The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  She shakes her head. ‘This is so different, Chalk, you can’t compare the two laws.’

  ‘Yes I can, Elizabeth. The government’s laws ignore victims, both of us know that. I am left to fend for myself, while those that cause suffering, those that deserve to be punished, thrive. We would be weak and foolish to adhere to such a system. That system formed your old self, Elizabeth, a person you now resent. That system forced me to kidnap you to make you realise what you and your peers were doing to me. How else could you have become such a wonderful person? And how else could I be this happy?’ She studies me curiously. ‘We are not conformists, Elizabeth,’ I say sternly. ‘That is the point. Do not forget what you know. I gave the world twenty-six years to change, but it did not. It took me that long to realise it never would, unless I changed it myself.’

  ‘What about his body?’ she asks.

  ‘Obviously we will dispose of it. But we will not make any rash decisions. We will consider our options first. We will be calm and thorough. Do you think anyone else heard or saw anything? I mean, Victor banging on the door or anything else?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, or the police would have been here by now.’

  ‘That is true.’ I look at the pitiful, dead form. ‘No one knows that you, Elizabeth, are here, nor will they know he is here.’

  Elizabeth has regained much of her composure, though she still avoids looking at the body. I lift her off of me and then sit her in the chair. ‘I want to show you something, Elizabeth.’

  I walk over to Victor, satisfy myself that Elizabeth watches me, and then pull the knife out of his heart. ‘I don’t know how you did it, Elizabeth,’ I say. ‘How can Victor Spinney even have a heart?’ I smile at her and then, with both hands squeezing the handle as hard as I can, I summon all the hatred Victor deserves to drive the blade down into his chest. Elizabeth gasps. Just the handle protrudes from his body. I sit up and suck in air. ‘Now I am responsible for his death,’ I say. ‘From this moment on, Chalk Cutter took the life of Victor Spinney...’

  38

  I turn over and look at Elizabeth. Her blue eyes are still wide open, and her expression still inert. It is after midnight. We have been lying in bed together since nine p.m.

  After the incident in the basement, Elizabeth withdrew into herself, and would not talk. I tried everything to help, reiterating that Victor’s death was a positive act. I repeated that I was the one who took his life, and that no one would ever find out. When this failed to make an impact, I went to great lengths to justify her actions and absolve her of responsibility. I stressed that Victor epitomised all that was evil in the world and did not deserve a life. Eventually I realised that I could do nothing to improve her condition. She needed time to accept what had happened. I hoped she would feel better in the morning.

  We watched some comedies on TV, but not once did she smile or show signs of amusement. I ordered Chinese food, but she did not touch it. Then I suggested we have an early night, and speechlessly she accompanied me to the bedroom. It was obvious that all her resources were focused on the murder. No thoughts were spared for anything else – she lay on the mattress, but did not pull the covers over her. I did it for her. Similarly, after the incident, I escorted her to the bathroom so that she could take a shower, but as I listened at the door for five minutes I heard no movements inside. Opening the door, I saw that she was still fully dressed, standing in the middle of the room, staring trance-like at nothing. This had alarmed me, since Victor’s blood was speckled on her hands and clothes. I had to wash her hands in the sink myself while she just stared at them. I told her to take off her clothes and slip into my robe. I turned my back to her as she took over ten minutes and constant encouragement to do this.

  I do not allow my sadness to flourish into something detrimental. I love Elizabeth more than I ever thought I could love anything, but I absolutely have to be strong to help her overcome this. Instead, I channel the emotion into anger. Victor has done this to her. To us. This beautiful girl suffers because of him, because he interfered with our lives again. Knowing that he lies dead in the basement is not enough for me. It is worrying that someone’s death is not enough to diffuse one’s hatred towards them. In a striking contrast to Elizabeth’s reaction, I want more, not less. As I look beyond those sweet, wounded eyes, I curse Victor. He had better pray that she heals...

  I stroke her hair, but she does not react. ‘Go to sleep, Elizabeth,’ I whisper. ‘Go to sleep.’ I reach across her, gently place my forefingers on each eyelid and carefully slide them down over her eyes. When I remove my fingers, the lids stay closed, which relieves me. I know the turmoil inside her is unabated, but I hope that at some point this will help her to fall asleep. ‘I am going to the toilet,’ I lie, and then make my way down to the basement.

