Marshal D. Carper
Washington, PA

^{"Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so."
-Douglas Adams, "Last Chance to See"}

A  R e v i s e d  G e n e s i s

      From the beginning, I suspected that my blood would mingle with the dusted bones of ancient martyrs in the forgotten Vatican dungeons. But for my dream to be realized is a pleasure that the darkness of a cell cannot smother. They will execute me. I do not know when or how, but they will.
      No fluorescent glow has ever graced these stones. Even now, only the faint traces of a teardrop flame shine through the cell’s barred window. My eyes are pained, fighting to divide the shadows, teeming within this box, from the little bit of light on the outside. I am alone. I have only a chamber pot and a Bible to provide me comfort. Struggling, I now scribble my last words over Christian verses in bleeding, red, snake-like fashion. My existence is heresy and my thoughts are forbidden. Understanding comes through experience.
      My eyes are opened. I understand the evil.
      Sin saturates the world in a joyful dance of self-indulgence. This frenzy of desire drives men to desperate ends. Some seek false idols. Some torch nations. In the eyes of God, sin knows not degree. The same evil spills from deceit as from violence. Therefore, my petty crimes against the church and against its deity are of the same caliber as genocide and corruption. Though, my sin was not entirely selfish. I saved their minds from being drowned in a façade-driven philosophy.
      Somewhere beneath the towering Vatican architecture, I shall make my final stand. The trial will be brief and focus on interrogation rather than innocence. I will remind them that they are unfit to judge and bask in the fervor of their hypocrisy. The contradictions have weighed heavy for decades. And for all this time, the notion of being elderly is just now beginning to creep through my virgin veins.
      I should calm myself, collect my final thoughts, and die content. So before the flames of Sodom overtake my eyes, this old man will compose his memory and, in doing so, make known his motivations and his intentions. I am the assassin. I am the gunman. God is dead, and I have killed him.
      I have no way of knowing at what hour I was shaken from my sleep. Beneath the earth, without a view of the heavens, time disappears in the darkness, only reappearing to dance mockingly in the candlelight. If only I could see the wax falling away from the stick, then perhaps I could reaffirm my grasp of time. While I rested the gnarled remains of my hands, aching from my feverish writing, I faded into sleep.
      A young hand gripped the shoulder of my robe, jerking me upward, pulling me from the stone floor and out of my cold sleep. My aged body ached from an unnatural sleep. There was no rest in it, only a temporary relief from consciousness. For the time my mind spent dreaming, my body spent combating the peaks and canyons of the cell. The same hand that wrenched me from the depths of my prison guided me through twisted corridors. At times I stumbled, and at times he threw me to the rocks. I could not see his face for the brightness of the light.
      He treated me with great cruelty, gripping my collarbone with piercing fingers. His eyes were closed; he did not understand as I do.
      He threw me before a medieval counsel, sitting aloft over-stuffed thrones and behind grand oaken tables, the legs of which formed the talons of a long-forgotten beast. For an instant, I feared that the talons would rip at my flesh, or, worse yet, my very soul. They were entering my mind. My exhaustion, my hunger, and my pain weighed on my sanity. I tried to look away from the claws and into the eyes of my captors, but the blinding light surrounding their figures turned their white robes into a ghostly haze. Their bodies and gestures melted into each other so that their body seemed as one, like a worm that had grown spines.
      The middle segment threatened me with one of its quills, asking, “What was your reason for doing this?”
      My desperate attempt to focus failed, and I grew nauseous. I averted my gaze, focusing again on the claws. Shadows are comforting for they are trustworthy. Blinding light is the true nature of deceit. While steadying my stomach, a downward blow struck my hunched back, leaving a bruise that made it difficult to stand erect, and I collapsed to my knees.
      I groaned, “There is no fear of God in this place.”
      “You have deceived the world and defiled the papacy. Confess your crimes, and while doing so detail all parties that assisted you in your crimes, and we will spare your life and further suffering.”
      “I have not committed any crimes to confess to.”
      A hand gripped my hair and twisted my neck until my gaze fell upon a projection screen. The movie of my deed began to play.
      I watched as the camera panned an ocean of people packed like wartime prisoners into the Vatican square. Eventually, the lens focused on that infamous balcony, the perch from which countless popes have spoken to their followers, coerced them into following Christian ideals and publicly prayed to God to relieve global suffering. Then, the purple curtain rippled.
      I emerged in full ceremonial costume, adorned with fine fabrics, each piece elaborately embroidered with golden thread. I looked down upon my children who were wearing mere rags in comparison. I had not smiled with genuine happiness for decades; my face glowed with ecstasy. I spread my arms and embraced the applause. They loved me, and they had only become aware of my existence a month prior. I had their trust. I had their affection. I had their minds, and they had never even met me.
