Bitter, but Devoted

               The end is never as exciting as the beginning.

               In the beginning, there is hope, joy, life, and potential. But potential for what? To become rich and famous? To cure cancer? To lead a happy life? To live happily ever after in a fairytale that ends with the words “The End” centered at the end of the page?

               Don’t make me laugh.

               That’s what Lyons would say anyway. Lyons, you see, led a life with parents that divorced when he was five. Both beat the living tar out of him most days. “It’s not your fault,” they told him. But they were talking about the divorce. Not the fact his mother was batshit crazy and his father’s most meaningful accomplishment was being a smartass in military high school.

               So, when Lyons told me that our God, Filarrah, asked him during a dream to use his magic to erect a thirty-foot metal statue dedicated to Him, his response was to complain. “Remember when Samantha fabricated a reason to break up with me and then ghosted me?” he asked me at happy hour. He chugged half of his beer, then slammed his tankard on the wooden bar. He didn’t tolerate BS. “It’s a horrible thing to ghost someone after one date. It’s just being flat out cruel to vanish from an entire relationship. Filarrah’s request is nuts too!”

               I knew where he was going with this story. The top five percent of men get more than ninety percent of the women, so what does that leave the rest of us? His crazy mother and his crazy girlfriends.

               “It sounds like you have some anger you don’t know what to do with. I don’t blame you, given that your past is filled with people who don’t know how to treat you.” I paused and sipped my own drink. “How these people treat you doesn’t matter,” I offered. “It’s how you respond that makes the difference.”

               Lyons nodded and chugged the rest of his beer. The bartender, Ylisa, a beautiful young blonde woman, that happened to be our age, smiled at him and asked him if he wanted another. “No, please. I appreciate your taking care of me. Thank you.” It made me smile. Lyons had a lot of bark and bite, but was smart enough to retain his manners and not take his anger out on people he didn’t know. Sometimes, he just needed to vent. And I was the ear that helped him break past his anger. “I wonder what He hopes will happen….”

               See? A quick does of active listening and validation was all Lyons needed. Filarrah has a famous quote, “Anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

               It’s sad that Lyons’s parents (and his dates) didn’t have much spiritual guidance while they were taking their anger out on him. It’s no surprise he’s bitter himself, after spending a lifetime as people’s emotional dumpster. I knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t the type to hurt a fly.

               Unless the fly bit him.

               “It’s a difficult request.” I wasn’t just validating him, though, because I knew it was a fact. “You would need to find a way to combine fire and earth to get it done.”

               Lyons extended his hand, a ball of fire glowing above his palm. “One of those is a check.”

               “Hey, put that out!” We turned and saw Ylisa hurrying over with a pitcher of water. He extinguished the fire before she dumped it on his hand. She stared at him with firm, shocked blue eyes.

               “Sorry,” he said grinning. “My mother always told me I was hot stuff.”

               She laughed, the put her hand on her hip. “Watch it next time, buster.” She smiled and winked at him, then returned to the other patrons, keeping a watch on him from the corner of her eye.

               “So, what’s your plan?” I asked.

               “Go home and pray for a damn solution.” He reached into his pocket and left a gold coin on the counter to tip Ylisa. It was a hefty tip, but Lyons would say she deserved it for spending her day dealing with people. He stood up, waved goodbye to her, and led me out of the bar.

               The streets of Hellena City were aglow with orange-red hues shining from the sky. Lyons took four steps down onto the sidewalk, closed his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath. His power was at its strongest this time of year. The sky changed color according to the season, and the summertime illuminated the planet in orange tints, when fire was dominant. The sky was blue in winter for water, green in spring for earth, and yellow in autumn for wind. Darker colors meant the season was peaking.

               Lyons opened his eyes and made lampposts around him burst with fire. The passersby jumped and shot him irritated glances. He smiled at them and walked over to me. “I hope Filarrah recognizes what I will do for Him.”

               I snickered. That meant he needed to feel seen. “He will be thankful that you’ve done something so many people can appreciate.”

               Lyons kept his promise. He went home and prayed. He prayed several hours into the night. Hearing him tell me this made me wonder something: why those who’ve been hurt the most look for the most meaning in their lives? Lyons was never satisfied. The hurt of his past was too much for him, so most tasks filled him with emptiness. He didn’t know where to draw meaning from his day-to-day tasks, his hobbies, or his personality. He often wondered what it all led to, what it meant, what it was for, and why. So, he prayed a lot.