  I turn on the light, sit in the chair, and stare at the corpse of Victor Spinney.

  ‘Elizabeth and I will get through this,’ I say. ‘She is devastated now, but soon she will feel as I do. Would you like to know how I feel, Victor?... I feel that dying was the only useful thing you ever did. You brought nothing but pain to the world, but, as you now know, hurting me backfired on you.’

  I shake my head at his lifeless form. His black polo shirt and jeans are saturated in blood. ‘What can you do now, Victor? How much did you want to do that you now cannot?’

  I stand up, walk over to him and crouch down. ‘I know how you felt when that knife sank into you, because you made me feel that same way countless times. It is the numbing, heart stopping realisation that your future has reverted back to what you feared it always would be. You saw riches and revenge, while I saw hope. But I won, Victor – I have Elizabeth.’ I smile. ‘And you, old friend, will be remembered as a sex-offender who masturbated over children.’

  I am dissatisfied, but I cannot pinpoint why. I gaze at the knife sticking in him, and then grip its handle. ‘You will not deprive me of this too,’ I say, but I am unable to free the blade – it is stuck in his body. I stand up, press my foot onto his sternum, next to the blade, and then try again. I have to repeatedly wiggle the blade before it comes free. Two small flies fly out of the wound. I drop the knife on the floor, grip Victor’s collar and lift his stiff body. His joints do not bend, so I have to stand him up and lean him against the wall so that he faces me. As I stare at him, I feel perplexed. What was the point of him? Why did he exist? He tormented me for fifteen years and now I have killed him. I made him suffer for just six years and now his misery is over. Who has really won? Because of me, he lost everything he had. Because of him, I never had anything.

  His punishment was short-lived and now he is free, while I have deep, horrific mental scars, a ruined childhood, and a dark secret that I must keep for the rest of my life. Though I am confident of evading a murder charge, I will have to live with the unpleasant possibility that the police could arrest me at any point.

  I am sure Victor grins at me. His eyes are open and his lips parted on his lop-sided head. He knows what he has done. I am still his victim, even now. That was all he ever wanted.

  I am extremely frustrated. Elizabeth is up there, a mute, struggling to come to terms with what she’s done for me, all because of this disgusting creature. I lean closer to him. ‘What drove you, you vicious, nasty piece of scum?’ Again I ask myself what purpose he served and come up with nothing. But that is why his death is so meaningless, so justifiable, because he had never benefited anyone, nor would he have done. All he ever did was take.

  I feel exasperated. Was he born to shape my life? Is this homicide supposed to influence my path in life? But I fail to see the positives of that. I cannot see how this act will aid me in any way. Either it commits me to prison or it does not, but either way I have the worry that I might be caught. How can that help me or Elizabeth? And what of her? How will this affect her? Her initial response is a cause of great concern. There is a chance that she might suffer for years to come. Post-traumatic stress disorder – t
hat is the condition I thought she had following his death, so I researched it online. Her refusal to discuss the incident, or indeed discuss anything, is a symptom of the condition, which can last years.

  ‘You may have harmed her, Victor,’ I whisper, clenching my teeth together.

  He ended up here in my basement because he bullied me at school. ‘As soon as you saw me, you wanted to break me,’ I hiss. ‘All because of my hideous face!’

  Ultimately, Victor is just the worst example of a society of like-minds. To a lesser degree everyone is like him. Everyone felt – feels – like him, but he is prepared to be their spokesman, to voice his feelings, and for that he becomes a hero. ‘Call me Moonface, make fun of my clothes, my parents and my ignorance. Exclude me from everything that I am entitled to, everything that I desperately need.’ My nails dig into the palms of my hands. I want to hit him in the face. I believe that somehow he will feel the blow. After all, he mocks me even now, I can see it in his evil blue eyes. He is aware of what is happening. ‘Everything stems from your eyes, Victor. Your prejudices were born there. Everyone’s prejudices are born there, in their vision.’

  My mind is hazy, disoriented. In the space of just a few seconds images form and merge together of Elizabeth, the Asian girl, the girl on the bus, Brandy, my parents, and many more people who disowned me on account of the visual information I provided.