      Keeping my arms extended, I gently patted the echoing of the exaltations, quieting the mob, my sons and my daughters. They quieted and awaited my words. I spoke with a confidence that is known only to a man who has spent the entirety of his existence refining and rehearsing a single paragraph. The glorious syllables flowed from my lips:
      “My children, your love and your affection has brought me to this place so that I may deliver a sacred message. Since man rose from the mud, his hands have built weapons to kill and built walls to divide himself from his fellow man. The dirt that bore him constantly mixed with the blood of his victims, and for ages he has been drowning in the horror of his own deeds.”
      I paused to collect my breath and to calm my failing heart. Their eyes gleamed with adoration.
      “I have come before you to save your children from being scarred as you and I were by the most brutal of these weapons. Brothers and sisters, I have shattered the sword wielded by your elders so that they can maim you no more.
      “God is gone from this world, banished by hopes for peace and hunted by the pursuit of knowledge. Live your lives knowing that there is no eternal paradise or eternal torment. Your every breath will be priceless, and you can find happiness on earth. Your brothers and sisters will see their own lives as you see yours, precious, and they too will strive for harmony so that their bliss will not be lost in quarreling.”
      The nails slowly penetrating my skull tightened, ripping hairs from my head. He began to pull, but I wanted desperately to keep my eyes on the screen, to forever relive the realization of my dream. The light faded into darkness; the image disintegrated before my eyes.
      “You had the world’s blessing, nations serving you, and you settled for devilish trickery?!”
      It was the same voice as before, floating disembodied to my ears, half-pressed against the stone floor. No amount of pain could suppress my ecstasy. I had triumphed, a life’s work completed.
      “Your dream is a disgrace! Do you have nothing to say?”
      “I have interpreted the dreams of those before me and succeeded in bringing mankind closer to peace. I am guilty of no crime. I have merely opened minds that have been closed for generations.”
      A silence befell the counsel, and in a few moments the hall erupted with laughter. Their cackles were inhuman, unworldly, ghastly groans echoing from the flames of hell itself. My stomach twisted, and my heart began to sweat. The laughter tore at my skull. It was driving me mad.
      “No soul outside of the Vatican heard your words. Your heresy was never broadcast.”
      “That’s not possible,” I cried.
      “Even those within the Vatican walls were informed that an imposter had reached the balcony and had been arrested. Shortly thereafter, you gave your real speech.”
      The projector flicked on, and a man who looked like me stepped out on the balcony and began to speak of his thankfulness and God’s love and how the world could benefit from the further spread of Christianity.
      I fought.
      My ancient frame wrenched and struggled to break free of my captivity, their lies. They deceived me. Trick photography. Special effects. Make up. Make believe. Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies!
      A blow silenced my screams.
      And now, I frantically try and gather my thoughts, but it is difficult to trust my handwriting, scrawled over biblical verse. Maybe they are reading these words and using my own mind against me, or perhaps they are unaware that I am keeping this journal.
      Blood is still trickling from my wound and the pain is unbearable. I must rest. I must sleep. The words are dark and loving but the deception is deep.
      They have not fed me in days. Or, have I only been sleeping for seconds at a time? I have tried judging the passing of time by the slow descent of the candle flame, but my eyes burn and my body paints itself with bruises. Each time I awake, I find new oceans of blue, purple, and green spreading underneath my flesh.
      Perhaps they beat me when I’m sleeping, and I cannot hear their voices.
      My mind is satisfying its hunger by slowly From the beginning, I suspected that my blood would mingle with the dusted bones of ancient martyrs in the forgotten Vatican dungeons. But for my dream to be realized is a pleasure that the darkness of a cell cannot smother. They will execute me. I do not know when or how, but they will.
      No fluorescent glow has ever graced these stones. Even now, only the faint traces of a teardrop flame shine through the cell’s barred window. My eyes are pained, fighting to divide the shadows, teeming within this box, from the little bit of light on the outside. I am alone. I have only a chamber pot and a Bible to provide me comfort. Struggling, I now scribble my last words over Christian verses in bleeding, red, snake-like fashion. My existence is heresy and my thoughts are forbidden. Understanding comes through experience.
      My eyes are opened. I understand the evil.
      Sin saturates the world in a joyful dance of self-indulgence. This frenzy of desire drives men to desperate ends. Some seek false idols. Some torch nations. In the eyes of God, sin knows not degree. The same evil spills from deceit as from violence. Therefore, my petty crimes against the church and against its deity are of the same caliber as genocide and corruption. Though, my sin was not entirely selfish. I saved their minds from being drowned in a façade-driven philosophy.
      Somewhere beneath the towering Vatican architecture, I shall make my final stand. The trial will be brief and focus on interrogation rather than innocence. I will remind them that they are unfit to judge and bask in the fervor of their hypocrisy. The contradictions have weighed heavy for decades. And for all this time, the notion of being elderly is just now beginning to creep through my virgin veins.
