Repentance

Timur wrestled the old bike out from the pile of junk in the shed. His old car stopped running yesterday and none of his efforts last night managed to get it going. Now stranded, the car made getting the bike out all the harder. He gritted his teeth and applied more force against the other junk conspiring to thwart his efforts. He hadn’t counted on this, so now he was running late for his doctor's appointment this morning.

He pumped the pedals as hard as he could with his untrained legs and broke into a sweat despite the cool autumn air. He topped the last rise and began to coast with ever greater speed down the hill. The bike picked up significant speed when a flash of brown mottled fur appeared from the woods. There was no time to react before the beast slammed into his side deflecting his momentum directly into the massive trunk of an old beech tree.

_

He opened his groggy eyes to look out onto a stark, almost painfully white ceiling. His eyes caught a small flaw: a hairline crack ending in a dark dot. He was familiar with this, but did not know how. A gentle medley of beeping drew his curiosity to one side but he could not turn his head and neither would his eyes respond. A face with a medial mask leaned over and shone a strong light into his eyes which hurt. A hushed conversation with a familiar voice ensued.

“Is there any improvement doctor?” a familiar female asked. There was no concern in that voice, just exhaustion.

Timur could see the pensive expression in the eyes hanging over him. Through the mask, the doctor said, “His pupils seem a little less sluggish today. The scans still show dangerous swelling around the brain, but it's only been two weeks, so…” the man’s voice paused for a few seconds and his face moved out of view. “Perhaps we can continue the discussion in my office.”

He heard a pair of feet recede, a quiet swish of an automatic door, then silence. Timur let his eyelids slide shut. It was the only part of his body he could control, otherwise he was without sensation, floating in a warm tank of oblivion. The only act that reminded him he was still alive was the painfully white ceiling with the dot.

_

His vision blurred, and the field narrowed as if looking through a tube, but an anger and power coursed through him like fire. A boy stood facing away, hands aloft, leaning against a pale green wall (I know that colour!). He could see the acute fear and pain surrounded the boy like a noxious cloud, then a folded belt snaps down on the bare thighs. Three crisscrossing welts of angry red flesh were already raised against the smooth skin. He was adding a fourth now with extra enthusiasm.

He was flooded with sharp emotions of power and conformity. He had to exorcise every gram of free will from this rebellious soul. Completely. If even a minute fragment of this wicked root is left behind, the weeds will return twofold.

The belt slapped the bare skin again with a satisfying crack. The boy trembled, eye clenched shut with the effort to hold back the pain.

A tear fell to the floor in slow motion, Timur could see it in exquisite detail. It glowed with a glistening light. He could feel the sting of the injustice it embodied. Fainter, a humm of distressed emotions emanating from the boy. The more he concentrated on it, the clearer the words became:

Stop, stop, please

What have I done?

Please tell me.

The belt came down again, harder still and he was flooded with righteous purpose. A small stone laid in ode to a higher purpose. And again - crack!

_

Timur struggled in the soup of his mind to recall the event. ‘Is this my memory, or a dream?’

A sinking feeling told him that this boy was his son, pleading for respite, and it was his hand gripping the leather. A powerfully hot anguish forced its way through him like lava.

He strained to recall the context. What happened seconds before this? He so desperately wanted to witness an event, anything at all that would justify his retribution. Anything to steal away this crushing guilt.

The scene faded to grey, but a tormenting remorse lingered in its wake. A new stone piled onto his cairn of woe. For two weeks he lay there in a state not really alive and not quite dead. A twilight - in penetrating judgement. He dozed off again...

After meticulous preparation and infinite patience, all his demons had finally come out to celebrate his greatness. His loyal pursuit to inflict suffering. His unflinching dedication to the sham of his own unrecognised greatness. His masterful manipulation of his marionettes.

The horned minions had prepared an excruciating presentation, a ‘best of’ reel of highlights summarising his life's accomplishments, gleefully projected in technicolour for his entertainment. All the pain, the suffering, and snuffed potential. The sum of his achievements, meticulously collected to behold.

_

“I thought I may get a part time job” the woman in front of him said. The face familiar, yet he could not exactly place it.

The scene shimmered, making it hard to focus on the details of her features. What he could clearly sense was the escalating disquiet, it hovered like solid mass above her, ready to crush her on his command. All of this transpired within a bubble of dutiful dedication. The emotion was too abstract for him to fully understand. Her very soul was projecting this image for him to behold. He wondered if it was to mock him. Under it all, was his own rising irritability, rising like a wave of poisonous liquid about to crash over him.

“What's given you this damn idea? Your place is here looking after them” he retorted.

Momentarily the scene panned over two boys obediently standing at attention dressed in brand new school uniforms. Their souls longed for peace and harmony. He could see the simple emotion on their faces as if it were written on a huge poster in bold red letters.

“Do you not have enough? Do I not provide enough? What more do you want?” he continued. Challenging her.

These were not questions, and he knew it. They were contrivances to crush her self-esteem. The ferocious ugliness of her wilting spirit was on center stage. A ghastly display dug up for him to behold in all its ghastly detail. 

He, reeled at the poisonous effect it had on her.

As the defeat in her quickened, his pride and satisfaction swelled.

The shame of it tore at his soul, and he knew this shame would linger long after the show ended.

_

STOP IT, he demanded. Crying like a child. Tears rolling down his cheeks.

The giggling gaggle of fiends began to dance around him prodding and poking his naked flanks with their sharpened sticks. Each wound burnt as if the points were dipped in acid. Reverberating like a concert hall, their voices combined to recite an evil little gingle:

In a land of make-believe, sinners we chase,

With giggles and grins, we put them in their place.

