Upon His Wrath

Make me a bed of nails, and make me your pawn.

Nevermore shall I lay with Satan with all his empty promises.

Change the sheets and make me weep, for I am but a marker of time in thine eyes.

Tempt me with tales of deep dark places that I know well,

And thou relinquish the whip and hollow scabbard,

And make me a beggar at your ankles drenched in mine tears.

My house of horrors makes my body ache, and joints release hardened blood with each movement. I am but a simple man of a simple life. My telltale heart has aged, but my arms remain strong and sinewy with dwindling masculinity. The mirror shows me lines on my skin and reminds me I am old, again.

Pick up the newspaper, and stare out the window. No one gazes upon my face with lust or desire. Parking meters lend more affection than my shadowy home with its peeling crevices and cracked walls. And the Sunday paper is always late, and the loose threads on my bathrobe help me keep track of time.

The glow of streetlamps keep me up at night, and sunlight only highlights the dust hanging in the air. Work is all suits and ties and small talk, with a cute receptionist who never so much as bats an eye at me.

More and more can I see my shiny scalp peeking from my thinning hair, and the beers collect on my sad torso. Middle-age is when life loses love and the world stops caring for you.

So I sit in my chair in the gray living room, the coarse fabric nipping at my skin, waiting for something beautiful beyond the bounds of my melancholy. Sometimes a cardinal will land near the scratched and foggy window, other times a colorful car will pass by. But more often than not I find my eyes drifting to the house of a special girl across the street, one door down. Her window illuminates at night after dinnertime, allowing me to gaze upon her lovely figure and long silky hair in the romantic dark of twilight or dusk.

I long to be young and handsome, to catch her attention and call to her like a better Romeo. I would toss a pebble or two, gently and lovingly, and watch her crack the window open and gasp in awe of my handsome features and outlined muscles. And she would invite me up, and I would scale the vines and enter her soft room and touch her soft face, and kiss her gently. And I would treat her better than any man has or will- flowers, chocolates, everything gentle and passionate and beautiful, like her. But the pinching of my armchair reminds me of my dilapidated form and graying hair, and my ever-growing inability to talk to pretty women.

But my fascination grows deeper, and my yearning turns from desire to lust to primal need, and I can’t stand gazing upon this hideous face in the mirror’s fluorescent light anymore. Twilight casts a shroud over everything, including my beastly form, and shines a spotlight on my teenage beauty across the street and one door down. Twilight has become my favorite part of day.

I do not know her name, nor do I need to, for I already know her. She is blonde and petite, and loves the color pink, which I deciphered from the walls in her room. And she plays the flute, which she practices every night for half an hour. She puts her hair into a braid before going to bed so it’s curly in the morning. And she doesn’t have a boyfriend, at least not yet. She doesn’t have anyone over much. And she likes dogs- she wears pajama pants with dogs on them. But she doesn’t have a dog. Maybe she’s allergic- I could fix that. I see her scrolling on her laptop late at night for… a fancy bag, I think. I would buy her hundreds of fancy bags. I would give her everything pink and so many dogs. She wouldn’t be able to resist loving me.

In the corner of my bedroom sits a dusty set of weights. I’ve always abhorred it, but it was the last gift from my late mother. It constantly gnaws at my consciousness, mocking my belly and flabby back. But now when I look at it, all I see is the outline of my mystery girl. So I grab a weight and blow the dust off it, then ritually pump it up and down with each arm until sweat eats away at my receding hairline. And as the weeks go by all I focus on is my improving form and the glow of her window every day at twilight.

Finally the Reckoning has begun -

A merciless purge of the weak from this planet,

And I hail to Sadism and ye great father Satan,

With all thine empty promises and power and glory.

Muscles and beauty and liposuction and sculpting,

Make me a muse of your superior looks,

And shape me into the prize possession of the O marvelous Devil.

I watch the scale go down. I create a ritual of exercise dedicated to her. I want her to adore my body as I adore hers. I whiten my teeth and start hair growth pills. I start taking pictures of her to put in my bedroom as motivation for each painful pullup. Eventually my bedroom becomes a shrine of sorts, and my body transforms into that of a man, with muscles overlapping on my arms and back and legs and thick luscious hair tumbling from my crown again. And the cute receptionist at work finally notices me, but I pay her no heed, the only woman of affection being my mystery girl.

