Post by JESUS SANCHEZ on Apr 22, 2014 0:49:26 GMT -8
looking for a breath of life
But this time it wasn't the end
And the room is so quiet
my heart is a hollow plain
For the devil to dance again
But all the choirs in my head sang, no
word count: 1074
TIMESTAMP: 05/24; 1130
tag: open
notes: JESUS LIVES because easter and I'm not translating spanish
The first thing he remembers when he blinks the grit out of his eyes is pain. The second thing he remembers is that the dead don’t, as a whole, feel pain. And he must be dead, because the third thing he remembers is the sound of fire on the wing and a pile of regret that he can’t seem to wrap his head around. He comes to consciousness in a tangled jumble of limbs that some distant part of him realizes are his own, lungs gulping down air like the finest whiskey that made his skin prickle and his heart hum in his ears. God he needs a drink and a smoke, not necessarily in that order but definitely both within the next thirty minutes. But his body aches and his legs protest when he forces himself to his feet, the dull roaring in his ears resolving itself to be his own blood rushing to his head. The world is a bit wobbly and the hardwood flooring is cold under his feet.
He shivers, a full body twist of his skin that makes him curl a fist against his thigh as he coughs. “Come mierda y muerte. That hurt like a bitch,” Jesus drawls out into the silence, voice husky from some distant abuse he’d rather not contemplate. He is rewarded for his vulgarity with a sudden rush of sound that makes him quirk an eyebrow and turn towards the source. The skittering of legs is clear enough for him to get the point, and the clacking of mandibles (because he may be sore in all the wrong ways, but pain hasn’t made him stupid) in his general direction gives him just enough warning to not piss his proverbial pants in terror.
Jesus Sanchez de Cepeda-King does not want to talk about the next forty minutes of his life. His undead life, for all that he rose from the literal ashes on a Sunday he is not Jesus Christ because in no way was his resurrection a God sanctioned miracle. What he took away from that forty minutes that didn’t make him any more comfortable with his subsequent second lease on life. First, his entire existence pended on the graces of his new lord and master Magnus. Second, that Jesus was dead. Third, he seemed to have acquired a new and very unwanted brand just a few inches below his belly button that looked like some post-modern tribal retardation of what fire was supposed to look like (later he’ll realize that the process of coming to life had literally made him the butt of all jokes for the rest of his existence). Fourth, his Mama had cried at his funeral.
The first day after his rebirth would be spent in a bathtub of a mansion, alternating between puking his guts out and trying to die of alcohol poisoning.
It did not make Magnus happy.
The second day after his rebirth would be spent finding something decent to wear and coming to grips with the fact that by all rights and means he didn’t exist. Jesus Sanchez de Cepeda-King was dead, long live Jesus the zombie slave of the Lord of Bugs. The latter half of his second day would be spent in a coat closet trying to die of higher speed alcohol poisoning and smoking every scrap of tobacco he could dig out of coat pockets.
This did not make Magnus happy either.
The third day, Jesus pulled his balls out of where they had curled up to die and spent three hours arguing with a giant bug about how if he didn’t get out of the godforsaken house and back to something he would spend every waking moment trying to kill himself and undo all of the insect’s hard work. He brought the good tequila from the top shelf of the bar to prove a point.
Not only did this not make Magnus happy, but Jesus found himself literally dumped on his ass outside the property with the firm order to answer when Magnus summoned.
That was perfectly fine, he had managed to scalp a pile of cash out of a bunch of forgotten wallets and swiftly spent the vast majority of it on getting a taxi the hell out of Dodge and back to some fragment of civilization that had actual human beings. A pair of stolen shades and a quiet rage kept the taxi driver from asking more than his end destination. He doesn’t even care that the fare is triple digits; it isn’t his money to begin with and he has much bigger things to worry about than the rapidly dwindling cash reserve. Jesus does take the time to buy a pack of smokes and a zippo because of course his went up in a blaze of bird induced glory and of course he intends to do his very best to emulate a chimney.
What does one do when they have already lost everything with no chance of getting it back?
He buys a pen and a notebook, writes a four page letter to his mother explaining his situation that he folds into stupid little origami fishes she had taught him how to make when he was young. And then he lights them all on fire and watches them burn to ash in less time than it took him to die.
He doesn’t try again.
