I never cease to be amazed by the gems found by wandering around wordpress. There are some amazing writers out there. Some pieces are so great that I just need to share. Like this one: An Explanation, Of Sorts (Flash Fiction) by Ingrid Sykora. Check it out!
I wish I could say that my father is a cruel man. To say he was cruel would be a way to rationalize his behavior, to make him seem more human. It would be a way to make sense of him, to categorize him and thus feel safe, knowing he has been placed in a sort of box, even if that box is only a label, a word, a concept, nothing more. It would be a way to imprison him, in a sense.
But he slips beyond categorization as effectively as he slips past any other kind of prison. For thousands of years, people have tried to imprison him. In mythology, his story is repeated endlessly: the imprisonment of Lucifer, the castration of Set, the acid fate of Loki, the casting of Cronus into Tartarus, &c. In human form, he has been put into solitary prison a half dozen times, has been killed by poison, electrocution, beheading, firing squad, and sunk to the bottom of the sea with weights. He returns in a different form every time, but it does not matter–eventually, his transgression mount, and he is killed or imprisoned again. But it only lasts until he escapes, and leaves behind nothing but a fuzzy memory, and people wondering, “Wasn’t there someone in that prison cell? Who was I bringing this meal to?”
My father whispered in Hitler’s ear, though granted, Hitler did not take a lot of encouraging. My father inspired Stalin and Mao. He drove the making of the atomic bomb. He nurtured the religious extremism that led to the crusades, the terrorists attacks, the holy wars, the kool-aid drinkers. My father is so twisted and evil that he came up with the concept of God, such that people would be inspired to commit atrocities without hesitation or remorse. Any civil war, any partisan disaster, any mass murder or serial killer has his roots in my father’s dark embrace.
Back in the eighties, my father decided that it was time to produce offspring. Why, when heroin addictions, AIDS, and class warfare were a few of the many rampant problems in the world, he felt the need to add greater chaos and darkness, is beyond me. He had never before held an interest in such things, and I have vowed to discover his reasoning before I die. He bedded a woman who was institutionalized for a triple homicide. I was born nine months later by caesarian, and the woman died–though how much the doctors intended to deliver her to such a fate is unclear.
It would seem that goodness, as it is typically identified, is a spontaneous genetic quality. My father has not an ounce of goodness in him, and my mother certainly lacked it, even when turning her attention on herself. But from an early age I have resisted my father’s call, the call of my blood, the call that encourages chaos, destruction, murder, murder, murder.
The abilities that come most easily to me are those that are along this line. It takes a single look to kill a man. It is almost effortless to start a fire that cannot be put out by mere water. Telekinesis is second nature, and sharp objects respond with particular alacrity. I can read tarot cards or tossed crystals or tea dregs in any dark manner I wish and it will come true. Harder to produce is an aversion to a coming danger or crisis.
But, whether it’s youthful rebellion or a true difference in nature, I have no desire to follow in my father’s footsteps. I direct people away from harm when I can. I protect them when I see the need. I guide them away from dark thoughts and shadowed roads.
I have taken it upon myself to reverse every plotline my father has set into motion, to snap every thread he has spun. My name is Eris, and this is my story.