prose · short stories

Lazarus

As time passed, his illness got really bad and then worse, and within weeks there was no doubt that his life was about to come to an end. His stubborness, though, didn’t allow him to rest and breathe a little longer. He saw no point in suffering more than it was worth it and any moment he was given he filled with work. And also a lot of research.

He’d become hopeless. Basically any piece of information he’d read would become another ingredient to his imagined potion of immortality. His beautiful wife started reminding him of an Egyptian godess Isis. He believed that a miracle would allow him to come to life again and he believed she’d be hoping, praying and trying to revive him once he dies – because he was aware that there wasn’t any possible option that he wouldn’t die. None of that happened. He was cursed by naivity.

There was certainly a huge injustice in his life and it actually was what shaped his entire being. He’d have probably never admitted it, but the strength was apparent. Not that much bravery as he never faced battles – well he did, once. And it was a long one, with himself. Yet he was very much aware that his close ones had undergone the war with demons. And he knew there was a lot to fear. One after another, they left him, the inevitable insanity killed them. When too many voices scream out loud demanding to be the one and only to be heard, all of them telling very different things, it’s easy to lose own voice for their sake. It’s hard to fight back against their strength when one’s too weak.

That wasn’t his case, luckily, but if he couldn’t have been killed mentally, the destiny made sure that at least his body suffered. He was told, he cried, sent some messages and after year and a half, he left. He politely said goodbye, but no one cared – which was strange because nobody waves ‘hello’ (as they thought) like that, it was clearly a ‘goodbye’.

His wife – sweet Isis – mourned for her great husband, but it wasn’t long after and the myth would almost become true as she was seen with a man whose baby she would hardly explain as penetration by god or ghost.

Meanwhile, some occult or religious practiques in the East – new paganism, as they called it – occured as a ritual of preparing the dead for his journey in afterlife and possibly the next incarnation. I believe, that once the death began to kissing him, he wished for this circle not to be finished. In fact, there were both stances. Some believed that his circle was closed and he is now free to eternal tranquility and some hoped he would come again. I wonder how and when – it is indeed in a way frightening. And it seemed disrespectful as this world had nothing to offer anymore.

There are rumors that there is a list of names which are being ticked as their owners die like soldiers on a fighting field. Once the list has all the names ticked off, the world as we know it will come to an end.

The wife came to a realization that her tears and prayers: “Please, bring me my husband back to life again!” remained unheard. She prayed to a wrong type of god, even though they’re all the same and it’s just a human invention how we call them, praise them and worship them. The big figure, then, stayed deaf to her pleads, or possibly heard but never responded. She was left on her own to resolve this. Too powerful to care, she’d say to herself. But it was a wise move as no more pleasure and any less pain the dead could undergo. The life itself was the misery and the death a path to being set free. At least that is what they want us to believe in. How much do we need to go through to be allowed to taste the paradise afterwards ourselves? And if the afterlife is what we aim for, than why are we still alive, dependent on life? And how did we get here, anyway?

These are big questions and I’ve asked myself about them every day since I can remember, as I have more than strange and more than insistent feeling that I came here from somewhere else. There are memories which I know I have and cannot remember. And the strange attachement to the man seem a prove of some sort of connection. There’s a great fear.

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