Chapter Eight: You’re A God

I’ve got to be honest

I think you know

I’m covered in lies and that’s ok

We’re somewhere beyond this

I know

But I hope I can find the words to say

Never again

No, never again

Because you’re a god

And I am not

And I just thought that you would know

You’re a god

And I am not

And I just thought I’d let you go

There’s nothing to label

Or put you down

Still learning things I ought to know by now

It’s under the table

I need something more somehow

No never again

No, never again

Because you’re a god

And I am not

And I just thought that you would know

You’re a god

And I am not

And I just thought I’d let you go

“You’re A God” Vertical Horizon

Joshua woke up dazed. He heard the steady pounding of rain, the baritone voice of thunder. He could not see the dazzle of lightning, could not see the kinetic barbs skewering the sky. Only dank, gray walls filled his vision. He smelled something decayed.

Molding stone.

He was lying on a cold slab of granite and the smooth, timeworn stone felt good against his soaked skin. Candles were lit all around him, tall yellow candles set in corners and around his body.

He heard something soft, like the wings of a wasp rubbing in flight.

Joshua turned his head slightly, not wanting to knock over a candle and have wax spill into his eyes. He saw a head capped with a mesh of gold hair. Interwoven fingers were locked in prayer. Joshua’s heart raced but he made no moves. “L-Louis…?” he uttered almost inaudibly. The wasp-whisper stopped. The blond hair parted like a tattered curtain on a theatre stage to reveal Louis’ death-pale face.

“My name is Abdiel,” he said in a voice that was not quite his own. It had a majestic resonance, as though he were speaking loudly in an empty hall, but in actuality had not raised his voice above a wind stroke. There was something in his voice. It laced his words in spun gold, made them taste like silver. It seemed…Joshua thought…evolved.

“I am Abdiel, Servant of God. You are not Joshua. Your humanity is only pretense. You are truly The Savior, you are Logos.”

“What?” Joshua got up slowly, a dull terror forming in his throat. He wished that this were just a dream. However, the icy touch of the granite tomb and the warm kiss of the yellow candles would not allow Josh to deceive himself. “How are you alive? They found you dead in a marsh. You were cut open like a fish. I saw…I saw the autopsy reports. Louis, you’re dead.”

Who was he convincing? Was he reasoning with a fleshly ghost? Could he hope to show this dead marionette that he should be lying on his back, wearing clothes he loathed, with corks shoved into his orifices, chemicals slowly dripping through his stilled veins?

“I have died, Logos. Nevertheless, I was brought back for you. I have shed my mortal skin and I am reborn. I am Abdiel, God’s Servant.” there was a serene, pulsing light in Louis’ (he could not bring himself to think of Louis as ‘Abdiel’) brown eyes. They weren’t eyes riddled with dementia, no; they were painfully clear and coherent. Louis knew exactly what he was saying.

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand-”

“You will in time, Logos. God has long waited this moment. Since Time began He has been waiting for this.” Louis smiled. It was a peaceful, radiant stretching of his lips.

“Who’s Logos?” he asked, frustration making him forget his fear. “And who’s ‘Abdiel’? And why the hell aren’t you dead?!”

“In time…” again that damned smile.

Joshua made a frustrated sound and knocked over melting yellow candles with his sneakered feet. Louis did not flinch. He merely looked up at Josh.

“Please, you’re really scaring me.” his heart felt heavy in his chest. His navy eyes were prickled with tears.

“You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” Louis said in response, bowing his head. He pressed his lips against Josh’s knuckles. His golden hair fanned out over Josh’s lap. Joshua frantically looked for a way out of the tomb. There were no doors or windows. How did he get in here then? How did Louis carry him into a place that had no entrance?

“Forgive me my transgressions,” Josh heard Louis murmur. “Forgive me my trespasses.”

“Angels don‘t need to confess,” Josh said with a mocking cruelty.

“You don’t understand,” Louis said softly. His voice was muffled. Joshua felt hands creep up his thighs. Deft fingers worked at his belt.

Ok, Angels definitely aren’t supposed to do *that*.

His dress pants slid down his milk white legs, followed by his boxers. The cold stone bit at his exposed flesh. Louis stood and slowly unbuttoned Josh’s shirt. At short length he was completely nude, save for the bewildered look on his face.