I feel myself become powerful, a force of masculinity and lust and desire and everything I ached for as a sad ugly accountant. I push my shoulders back as I walk and look only forward as women pass me with wide eyes and feminine desire. I laugh inside as women who once gazed upon me with scorn now drool at my feet, longing for the embrace of muscle that I now yield. And sometimes I do yield to them, but only ever exercising a man’s primal need for woman and only ever thinking of my mystery girl.

The mirror smiles back now, and no photo is a bad one. I see power in my hands and shave my chest daily. I mock the single dad at the bar and get drunk every Friday. And overweight people - potbelly pigs - are fleas to me now, worthless fleas, for I am powerful and beautiful. A God among Men.

Now I sit in my chair at twilight with a protein bar in hand, shoulders straight against the back. Pieces of forgotten lingerie from my conquests mix into the laundry. My house is filled with flowers and throw pillows from the women who come here longing for what I and I alone can provide. And I gaze upon that beautiful girl across the street one door down and feel the power in my hands and hips and beautiful skin and arms, knowing I could now satisfy her every desire, and she would be lucky for it. The months have been a blur as usual, but now I am a superior specimen, and the mirror with all her lovely secrets shows me a man worth pride and glory. And my special girl across the street one door down cannot say no to a man of my caliber whence I hath given my soul to Satan in exchange for this face and this figure.

But Father Satan hath smiled upon me and allowed mine own autonomy and consciousness, graceful as he is - and I feel his wrath course in my veins along with pure testosterone.

I turn on the TV. Her light went out and I can’t see anything anymore. “Fight Club” is on. There’s some static, but it’s still good quality… Brad Pitt, at his finest- I could compete with that now. Excellent cinematography. My face remains unchanging in the electric glow which is the only illumination in the dark of the house. My fit body remains rigid in the chair. I watch lifelessly at these silly TV men, all silliness. I leave the TV on. The clock ticks as I mindlessly and motionlessly watch this glowing square in front of me.

Sam at work told me I’ve gotten mean. What could he possibly mean from that? I hate the chattering of that pathetic man.

I need to swing by the grocery store tomorrow… I’m out of lettuce.

“On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.”

I blink and focus back at the TV. That line- it reminds me of… “survival of the fittest” or something. I would survive then, wouldn’t I? But imagine everyone dying - all that blood wasted, all those beautiful girls no longer warm… the girl across the street one door down would be honored to die in mine arms. Thou possesses the beauty of a thousand women, and is but a girl. Lend me your blood, O princess. Lend me your blood.

I now hear laughter from a foreign entity in the shadows of my house of horrors, commanding me to take what is mine from that house across the street one door down. I am but a vessel now- a beautiful, manly vessel- and I feel the lust pumping in my engorged muscles. Silhouettes in windows have become boring, and I now require more from this girl, who would be privileged to feel any of my perfect body’s warmth.

I am to ignore all signs of fear. I am to obey all commands. I am to succumb to my primal bloodlust and desire. I am no man, only animal. I am a beast no more. I am a God.

“Dance for me.”

“Come here.”

“Sit on my lap.”

I am not perverted, no… I am youthful and beautiful, like her, now. Months blur into years and my body slowly declines in beauty but I remain a sight to behold. And with the daily echo of closing iron bars I see her outline in my lifeless eyes but feel no remorse. For what is a man without impulse, without drive, without muse- he is meaningless. And we are the ones women should worship, those disobedient fleabags- woman is not woman without man. She should worship me and all my glory, and know her place in this world. For I am not a madman- no- I am a visionary, a God, an apprentice of divine powers. Do not pity this prisoner, do not claim to see my evil or wrongdoing. I am not selfish, nor cruel. I am a better man of the better sex.

O Satan, with all your wrath and power,

Why do you compel our sons to crime and craziness?

Art thou like them, trapped in the prison of thine mind,

Just as heartless and selfish as them?

Our daughters are the angels of this earth,

With the true Atlas being women-

Yet a sexual violence epidemic continues,

And thou hath no regard for our bodies and autonomy.

So listen with an eager ear to what we have to say,

And sheath thou sword of insolence and close-mindedness,

And make women the heiresses of this world.