  I dig my fingers into Victor’s left eyeball. Didn’t I once conclude that the world would be a better place if we could not see each other? Of course I did. The Asian girl had prompted that hypothetical outlook. But, I realise now, I had always known that eyes were the problem. Perhaps I waited so long to confront that knowledge because it offered no solution, or more accurately, an unacceptable solution. But unacceptable to the masses, not to me. For the masses, eyes are weapons. They use them to destroy those beneath them; the disadvantaged ones who they barely qualify as humans, just marginally outclassing wild animals. Without eyes they are equal, everyone is equal, and that would be no fun. What would the masses do without victims?

  Momentarily, I am surprised that I cannot detach Victor’s eyeball. I smile. While distracted by my thoughts, I had forgotten how the human body is designed. I do not know the exact names, but the muscles that I now battle with and which prevent me from freeing Victor’s eyeball, connect them to the skull.

  Not wanting to damage the eye, I pick up the knife and run it back and forth against these muscles until the blade passes through. Victor’s rigor mortis has reached its maximum stiffness, so the muscles are stubborn and do not stretch. I draw back my hand and study the eyeball. ‘So fragile and yet so deadly.’ I place the eye down beside me, and monitor Victor’s hollow socket for blood loss. A slight blob trickles down his face like a tear. It fascinates me. One cannot determine what caused a tear from the tear alone – a wide range of emotions can trigger them. Blood spill, however, is easily definable – it means pain, damage, and nothing else. I can inflict no greater wound on Victor than this.

  I watch the physical embodiment of his agony drip into his torso. Most would consider this horrific. But it is not a sadistic act. It is mostly a perceived pain caused by the outrage of losing a sense and suffering facial disfigurement – of losing what they value most dearly. But everyone is staggeringly mistaken, misguided and ignorant. Blindness is the greatest cure there is – in a blind world, deformity does not exist. Eyes are the bane of mankind. They cannot be judged in terms of value, but by their shortcomings.

  I look into Victor’s unsevered eye. It disgusts me – its power, its arrogance and deceit. As in the case of the broken escalators, it doctors its information, bending and distorting what it sees until the image is fit for purpose. The purpose being to inflict cruelty upon the world. Victor’s eye makes me want to vomit. I resent it. I cannot stand it. I close my eyes, jab my fingers into it, and such is my fury that it breaks free from the muscles and leaves the socket. Victor is blind.

  I spend several seconds regulating my breathing. Then I hold both eyes in front of me, in the palm of my hand. So small and clever. So unbelievably misunderstood. I feel as a religious fanatic would when he evaluates another religion. I have that same unwavering certainty in my own convictions. I am right. This is the answer I was supposed to find.

  I slide the eyes into my pocket and look at Victor. He can do no harm. Had he lived like this, he would have returned my friendship. He would have neither thought nor acted negatively. We would have been true friends.

  ‘This is it,’ I whisper. ‘This is acceptance, equality...beauty...’ My tears fall. ‘I-I have done it. I have found my salvation.’

  39

  When I return to the bedroom two hours later, Elizabeth is asleep. I am unintentionally noisy, but she does not stir. I want to wake her so badly, but I do not. She needs to sleep. I must keep my awesome discovery to myself for a while longer.

  I would not sleep if I attempted it, so instead I sit at the bottom of the bed. My elation is uncontrollable. My limbs and my mind cannot rest. I accept that I must wait until she wakes. Though it will be unbearable, I know that it is best for both her and me that she wakes during daylight. My fingers repeatedly tap my knees. I first felt like this the night before I started grammar school. I was eagerly anticipating making friends, certain that my new peers would exude a maturity lacking in the pupils at my primary school. I could not stop fidgeting and grinning, and, like now, could not sleep. Elizabeth’s arrival in my life has triggered similar hyperactivity, but this, now, surpasses both those examples. I simply cannot contain myself. I am so proud of what I have achieved. Everything I have done, every controversial, scorned-upon decision has been the right one. It has taken courage, despair and belief to get where I am, but I’ve done it. I have won. I can celebrate, relax, and look to the future.