“Lay down,” Louis commanded and Joshua was reminded of their previous sexual encounters. This brought a pang of nostalgia. He knew that they had crossed the point of return. You couldn’t go back from this, whatever *this* was.

Joshua laid down and the icy touch of the rock coffin beneath him seeped into his pores. His body felt like a raw nerve, sensitive to any form of touch or stimulation. Louis’ fingers, gliding over his abdominal muscles, felt like lines of cobalt fire.

“I will give you the Sight.” Louis said, eyes trained on Josh’s shivering body. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth against Josh’s.

Hadn’t he thought that this kiss would never again come? Hadn’t he been sure that he would always long for the rapture of Louis’ lips? And it was in this kiss that Joshua discovered several things:

No matter what Louis said, he was still Louis. The kiss, masking buried feelings that were as intense as the heart of a thousand storms, was Louis’ own. The love that was there, the love he suppressed for fear of becoming a slave to it, was Louis’ own.

And he discovered that this talk of Angels and God was undeniably true.

Joshua’s eyes opened.

BOOK TWO:

PROGRESSION AND REGRESSION

Sent

If I pulled out my heart,

Would you cry and shy away?

Would you forsake the blood,

Leave it to dry and bake in the day?

If I were to wrap it in jagged paper

Offer it to you in gore and glitter, Would you take it?

Would you snag the ventricles with your teeth,

Chew on my essence and swallow with indulgence?

Would you drink my pain as though it were nectar?

Lick your lips in an obscene smile?

Could I bring myself to care?

Could I wallow in darkened corners

And write out raw emotion on bloody-brown paper?

Would your read my words?

Traced as they are in ink and tears,

Signed with a kiss and a blood drop,

Sent to you.

Would you accept this gift,

My malformed love and misshapen dreams,

My sorrow-soured breath; my slowed inhalations?

Would you pull on the scarlet ribbon,

Undo the flesh packaging,

And place my retched heart on a podium?

Yours to admire for hours,

Yours to adore until your eyes droop with fatigue,

Yours to damage,

Yours to repair,

Yours for carnage,

My despair.

Would you light candles,

Yellow; your favorite,

Burn incense and hold my heart over the flame,

Turn it to ashes,

Rub it into your hair,

So that I am a part of you.

Would you take this gift I sent to you,

One delivered with a corroded knife,

One sealed with a dark prayer,

And hold it forever?

This gift that I sent,

It is yours.

Forever.

Porter folded the poem into a clean half and tucked it into a plain envelope. He took his pen and wrote JOSH on the front in a clear, flowing script. He closed his eyes and nervously moved a lock of freshly dyed black hair behind his ear. He heard a tinkle as his finger struck the piercing in his cartilage. He chewed worriedly on his lip as he stood and left his room. He stumbled in the darkness; he had placed thick blankets over the windows and a towel at the bottom of his door. He squinted in the harsh light of the living room where his mother and father sat, faces caricatures of anxiety. They were scared of his changes; the black dye job, the piercing in his ear, brow, and lower lip; the unhealthy pale skin and invariable dark clothing.

“Porter, honey, do you want to talk about what happened?” his mother stood, clasping a necklace at her throat. It was a seashell strung on a simple white cord. He had made it for her when he was in elementary school. He thought she had thrown it away some time ago.

“Son, please talk to us.” this from his father, whose shirt front was open and hand occupied by a Budweiser.

“I can’t. I’ve got to go visit Josh.” Porter said, grabbing his jacket at the coat hanger by the front door.

“Evan, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” his father called him by his middle name, which he thought sounded manlier. “That boy…” his father swallowed his words along with alcohol.

“Goodbye,” Porter Evan Ortolaza stepped out and walked across the immaculate lawn, pass the gaudy garden gnomes and over the hose. He got to his car and jammed the key into the ignition. Turning up “Butterfly” by Crazy Town so loud that it drowned out the agonized screams in his head, Porter gunned his Jeep down the street.

It was hard to see the road through his tears. The copper lamplight were metallic blurs on the windshield. The clouds were dark and pregnant with rain. It had been raining since the incident more than a month ago. “Shit, it’s been a month already,” Porter said, his chest constricting. He would have to commemorate the death of two friends in a few days. His hands gripped the leather steering wheel until his knuckles were white with red points. He raised the volume on the car stereo.

