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Literary lobotomy

The king of kings, angels, and grapes

The following is content inspired from 1 Kings, 21. It tales the tale of Naboth who does not give his land to King Ahab because it is written, “I will not give you my ancestral inheritance.”

*

You were stone turned to flesh, and this is how I met you. Much of your skin had been restored yet your posture remained battered and broken. With each movement you winced though there was no pain and with each breath you took, you coughed blood only you could see though there was no blood to cough. It flowed from your fingers, your eyes, your mouth, and you pattered yourself every few seconds, held tightly to any place where you saw yourself dripping, and you screamed and screamed and screamed.

But there was no noise. There never could be. All there was, all there ever would be was you and I and the eternity between us.

I smiled, hoping that this gesture would bridge the time between then and now. You didn’t notice at first. You instead grabbed your throat and squeezed as hard as you could.

“There is no air here,” I said as you wrapped your fingers around your neck again.

You looked up, then grabbed harder yet.

“It’ll do no good.”

You kept constricting.

“Naboth, please my child.”

One word escaped your lips as you continued to try to collapse your airways.

“Why?”

For the first time since the beginning of time, I said nothing at all. I shuffled my feet. I twaddle my thumbs. And you continued to wrestle with your throat.

“I’m sorry,” I sad.

“So am I,” you answered.

I thought of all the others who had heeded my call. They were martyrs and saints, an elect group who despite all the odds, stayed true to my divine doctrine. Here, they were praised and they were fantastic. Here, they were gods unto themselves.

And yet you continued to try to kill yourself in Heaven.

“Naboth…” I tried to find the words. Meanwhile, the Earth was being consumed by the Sun and the moon was imploding and a black hole tickled the edge of the Universe.

You lifted your hands from your neck for a moment. “I am sorry I ever listened to you over a few patches of grapes.”

Before I could tell you that Ahab had become a paper bag princess under my wrath and that things had been set right and that I’d have turned entire cities into blood baths for your sake, your hands loosened, you let go of your throat, and with slow steps, you walked away in search of the end of time.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)

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