 months, 22 days. I believe yesterday was October 22nd. If so, it was my birthday. Forty-seven years old. Who would have imagined I’d spend the final third of my life inhabiting an inhospitable planet? The former garden, once teeming with natural wonders, converted into an ocean of dust and sand where darkness reigns solitary, and the incessant rattling of that dead star forces us to wear earmuffs. Thirteen years wearing a stupid latex suit every time I step outside just so the radiation won’t kill me; as if there were something better waiting in the future, as if it were worth living to see it.
Churchill stares at me from the far end of the room. He is perched atop a pile of magazines I’m tired of leafing through, their pages gummed together. Some of them—my favorites—have been torn out and taped to the walls. Beyond him sits Margaret, atop a stack of vinyl records. It’s only natural they are so far apart; seals and narwhals don’t get along, even when they’re only stuffed animals. Wayne and David, being lions, are even further from the aquatic creatures, over by the pile of photographs from my high school days.
Creation. Evolution… nuclear power. Destruction. Repeat. Einstein missed the mark by one; it will be the fifth world war that is fought with sticks and stones. Though it won’t be necessary. A single man beating himself is not a war, much less a global one, even if he is the last soul on earth. Besides, what is there to fight for? Playboy magazines? Those are the only things of value I possess: a few stained rags. To what a wretched state I’ve fallen. The sole exponent of humanity is nothing more than a man whose only hobby is…
“It isn’t worth the self-pity.”
“What’s that you say, friend Churchill?”
“Actually, you should pity yourself. You’re pathetic.”
“I beg your pardon, Maggie?”
“A man must have his pleasures, quite without shame.”
“That’s exactly what I say, Churchill!”
“Nonsense! All I hear is nonsense. You’re nothing but perverts. Pigs!”
“And what is one to do in such a state? What do you suggest?”
“Excellent intervention, Wayne,” Churchill complimented.
They continued to debate for a while longer. I had no interest in participating; I preferred to remain on the periphery. I approached the stack of magazines. I had seen every photograph thousands of times; I could describe them from memory. Perhaps that was what disturbed me most. I didn’t even want to see them again, but…
“It’s like Wayne said…” I murmured, drawing their attention toward me. “What else is there to do except…?”
“You could exercise, listen to music, read something more wholesome, paint. You haven’t painted in a long time.”
“No, Maggie.”
“Doing that, you only destroy yourself.”
“Don’t say that!”
I grabbed a couple of magazines and flung them toward the pile of vinyl, knocking over Margaret, who ended up buried beneath them. Beside her, one of the magazines fell wide open. I moved closer to look. I could feel my chest tightening, beginning to burn. My saliva grew so thick it was hard to swallow. My eyes wandered back and forth across those curves, that delicately contoured figure, all that fat accumulated in all the right places and…
“Enough!”
To my surprise, Margaret stood up and braced herself against the magazine. She stared me straight in the eye, her brow furrowed. Her horn sat just below my forehead; if she moved slightly or if I lost my balance, she could pierce my eye. I sat up, but she kept her gaze locked on mine, and every time I tried to glance away at the covers of the other magazines, she hissed at me. Her attitude was starting to grate. While she had never liked my pastime, she had never been quite this sermonizing.
I took one of the magazines and began to leaf through it. I had no desire to see suggestive images; I only wanted to make her angrier. At first, she went silent, unable to believe what she was seeing, and then she began to scream at me like a madwoman. I took my time completing my task; like the good student I always was—perhaps too good—it took me less than a minute. Then, I grabbed her with my still-soiled hand and carried her toward the door.
“What do you think you’re doing? You’re not thinking of throwing me out there, are you?”
I didn’t even answer. I was so ecstatic I could only think of myself. The others didn’t matter.
I threw her as far as I could and slammed the door. I returned to the living room without looking back. There, I sat and began to stare at the ceiling. I watched the faces that seemed to form in the damp stains: some like people, others like animals, sometimes shaped like genitals. That is all I can do—daydream. Outside, the world is ruined, there is no life but mine, and I have to invent conversations with stuffed animals. What the hell am I doing with my life? I am so revolting. And the worst part is that I’ve felt this way hundreds of times. I must be beyond salvation. I don’t know why Maggie was so patient with me.
Creation. Evolution. Phallocentrism. Sex cults. God punishes man… destruction. Margaret.
I scrambled up as fast as I could and ran outside. Where had I thrown her? I searched here and there, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. What if she had left? What if she grew tired of me? I collapsed to the ground, heavy tears leaking out. I cried for a few minutes; it felt like hours. Until finally, I heard a voice.
“It seems you’ve realized your mistake.”
It was her! It was truly her. I ran to embrace her. She didn’t care that my face was covered in tears and snot, or that my hands weren’t in the best condition. I held her so tight.
“Finally, the Sun has gone quiet. Listen to the silence.”
I pulled off my earmuffs. It was just as she said. The incessant, drill-like sound had stopped. Now, the silence operated with an overwhelming power.
I looked into her eyes. Those tiny button eyes. I held her against my chest and lay down in the dirt. I didn’t care that I wasn’t wearing my latex suit. I wouldn’t need it, or the magazines, or the earmuffs, or anything ever again…
…"
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