Tonight is the Shab-e-barat
Apr 11, 2020
I die. I fall over in my chair. People react instantly. That’s not me putting on airs, there’s just a sense in human beings when shit is “real”. You get a little kick of adrenaline, before you even know why. The thing about people falling over and everyone thinking it’s just them being clumsy, or doing some kind of bit, only happens in fantasy and literature. In the real world, death has a presence.
I had a great-great-uncle, or something, I forget the relation. Old guy. He was at a nieces wedding, and was outraged that the bride and groom didn’t know how to waltz. So he insisted on teaching them, waltzed with the bride, and sat down in his chair and died. The moment he sat down, everyone watching knew. Death has a presence.
I land on the floor. In a stupid hunched position. People will think it’s a brain haemorrhage or a heart attack or something, and that will be what is diagnosed postmortem, when they give up looking for corona in my system and throw me body in the mass graves. But the truth is, I died from being too gay.
My roommates will scatter and panic. The guy will take the lead and call an ambulance, or tell one of the other to do it. He will think about trying to resuscitate me, but at the last second, choose not to, and instead think about ways to rationalise the decision he doesn’t quite know why he took. The whole thing will impress his girlfriend a great deal, with his quick rush to action and taking charge and all that. Really, I’m doing the lad a favor. It will however not impress his sister who I’m trying to romance. She will however be relieved, ultimately. But only after a couple of days of neurotic freaking out, and not being able to distinguish what exactly she is feeling.
The ambulance will arrive, and the ambulance guys will be equal parts relieved and bored. The whole scene will be equal parts business as usual, and a nice change of pace. They are used to being around miasma, the presence of death doesn’t affect them as much. It’ll be a nice quiet drive, a nice little oasis in the middle of their busy and terrifying shift. There will be no attempt at resuscitation either in the living room, or otherwise. They’ll just take a single look at the whole scenario, and wordlessly agree, perhaps with a knowing look: “too gay.”
A empty coffin will be prepared to hold a mock funeral and satisfy the perversions of my parents. When they hear they won’t be allowed to “see the body”, because it’s “too gruesome” (quickly scribbled underneath a crossed out note that said “too gay”), they will be relieved, but tell no one, and no one but them will know — and they won’t even be able to tell each other. For a moment they will regret the divorce.
A funeral will be organised in a terrible, ugly, modern plastic church, and the service will be held by a woman, going directly against my clearly expressed wishes and religious beliefs. Not by coincidence, but to own me, punish me for my wrong opinion that God is real and women can’t be priests. My parents don’t believe in much, but they believe in owning people and being passive aggressive.
All the different people I’ve known throughout my life will hear about it, online or whatever, and think about me for a moment. They will feel guilty for not feeling sad, which they will then convince themselves is a kind of sadness, and call that mourning me. Just kidding I don’t have a facebook account. They won’t even know. They won’t ever know. They’ll think I’ll live forever. Just kidding. They don’t remember me. Because I’m not “on facebook”. I was already dead to them.
My parents will try to use facebook to contact friends they remember me talking about years and years ago and guilt them into going to the funeral. Because it’s a status thing. Wouldn’t look good to their friends who’ll show up out of solidarity that “none of his friends” showed up. Maybe Martin, Christian, will show up. Guys I knew in school maybe. It doesn’t really matter. They’ll show up, but not really feel anything. Bored. Plastic church. “this is gay”, they’ll think, if they were to allow themselves to articulate it, underneath the terrible weight of the mind-worm they have willingly infested themselves with, to better enjoy as it slowly eats away at their souls. If they had an honest bone in their bodies. Actually Christian might think it.
I leave this world a bonfire of disaster. Falling apart. I redeemed nothing. My greatest service was that in death, I wasn’t too much trouble and the whole thing could be conducted without delay, quick and efficient. My greatest service to my fellow man was that I wasn’t standing in the way too much, less so than others.
I meet my maker and my sins are judged. A single sound. “he’s gay”, a booming voice echoes in eternity, as I am blinded by a light so bright in burns my consciousness to hot ash, and I feel love for the first time. I disintegrate into the void. I am torn apart into a million pieces. Every fracture is a million years of torture, in which each part in torn apart into a million pieces. My bones are broken, and the marrow is swallowed. A great beast devours me, forever. Until Existence itself, the nameless unutterable summation of both the real and the void, makes a displeased smirk, snubs it’s nose, and spits me out. The stars across billions of years sing, a vibration so low and so wide, across all of manifest time, that it manifests as solid and not as sound, the song manifests as planets and air and life and death, all things spawn from their song, all things rise and fall; before then there was only time, but their song creates space: “too gay, ew. ew ew ew.”
My lineage watches as I fall. I crash onto a beach, on a place that is nowhere. My body is broken. I am utter gore. My grandmothers, my grandfathers, gather around me. All of the thousands of men and women who spawned me, through horror and pain and toil. Even here I can tell they are in pain. “son”, my grandfather says. “you were too gay.”
“You should have just gone up and talked to her. You little bitch. You’re almost 30 years old what the fuck. You’re a little bitch dude.”
“I’m sorry granddad”, I say. “I was letting there be plausible deniability and I wasn’t direct with her. I kept safe and secure in innuendo and irony, like a coward, and I used all my ability to articulate beauty and love and sincerity, to instead make silly jokes. I keep meaning to do it. I guess I’m just too scared to lose what little progress I’ve made recently, by being a little bitch about rejection, if such a thing should come about. And in so doing, I’ve turned it into a self fulfilling prophecy because deep down, I enjoy this, I enjoy the tension of unknowing. It is a cowardice and a perversion, and I beg your forgiveness. I have failed and dishonored you. If only I had one more day on earth, I should do you all proud. I promise. I promise. I promise beyond promise. I’ll walk right up to her and cum, I’ll bust instantly, and spawn a thousand lineages, one for each man and woman who came before me.”
“no I meant you’re GAY dude,” my grandfather says. “You’re retarded. You’re a little gay bitch dude”
and then I go to hell forever
That’s a really good piece of writing.
If I were your grandpa, I’d consider you redeemed.
Amazing