Instead he takes a bus and finds himself a quiet corner to watch his old school from. Jesus is careful to stay out of the way, lighting up yet another cigarette as the kids are let out for recess. There are his kids, and he is ridiculously pleased to see that they are not raising hell for their substitute. Jesus misses them like alcohol and nicotine, but he’s pretty sure that a death certificate and a closed casket funeral have slammed that door shut and locked it up tighter than Fort Knox. But he’s been dead for God knows how long and he’ll take his comfort where he can get it.
If that means hogging a spot on a bus stop bench across from his old school to watch his kids (he’s dead, but he knew in his bones that he’d die all over again to keep them safe) for a moment.
Just a moment. Then he’s going to have to figure out how to survive somewhere with actual food and a functioning plumbing system.
He shivers, a full body twist of his skin that makes him curl a fist against his thigh as he coughs. “Come mierda y muerte. That hurt like a bitch,” Jesus drawls out into the silence, voice husky from some distant abuse he’d rather not contemplate. He is rewarded for his vulgarity with a sudden rush of sound that makes him quirk an eyebrow and turn towards the source. The skittering of legs is clear enough for him to get the point, and the clacking of mandibles (because he may be sore in all the wrong ways, but pain hasn’t made him stupid) in his general direction gives him just enough warning to not piss his proverbial pants in terror.
Jesus Sanchez de Cepeda-King does not want to talk about the next forty minutes of his life. His undead life, for all that he rose from the literal ashes on a Sunday he is not Jesus Christ because in no way was his resurrection a God sanctioned miracle. What he took away from that forty minutes that didn’t make him any more comfortable with his subsequent second lease on life. First, his entire existence pended on the graces of his new lord and master Magnus. Second, that Jesus was dead. Third, he seemed to have acquired a new and very unwanted brand just a few inches below his belly button that looked like some post-modern tribal retardation of what fire was supposed to look like (later he’ll realize that the process of coming to life had literally made him the butt of all jokes for the rest of his existence). Fourth, his Mama had cried at his funeral.
The first day after his rebirth would be spent in a bathtub of a mansion, alternating between puking his guts out and trying to die of alcohol poisoning.
It did not make Magnus happy.
The second day after his rebirth would be spent finding something decent to wear and coming to grips with the fact that by all rights and means he didn’t exist. Jesus Sanchez de Cepeda-King was dead, long live Jesus the zombie slave of the Lord of Bugs. The latter half of his second day would be spent in a coat closet trying to die of higher speed alcohol poisoning and smoking every scrap of tobacco he could dig out of coat pockets.
This did not make Magnus happy either.
The third day, Jesus pulled his balls out of where they had curled up to die and spent three hours arguing with a giant bug about how if he didn’t get out of the godforsaken house and back to something he would spend every waking moment trying to kill himself and undo all of the insect’s hard work. He brought the good tequila from the top shelf of the bar to prove a point.
Not only did this not make Magnus happy, but Jesus found himself literally dumped on his ass outside the property with the firm order to answer when Magnus summoned.
That was perfectly fine, he had managed to scalp a pile of cash out of a bunch of forgotten wallets and swiftly spent the vast majority of it on getting a taxi the hell out of Dodge and back to some fragment of civilization that had actual human beings. A pair of stolen shades and a quiet rage kept the taxi driver from asking more than his end destination. He doesn’t even care that the fare is triple digits; it isn’t his money to begin with and he has much bigger things to worry about than the rapidly dwindling cash reserve. Jesus does take the time to buy a pack of smokes and a zippo because of course his went up in a blaze of bird induced glory and of course he intends to do his very best to emulate a chimney.
What does one do when they have already lost everything with no chance of getting it back?
He buys a pen and a notebook, writes a four page letter to his mother explaining his situation that he folds into stupid little origami fishes she had taught him how to make when he was young. And then he lights them all on fire and watches them burn to ash in less time than it took him to die.
He doesn’t try again.
Instead he takes a bus and finds himself a quiet corner to watch his old school from. Jesus is careful to stay out of the way, lighting up yet another cigarette as the kids are let out for recess. There are his kids, and he is ridiculously pleased to see that they are not raising hell for their substitute. Jesus misses them like alcohol and nicotine, but he’s pretty sure that a death certificate and a closed casket funeral have slammed that door shut and locked it up tighter than Fort Knox. But he’s been dead for God knows how long and he’ll take his comfort where he can get it.
If that means hogging a spot on a bus stop bench across from his old school to watch his kids (he’s dead, but he knew in his bones that he’d die all over again to keep them safe) for a moment.
Just a moment. Then he’s going to have to figure out how to survive somewhere with actual food and a functioning plumbing system.
CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE
