Fiction: 'The Second Coming'

The Second Coming

Long beetle, copper shelled, a murky old penny scuttling across my shoe. Always there, each leg clicks across the polished leather and its bulbous head turns and looks up at me. I see malice in its every movement, its every crooked joint, it's blackened specks for eyes. It knows something. It definitely knows something. I look up, defiant. I am not drawn in to its world of deceit. Not today. I will not succumb to it's vile corporeality.

With my head up, shoulders back, I find that the beetle and I have company. Of course! I share platform 13 with a figure, a man. Youthful, he is, and tall, shoulders broad. A thick coat, similar in colour to the beetle, hangs from his broad frame with the drama of stage curtains, down to his leather-clad ankles: a fine disguise. He looks to the track awaiting the 20:10. His hair, long and thick, tumbles down his back in rippling shades of chestnut and auburn, meeting a beard of the same shades, with sunlight, of which there is none, reflecting off each hair. I look at his hands, gloved in black, and I imagine the bloody perforations that he hides: symbols of his passion, his unlimited devotion. I can almost see red stains on the black wool.

He turns, gently strolling, lighting up the platform with his eyes. And what eyes! The midday sun shines through them, into the darkness of the evening. The unquestionable kindness of creation resides there, in his plaintive smile. Then he turns and it's gone. I am left longing for that light.

I look at those feet, hidden under leather, and desire them in my hands, to bathe them, to cleanse them with my earthly brown locks as the unspeakable She once did. I could nurse those wounds, those treacherous sores. Just to be near him, to touch the organic shell, the ultimate flesh, the embodiment of transcendence, would set my soul alight, removing the mist of corporeality. My entire life has been leading up to this.

I sit on the cold plastic seat, so chilling that I apply as little weight to it as I can. It removes much of the joy of sitting, yet still I sit, and I wonder if it could really be Him. He turns, walking my way, and gives me a smile, just for a moment, and its all for me. If it is Him, this is my moment. I am Julian of Norwich. I am Margery Kempe. And no murky penny can take that from me. All of creation is but the size of a hazelnut for this man, and what I wouldn't give for him to put it in my hand. I rise and stand before him. He looks into my eyes.

“How unusual this is...” He says, with a smile so invigorating, so stimulating, that I must catch my breath. “...to find one so deserving.” He continues. His voice resonates around the platform, with such intensity that I lose all self awareness, all spacial awareness. He smiles and I find my hands clinging to my chest, the ends of my fingers digging into my ribs. His being there touches me while he stands paces away. I feel my heart, my lungs, are being held into place by this figure. He sees that I know his identity. He knows that a change of dress, a change of scene, of time, cannot fool a follower with the devotion that I possess. As I look into his eyes I see that he is staring into my soul, viewing all that I am. “You know me” I say, questioning only in part. He says nothing, but smiles. I feel smothered by fresh air. It is too fresh, so sharp it causes a sting, an exhilarating sting that reminds me of my creation.

His irises tell a thousand stories and a thousand reflections. I can see that he knows of my loneliness. He has heard of my loss, the rupturing of my heart. He has come to repair the shell that I have become in recent days. He understands the torment I feel, the crooked mockery I hear so often. Feelings of regret, of fear and resentment, they are blown away by the light and distant breath of this man.

“Saviour” I begin, tumbling over each consonant, conscious of the sound of my lips touching and separating, conscious of the rustling of my eyelashes as I blink. I breathe slowly, looking deep into his eyes. And he splutters, suddenly laughing, suddenly cackling cruelly. “My Lord?” I plead. He claps his hands and rubs them together, as if enjoying a dance, a crude comedy. He stamps one foot, throwing his head back, his hair tumbling provocatively down his back. I fail to understand his movements.

“You fool!” He exclaims, vehemently. “You will cling to a glance, a smile, a voice. For you have nothing.” His words pierce me, they reach into my rib cage, crushing all in their path. My legs can no longer carry me and I stumble, my rupturing organs failing to sustain me. The colour of his coat suddenly catches my eye once more, that murky copper, that cruel encapsulating shade. His eyes, once dazzlingly light, appear as dark spheres, as black specks. His smile is no more. Those repugnant mandibles, ready to sheer, to crush, with mucous dangling from them, protrude where his plaintive smile once rested. His legs: six of them. They click with every movement. And as I focus, crouched on the ground, I see that his tiny hard body resumes its place on my shoe. Treacherous beast. My despicable companion's malice knows no bounds. How I long to go on without this foul company, to push through my misery without this psychological parasite.

And with the noise of its engine, the arriving train reminds me of my surroundings. I shake my shoe with the hope of dispelling this unbearable creature but to no avail. As always, he clings to me, sucking my humour, my optimism. I board the train and make the lonely journey home.