Wednesday, September 7, 2016

The Sinner's Logbook: Chapter 1


Entry xxx,xxx,xx0

 

 

THE STORY ENDS IN TRAGEDY.

…I think if we all went about business with that assumption in mind, we’d have been a whole lot happier when reality swung around and blew our sorry-ass expectations to kingdom come.

Thing is, when you aim to make miracles from an absolute pile of bullshit, you shouldn’t expect to go very far. Simple truth of the matter, take it or leave it. Even the best of us get royally screwed over by life, because idealistic concepts like “justice” and “fairness” don’t just happen by default—we will them into existence.

And sometimes, despite a lifetime of dreaming and scheming and trying not to die for your vision, none of it comes remotely close to working out. Not only that, maybe it blows up in your face; it kills you, and you lose everything in the wake of your failure: property, people; you name it.

Those loved ones hardly deserve to get caught by your shrapnel, the undertow of your fall, but hey, that’s life. No one said it would be easy, or that everything would turn out fine, the way you planned it.

At the point we were at, everyone was just groping blindly on the ground for their “happy ending”, not really knowing with well-grounded confidence if that sort of thing was even within reach.

I want to call it a calculated risk, but when the fate of the entire world rests on your shoulders, any kind of stumble on that front basically constitutes apocalypse. And guess what?

We fucked up big time.

No one expected such an awful tragedy to befall the planet Earth, except maybe Remiel Araboth Bain: the so-called “god among gods.” Probably the most pretentious and unrepentant asshole you’d ever meet.

And, he was also the guy I called my father. But only out of necessity--it wasn’t like I was related to him by blood because I’d probably jump off a cliff it that were true and besides, my kind doesn’t reproduce the way the mortals do.

Yeah, Godtypes are orphans at birth. Weird, right?


Now, the big reason any other gods ever clung to Remiel and did his dirty work and killed for his cause was because he had seen the end, he knew what was going down and tried with every fiber in his being to stop it.

In all honesty, I admit, I hate my dad’s guts with a burning passion, but at the same time I can’t discredit his tenacity. Let’s give dad a nice gold star for effort, because he sure as hell tried.

Remiel Bain probably spent upwards of four thousand years waging war on fate, doing everything possible to preserve this faltering reality. It was like defusing a bomb in infinite repetition: staving off disaster until the doomsday clock simply reset itself and began ticking down again.

I seriously wonder if it was even worth it. Remiel sacrificed himself, wound up dying for his trouble, and then the world went out in a big ball of metaphorical smoke and flame regardless. What a slap in the face. It’s hard not to feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch, but he screwed me over enough times that I kinda don't have the energy to give a damn about him or anything else.

It’s because of his carelessness that everyone died. My brother, our friends, all of humanity…

Even me.



…My hand’s freezing up again. It’s hard to hold a pen straight when it feels like your fingers are falling off.

On the bright side, I’m not rotting or zombified or anything gross like that. And my fingers aren’t falling off for real.

Pray that never happens. It would be awful.


Well. I’m running out of things to write. Maybe some other time. Too tired right now. Just wanna jot this down, so I don’t forget:


Today is the twentieth day of the thirty-nine million, nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred ninety-ninth month. It’s cold, per usual. I still want to die but I won't. I want to leave the Room but I can’t.

Not yet, anyway.

Three million years down, give or take thirty three thousand something.
At least five hundred eighty million more to go.


Sachiel, I hope to see you soon.

—signed, samson michael aster

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