when i arrive i won't know anyone. [written october 2011]

he steps out the door and the night is dark blue and silent. it's a far cry from chicago, from the constant city lights and the rushing of cars. buses. planes. there's nothing in a rush here and he turns his head upwards and watches the unmoving stars with not a single twinkling airplane between them.
he can't remember the last time he's seen a sky this clear, and he counts the constellations. cygnus, the swan. orion, the hunter. the big dipper and the little dipper. polaris. he used to know them all by heart, but not anymore. he forgets so much.
he walks down the path into the street and lies down. the stars in full view and he's the only one to see this, it almost feels like they're staring back at him. he shuts his eyes and waits, and when the voices finally come they're just as crisp and clear as the cold air.

"you haven't slept in a while." mother pours black coffee into the cup in front of her. she isn't worried, even though her voice sounds like she's trying, but he knows better. he knows everything about her.
"it's alright. coffee?" he asks, and she pushes the cup over towards him.
"you don't even like coffee. sure you're doing okay? took your meds?"
"yeah," he says. funny how she thinks she knows everything about him. yeah, as if. he can't remember the last time he took the pills. all they ever did was weaken him, either way, and he can't afford that. the voices are the only advantage he has over her. "i feel fine," he says and takes a huge sip without any sugar. it tastes like his own personal hell, but he doesn't want to go back to sleep, ever.

they've gotten more concise over time, the longer he's gone without the drugs mellowing down his brain. the first time he heard them again, all the predictions they made were vague, but now he's got a direct wire from him to the gods right in his head. he knows everything, about her, about the crow boy, about himself. he's this close to omnipotence, and he thinks that they should change his diagnosis from batshit insane to second coming.
he can't remember whether jesus was clairaudient, but he knows for fact that he's found his personal judas in the crow boy when he lights up. he hates cigarettes, and he's pretty sure jesus didn't smoke, either, but it's worth the soothing effect, even if it messes with his powers. he takes a deep drag and his brain gets quiet, until the only voice he hears belongs to the crow boy.
"smoking is really bad for your health, you know."
of course he knows. he knows everything.
"i'll die young either way," he says, and judas turns his head in surprise. sometimes he forgets that not everyone can be blessed with this.
"because," he says, "because the good ones always die young."
judas doesn't say anything, and it's so funny how he doesn't seem to know his fate, but then again there can only be one son of god at a time.
the messiah grabs judas' hand, and it's ice cold and clammy, of course, the traitor is always cold-blooded.
"but i'm glad you're not one of the good ones," he says, "i wouldn't want you to die young."
the messiah can almost see his fragile brain buzzing when judas blinks at that, and then the messiah decides that it's probably a good thing that those powers are limited to him.

he feels strangely betrayed in a sense when judas touches his bare chest with those icy hands, and he's sure that his heartbeat is amplified a thousand times, louder than any voice could ever be. the voices had told him about anything, everything, except for this. judas grabs both of the messiah's wrists and kisses him, his mouth much warmer than his hands. he smiles and he's probably not aware just how murderous he looks at that very second, and the messiah feels both crucified yet omnipotent at the same time.


in the same night, he tries to kill judas. jesus was supposed to be a pacifist, but things have already very clearly gone wrong. maybe the voices were wrong, maybe crow boy isn't his judas after all. maybe he's simply one of twelve.
judas doesn't die, obviously, because that isn't how things are supposed to go. the messiah leaves and the voices are loud enough to drown out judas' breathing. he's never heard them angry before.

judas is gone. he is gone, and the messiah is still here, and even more importantly, he's alive. this is definitely not how things were supposed to go.
looks like he'll have to take things into his own hands, and he's pretty sure that jesus wouldn't condone suicide either, but the voices have spoken and he can't change that. he's already let them down once, once too many, and so he walks into the bathroom and finds the strongest painkillers mother keeps around the house. she'll be relieved when he's gone, virgin mary would be so disappointed with her.
he swallows all the remaining pills, dry, and he hopes that's enough because he's built up a massive oxycodone tolerance over time.
he goes to sleep for the first time in weeks and he feels messianic, like the patron saint of junkies everywhere.

it takes him over three days to wake up again, back in chicago, when he had been sure he wouldn't ever have to see this place again. his head is mellow and empty, and the only thing he hears is the buzzing of the monitor he's hooked up to.