               I bumped into him the next morning and he was bright as ever. He boasted about his prayers and said Filarrah visited him in another dream. He explained that Filarrah gave him instructions on where to find ores suitable for His image. He also said that he explored the caverns outside Hellena City to find them. He’d just returned minutes ago. “But that’s not all,” he said. “Filarrah advised me to show care with my power, given the timing of the season. I’ve already assembled teams to help with the pulley systems and to help mine the material. I am going to smelt them into one piece.” He held fireballs in his hands again, a big grin on his face. “It’s exciting people will see this. I am planning to carve my initials into the stone block on which we erect the statue.”

               I smiled. “It’s nice to see you focusing on something that’s bringing you purpose.”

               His face beamed with radiance. He couldn’t hide his excitement if you buried him under blankets. “I agree. It will be a good distraction from the troubles of existing. But,” he paused, “He also told me that my reward will be brighter and more divine than the statue ever could be!”

               Lyons hurried off and started his work. A metal block was sitting atop a large stone pedestal by the week’s end. And he’d sculpted the beginnings of a head and face the week after that.

               He had much work ahead of him. Lyons heated the metal with his hands until it was glowing bright red, then used artist’s tools to chip away the excess. He cleared a perimeter around him so none of the passersby would be harmed by falling molten metal shards.

               Ylisa passed by during the fifth week. Lyons progressed passed the shoulders and was sculpting the statue’s right arm. She waved at him when he stopped for a short rest. He was sitting on scaffolding made from a stone block that was attached to a pulley system. He lowered himself down. “Good evening, Lyons,” she said. Her element was fire too, so her face had an extra shine under the red sky. “I haven’t seen you at the Handle Bar lately. Is this what you’ve been working on?”

               “It’s a new project from Filarrah,” he said. “He asked me to sculpt Him a statue for all in Hellena to remember Him.”

               She nodded. “I was starting to think you skipped town.” She grinned at him in that moment. “It’d be nice to see you stop by again, hot stuff.”

               Lyons was nothing, if not astute and quick. “How about I buy you dinner tonight?”

               Now she had gone red. “Yeah, I’d like that. Meet me on the corner in two hours and we can decide where to go after that.”

               “That would be great. I hope you like spice.” He winked at her.

               “I wouldn’t settle for anything else,” she said. She waved goodbye and walked away, shaking her derriere for him as she went home.

               Lyons gazed into the distance for several seconds, captivated by the thought of having a date with Ylisa the bartender. She was beautiful, she was funny, but she was kind too. Perhaps he was starting to see the brighter side of things I oft shared with him.

               He used the pulleys to propel his makeshift scaffold upwards. The next hour passed by fast for him, but he was able to complete the arm and most of the hand. All he needed to do was finish the fingers and he’d be able to move onto the next arm.

               But he noticed unevenness in the molding of the tricep. He thought for a moment, deciding it was best to clean it up now, so he had the ideal image to copy when he progressed to the opposite arm. He lay down under the armpit and started heating. He still had an hour, so he reasoned that he’d have less time to clean up and shave.

               The circumference of the arm around the bicep and tricep glowed orange. The sun was shining, and would for a couple of hours more, and he noticed the extra heat weakening the support in the arm. Lyons cursed. He turned the fire in his hands off, obeying the reminder of his God, and blew on the statue with large, cooling breaths. He twisted around to blow on the bicep, but he slipped and was forced to grab onto the statue’s arm.

               It broke off and fell.

               Lyons went with it, trapped below it, and met his death when he was smashed between the stone scaffold and the several-hundred-pound metal arm. He lay sandwiched between the two until Ylisa found him an hour later, crushed from his waist up.

               His last thoughts, I would guess, were regrets that he did not express his anger enough at the people who hurt him most. The only finger on the statue that Lyons completed was the middle one, standing erect for all the passersby to gawk at. They spat curses at the dead artist on the ground, calling his work “filthy” and “offensive.” Ylisa was there with me, but neither of us defended him in front of the belligerent crowd. Filarrah, it seems, was out to hurt Lyons too.

               Because that’s how things go in the end.