      I should calm myself, collect my final thoughts, and die content. So before the flames of Sodom overtake my eyes, this old man will compose his memory and, in doing so, make known his motivations and his intentions. I am the assassin. I am the gunman. God is dead, and I have killed him.
      I have no way of knowing at what hour I was shaken from my sleep. Beneath the earth, without a view of the heavens, time disappears in the darkness, only reappearing to dance mockingly in the candlelight. If only I could see the wax falling away from the stick, then perhaps I could reaffirm my grasp of time. While I rested the gnarled remains of my hands, aching from my feverish writing, I faded into sleep.
      A young hand gripped the shoulder of my robe, jerking me upward, pulling me from the stone floor and out of my cold sleep. My aged body ached from an unnatural sleep. There was no rest in it, only a temporary relief from consciousness. For the time my mind spent dreaming, my body spent combating the peaks and canyons of the cell. The same hand that wrenched me from the depths of my prison guided me through twisted corridors. At times I stumbled, and at times he threw me to the rocks. I could not see his face for the brightness of the light.
      He treated me with great cruelty, gripping my collarbone with piercing fingers. His eyes were closed; he did not understand as I do.
      He threw me before a medieval counsel, sitting aloft over-stuffed thrones and behind grand oaken tables, the legs of which formed the talons of a long-forgotten beast. For an instant, I feared that the talons would rip at my flesh, or, worse yet, my very soul. They were entering my mind. My exhaustion, my hunger, and my pain weighed on my sanity. I tried to look away from the claws and into the eyes of my captors, but the blinding light surrounding their figures turned their white robes into a ghostly haze. Their bodies and gestures melted into each other so that their body seemed as one, like a worm that had grown spines.
      The middle segment threatened me with one of its quills, asking, “What was your reason for doing this?”
      My desperate attempt to focus failed, and I grew nauseous. I averted my gaze, focusing again on the claws. Shadows are comforting for they are trustworthy. Blinding light is the true nature of deceit. While steadying my stomach, a downward blow struck my hunched back, leaving a bruise that made it difficult to stand erect, and I collapsed to my knees.
      I groaned, “There is no fear of God in this place.”
      “You have deceived the world and defiled the papacy. Confess your crimes, and while doing so detail all parties that assisted you in your crimes, and we will spare your life and further suffering.”
      “I have not committed any crimes to confess to.”
      A hand gripped my hair and twisted my neck until my gaze fell upon a projection screen. The movie of my deed began to play.
      I watched as the camera panned an ocean of people packed like wartime prisoners into the Vatican square. Eventually, the lens focused on that infamous balcony, the perch from which countless popes have spoken to their followers, coerced them into following Christian ideals and publicly prayed to God to relieve global suffering. Then, the purple curtain rippled.
      I emerged in full ceremonial costume, adorned with fine fabrics, each piece elaborately embroidered with golden thread. I looked down upon my children who were wearing mere rags in comparison. I had not smiled with genuine happiness for decades; my face glowed with ecstasy. I spread my arms and embraced the applause. They loved me, and they had only become aware of my existence a month prior. I had their trust. I had their affection. I had their minds, and they had never even met me.
      Keeping my arms extended, I gently patted the echoing of the exaltations, quieting the mob, my sons and my daughters. They quieted and awaited my words. I spoke with a confidence that is known only to a man who has spent the entirety of his existence refining and rehearsing a single paragraph. The glorious syllables flowed from my lips:
      “My children, your love and your affection has brought me to this place so that I may deliver a sacred message. Since man rose from the mud, his hands have built weapons to kill and built walls to divide himself from his fellow man. The dirt that bore him constantly mixed with the blood of his victims, and for ages he has been drowning in the horror of his own deeds.”
      I paused to collect my breath and to calm my failing heart. Their eyes gleamed with adoration.
      “I have come before you to save your children from being scarred as you and I were by the most brutal of these weapons. Brothers and sisters, I have shattered the sword wielded by your elders so that they can maim you no more.
      “God is gone from this world, banished by hopes for peace and hunted by the pursuit of knowledge. Live your lives knowing that there is no eternal paradise or eternal torment. Your every breath will be priceless, and you can find happiness on earth. Your brothers and sisters will see their own lives as you see yours, precious, and they too will strive for harmony so that their bliss will not be lost in quarreling.”
      The nails slowly penetrating my skull tightened, ripping hairs from my head. He began to pull, but I wanted desperately to keep my eyes on the screen, to forever relive the realization of my dream. The light faded into darkness; the image disintegrated before my eyes.
      “You had the world’s blessing, nations serving you, and you settled for devilish trickery?!”