The ambient song relaxed him a little. The wilting guitar and amethyst notes swirled about him. He wiped his tears away and focused on what lay ahead of him.

At length he reached Jackson Memorial Hospital.

Walking down the antiseptic smelling halls, black boots clipping against the glaring linoleum floor, Porter counted the numbers above the doors. He found Room 48 and approached the door. He reached out to turn the knob but hesitated. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He pulled his jacket tighter about him. Releasing his breath, he opened the door.

He had come to this room everyday for a month and his heart and mind refused to accept the vision before him.

Joshua was positioned on his back, sightless eyes staring at the white ceiling. He didn’t notice the vases full of yellow roses flanking him. He didn’t notice the three Get Well Soon cards laying in a heap on the nightstand. He wouldn’t notice the poem Joshua left for him either.

Since the death of Louis and Ultra, Joshua had lapsed into shock. And from shock into catatonia. The doctors were baffled with the case. He was perfectly healthy, his vitals steady. There was no chemical imbalance to explain his vegetative state. He had simply stopped.

Porter slowly made his way to the bed. He tied his hair into a ponytail, like how Josh used to wear it. His leather jacket rustled softly. The constant beep of the machine monitoring the comatose boy’s vitals was beginning to annoy him. Porter reached into his pocket and retrieved the poem. He sat on bent knee and placed a hand on Joshua’s still arm. His thumb rubbed the shaven skin lovingly. Porter read the poem aloud.

“That’s beautiful,”

Porter’s heart raced, caromed against the cage of his ribs. He looked up at Joshua, hoping, wishing to see those dark blue eyes and those sharp lips spread into a smile. Joshua was still. The machine hummed and beeped steadily.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Porter turned around and saw a boy standing at the doorway. Porter stood and saw that it was not in fact a boy, but a sad looking young man.

“Ephram?”

“Yeah. Nice to see you.” Ephram looked away from the prone body of their close friend and forced himself to look at Porter.

“What are you doing here?” Porter asked, folding the note and putting it back into the envelope.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Ephram said, ignoring Porter‘s question. “You don’t have to visit a cemetery to read your boyfriend poems.” his lower lip trembled and his troubled eyes slipped shut. His shoulders seemed to shake with restraint. Porter cursed. In truth, Ephram was worse off than he was. There was still a chance for Josh, but Ultra was six feet under and would remain in his earthen tomb.

“Hey, let’s get out of here.” Porter suggested, venturing to hug Ephram. Ephram moved out of reach and started down the hall. Porter returned to Josh’s side and placed the envelope on his slightly heaving chest. He placed a gentle, shaky kiss on Joshua’s lips before leaving the room and starting down the hall as well. Ephram was waiting for him at the exit.

Night had fallen and the sky had opened up to drown the world in torrents of rain. They could see five feet ahead of them and their voices were swallowed up by the roar of the storm. Ephram followed Porter to his Jeep. “Wait,”

Porter halted, his keys dangling above the lock.

“Ultra died after he dropped you off at Josh’s. He died that night because he was with you guys.” Ephram’s voice quaked with rage. He was but a gray silhouette against the driving, punishing rain.

“What are you talking about?” Porter asked, a tingling sensation in his temples. He didn’t feel safe.

“Because of you my boyfriend is dead! He’s gone, and he’ll be nothing but dirt on our two year anniversary.” Porter thought he saw movement. He slipped his key into the car door. He shot a glance at Ephram and saw that his arm was outstretched. There was a black thing in his hand, something metal and shaped like a vertical L.

Icy cold fear seized his heart.

In a flash Porter knew why Ephram was at Jackson Memorial. “You were going to kill Josh tonight, weren’t you?” Porter asked, hand frozen on the handle of the car door. Ephram was quiet. Then,

“I’m sorry, Porter-!” he made a grunting noise. The gun went off in a bright flash and booming proclamation. Porter cried out as the cruel bullet tore through his leg, ripping skin and burrowing through bone. He fell to the floor and saw Ephram’s face. His features were frozen and blood drooled out the corner of his tortured mouth. There was another figure standing above him, a glinting, silver thing in its hand.

“Help me, please. My leg-”

The figure swept forward and all that Porter saw was the pommel of a dagger descending towards his forehead.