  What I have done is more than revolutionary. It redefines our existence, it changes the entire world. I have created the perfect religion, one that is simple, which equally rewards everyone. It requires one act of self-mutilation and nothing more. And essentially, it is relevant, aiming itself at mortal rather than immortal life. Once we die we can no longer harm one another. But while we live we cause destruction and that is what this will definitely cure, there and then, once the sacrifice is made. Sacrifice is not the right word. Sacrifice implies losing something valuable. As the creator of this religion, I must carefully choose my words. Not a sacrifice but a...an...unburdening. I bounce on the bed a little. I am overcome by a sense of awe. I am here for this. I suffered for this. One can only appreciate what is beautiful if one has experienced what is not. Oh, Elizabeth, please wake! No, wait for sunrise Chalk, you know you must.

  Mainstream religions have spent centuries trying to recruit followers, but their impact is diminishing as time passes, despite the fact that there is widespread suffering. People are cynical and idle – they are not prepared to devote their lives to a cause that promises peace only when they die. They look at the world and conclude that religion has not helped, and in many cases has actually contributed to the suffering. They want instant change, instant results and instant happiness. That is what I, Chalk Cutter, can offer. That is what Elizabeth, Victor and I have to promote.

  I part the curtains a little and watch the infinite, black sky. Millions of people believe that their creator is somewhere up there, in a place they cannot see. But what could be more appealing than my religion, my mortal religion, whereby I as its founder do not for one moment purport to be a higher power, but instead an equal? I have authenticity, an example, and a convincing story. And I know how to get people to listen...

  When dawn arrives, the suspense is more endurable. I know it will not be long. Elizabeth tossed and turned frequently during the night, and occasionally mumbled a few unintelligible things, but did not wake. I slide under the covers, so that I will be beside her when she wakes. That seems to take forever. The sun beats down, invading the room, and movingly highlights my creation. Ten minutes later I see Elizabeth’s e
yes open.

  ‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ I say, my voice brimming with energy.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispers. ‘What is that awful smell?’

  ‘I have something I want you to see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit up.’

  My heart pounds as Elizabeth slowly pushes her back up against the headrest. When she sees Victor, upright and leaning against the opposite wall, her eyes expand in alarm and I have to slap my hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. ‘It is the solution,’ I cry as she tries to break away. ‘Calm down, Elizabeth, calm down!’ I tense my muscles and succeed in keeping her in bed, but she does not look at him. ‘You must accept him, you have to, everyone has to. Without this we will not succeed. You’re disapproval is a weakness, Elizabeth, it is how they would react.’ She weeps, her breathing laboured. There was no point in delaying this. Our audience has to accept the image, so Elizabeth must too. ‘All the world’s evil is bred from visual information. Without eyes, we are safe, approachable and equal. Look at Victor, Elizabeth – he cannot hurt us.’

  ‘He’s dead...that’s why.’

  I feel my temper rising. ‘Elizabeth, do not do this. Do not be this way.’ I lift her face in front of mine. ‘I know this is it. This is ground-breaking. This will alter the course of history. You and me have made an inexplicable contribution. We will make that difference. You cannot back down now, not now that we have hope.’

  She closes her eyes. ‘Chalk, you cut out his eyes. You-you mutilated a dead body. That is wrong... Can you not see that that is wrong?’

  I let her go. ‘No, Elizabeth. You are thinking as you did before I kidnapped you. You are allowing that poison to seep back into your mind. You are rejecting me and accepting them.’

  She shakes her head. ‘That is not it, Chalk. I think-I think...you are losing your mind.’

  I grab her by her robe and step out of bed. I pull furiously but the robe slips free and she cowers naked in bed. I ignore this and head to her side of the bed. She rolls onto her side away from me, but I slide my arms around her body and secure her in a bear hug. Then I carry her to Victor and lower her to the floor. She cries and retches as I keep her rooted to the spot. ‘This thing haunted me for as long as you have lived. Now, and only now, has he contributed anything positive to mankind. I admit, recently, I have seriously doubted that you and me can change people, but now, because of this, I know we can.’ She still cries, refusing to look at him. ‘Look at him, Elizabeth!’ I shout. ‘How dare you ignore this accomplishment!’