      It was the same voice as before, floating disembodied to my ears, half-pressed against the stone floor. No amount of pain could suppress my ecstasy. I had triumphed, a life’s work completed.
      “Your dream is a disgrace! Do you have nothing to say?”
      “I have interpreted the dreams of those before me and succeeded in bringing mankind closer to peace. I am guilty of no crime. I have merely opened minds that have been closed for generations.”
      A silence befell the counsel, and in a few moments the hall erupted with laughter. Their cackles were inhuman, unworldly, ghastly groans echoing from the flames of hell itself. My stomach twisted, and my heart began to sweat. The laughter tore at my skull. It was driving me mad.
      “No soul outside of the Vatican heard your words. Your heresy was never broadcast.”
      “That’s not possible,” I cried.
      “Even those within the Vatican walls were informed that an imposter had reached the balcony and had been arrested. Shortly thereafter, you gave your real speech.”
      The projector flicked on, and a man who looked like me stepped out on the balcony and began to speak of his thankfulness and God’s love and how the world could benefit from the further spread of Christianity.
      I fought.
      My ancient frame wrenched and struggled to break free of my captivity, their lies. They deceived me. Trick photography. Special effects. Make up. Make believe. Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies!
      A blow silenced my screams.
      And now, I frantically try and gather my thoughts, but it is difficult to trust my handwriting, scrawled over biblical verse. Maybe they are reading these words and using my own mind against me, or perhaps they are unaware that I am keeping this journal.
      Blood is still trickling from my wound and the pain is unbearable. I must rest. I must sleep. The words are dark and loving but the deception is deep.
      They have not fed me in days. Or, have I only been sleeping for seconds at a time? I have tried judging the passing of time by the slow descent of the candle flame, but my eyes burn and my body paints itself with bruises. Each time I awake, I find new oceans of blue, purple, and green spreading underneath my flesh.
      Perhaps they beat me when I’m sleeping, and I cannot hear their voices.
      My mind is satisfying its hunger by slowly consuming my spirit. I barely have the energy to pen the specters of my thoughts. The ink empties into large circles, bleeding through multiple layers of scripture as I rest, preparing to write the next word.
      In my solitude I have reached two truths.
      The first truth is that I failed, and I spent a vain lifetime consuming and feeding fear. My foes outdid me. Where their character judgment failed, their paranoia and mastery of illusion succeeded. I was outdone, and my wisdom fell on ears not taught to hear. The only comfort to my soul is having experienced a moment of true happiness, no matter how false that happiness may have been.
      The second truth is that I succeeded, and the world above this dungeon is entering a new era, free of religion. My inspiration transferred to my children, and they too saw my dream. Even now, as I lay dying, they are tearing down walls and building bridges. The light of a better future is rising from the horizon, and they realize that shadows of hatred exist only when something obstructs the light.
      The lead bars of my cell keep the truth from me. The only reality I know is the one inside of my cell, which is teeming with my delusions and my epiphanies. A man secluded in his own thoughts ceases to be human; he is but a hurricane of ideas and emotions seeking the ground of companionship to slow him down.
      I feel my control waning and my energy fading.
      A cat is coming down the hall to devour me, no, a lion. It is the claws of the council coming to finally consume my heart. As I die, he will tell me how he despises the new world forming outside of the Vatican. How he thrives on conflict. How he hungers for war. How he wants to tear my flesh for bringing peace instead of letting time murder the dreamer.consuming my spirit. I barely have the energy to pen the specters of my thoughts. The ink empties into large circles, bleeding through multiple layers of scripture as I rest, preparing to write the next word.
      In my solitude I have reached two truths.
      The first truth is that I failed, and I spent a vain lifetime consuming and feeding fear. My foes outdid me. Where their character judgment failed, their paranoia and mastery of illusion succeeded. I was outdone, and my wisdom fell on ears not taught to hear. The only comfort to my soul is having experienced a moment of true happiness, no matter how false that happiness may have been.
      The second truth is that I succeeded, and the world above this dungeon is entering a new era, free of religion. My inspiration transferred to my children, and they too saw my dream. Even now, as I lay dying, they are tearing down walls and building bridges. The light of a better future is rising from the horizon, and they realize that shadows of hatred exist only when something obstructs the light.
      The lead bars of my cell keep the truth from me. The only reality I know is the one inside of my cell, which is teeming with my delusions and my epiphanies. A man secluded in his own thoughts ceases to be human; he is but a hurricane of ideas and emotions seeking the ground of companionship to slow him down.
      I feel my control waning and my energy fading.
      A cat is coming down the hall to devour me, no, a lion. It is the claws of the council coming to finally consume my heart. As I die, he will tell me how he despises the new world forming outside of the Vatican. How he thrives on conflict. How he hungers for war. How he wants to tear my flesh for bringing peace instead of letting time murder the dreamer.