Egos big, we shrink them small,

In our little world, we're the rulers of all.

STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT,... he cried at the top of his lungs till his throat hurt. Then to his horror he found he could not stop saying it, STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT, … and all the while his fan club skipped gaily around him repeating their song.

_

He was seated at his workbench, soldering iron in hand and tweezers in the other, delicately attaching a component to the green circuit board. But just as he was about to touch the hot tip to the solder, a hairy hand with jagged long fingernails stabbed him painfully in the elbow making him drop the tiny part. He fished for it again and as before, dropping it again after another jab, and over and over it repeated.

Timur’s irritation boiled dangerously near the edge. He glanced around him a moment and the two men stood behind him trying to be discreet. They had brought him their TV set to fix, and much to their sudden amusement, he couldn't do it.

Poke. Poke. Over and over again.

Timur exploded in annoyance. He wanted to target this horrible gremlin, but instead aimed it at the two shocked men.

“Will you stop bumping me! I am trying to fix this pile of shit TV for you and all you can do is,… laugh about it”.

The men looked unsure at this false accusation. Their sullenness irked him. From nowhere, a desire to taunt them into belligerence exploded.

“I don't know what gave you the idea that a pile of shit TV like this could be repaired. Look at it. A bunch of baboons could have built a better TV. I will charge you double if you don't stop laughing.”

One of the two began to resent the attack. Timur could see the red halo of anger begin to rise around him. He could hear their thoughts which irritated him yet more. They hissed in his ear:

‘Miro was right, this guy is a arsehole’

‘He thinks we need him. He thinks he’s the only guy who can fix a TV.’

‘And we haven't touched him once. What's this about disturbing him? This guy is insane.’

‘I told you it was a bad idea to come here.’

Every retort stung him like an angry hornet. Timur’s hands trembled with contained rage. Poisoned thoughts swirled in ever tighter circles, with ever greater intensity, with growing venom from the two men behind him. It all threatened to swamp him completely.

Timur was horrified with himself. He’d arrived in this country a penniless migrant with no papers. His prior achievements, invisible in this new world. It had taken him years to cultivate a new side hussle of fixing TVs and stereos at night in his basement. He felt indispensable, needed, in demand. It filled the empty hole of purpose in his life. He worked day and night to make sure his family would prosper and only expected a bit of respect in return. And even this turned out to be too much to ask for.

Something had gone wrong somewhere. He could see how mistaken he had been, but still he could not figure out why. Those he selflessly helped didn’t really respect him, they laughed and mocked him, disparaging his dignity, trampling his pride and mocking his ego.

His workshop and his clients faded, and his dark minions returned with a new song to taunt him:

In a world of make-believe, he wore a shiny crown,

Thought he ruled the kingdom, he never saw us frown.

But in whispers and giggles, we all had our say,

He danced to his ego, while we laughed all day.

***

He opened his eyes to the same stark white ceiling. Again the pain of the intense light. But it was nothing next to the torment when he closed them.

“Go on, say hello to your father” the woman’s voice said.

“But he's a vegetable. He can't hear us.” the young boy replied sardonically.

“Are you so sure, look at his eyes?” the woman rejoined.

“They look like the eyes of a dead person”, was the answer.

Timur tried with all his might to move his eyes and prove them wrong. His eyes didn't move but his thumb did. Ever so slightly, but enough to notice.

“Look, there is someone in there”, she pointed to Timur’s thumb as it made a slight movement. Some guarded excitement entered the edge of her voice.

“Go on, grab it” the older brother dared the younger in jest.

“No way, you first”, the younger retorted, with cheeky smiles touching the corners of their mouths at this new game.

“This is your father here. Show some respect.” She said in an unpracticed stern voice. They didn't take her seriously and began some new amusement by pinching one another. Completely ignoring their fathers desperate attempts to show a sign of life.

Timur’s wife took his hand but there was little warmth, or respect in the gesture.

_

Timur could not keep his eyes open anymore and his visitors slowly receded back into the grey haze. In the fog he saw a gurney with numerous aged machines with tubes and wires attached to his body. A few doctors were speaking with his wife. She was signing some forms. A glow around them was turning from a mauve to a cold grey blue. Was it her love for him?, or his grip on this world? He could not tell, but whatever it was, it was dying.

To one side two boys stood in immaculate school uniforms hitting one another in the arm and reciting some silly ditty. From the texture of their emotions, it was clear he was no longer part of their lives. They had gone from ambivalence, skipped over concern and remorse, made a short detour past mourning, and came out the other side unscathed. ‘And I'm not even dead yet’, but he was certain that he was already dead to them.

At this point his evil gnomes were back with another song:

In echoes of silence, he's left behind,

Forsaken by family, a world unkind.

Alone he walks, where love once gleamed,

Lost in a world where he once dreamed.

The sticks were out again to poke him with their stinging points. He yelped with pain and swung at them as best he could. This greatly amused his antagonists. With each counter their numbers multiplied, and their weapons became more vicious, now with jagged barbs that tore little pieces of flesh away each time they jerked them free. The pain was excruciating.

Timur was at wits end when he threw his hands up and pleaded to whatever deity controlled his nightmare.

“What do you want from me? If I am doomed, then take me away and doom me.”

A booming voice broke the moment “WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU ARE DOOMED?”

The dancing demons scuttled away.

“Well what else would you call this endless torment?” he demanded.

“HA, ENDLESS. YOU HAVE NO CONCEPTION OF WHAT ENDLESS MEANS TIMUR.

WE ARE JUST WARMING UP. MY FINE MINIONS HERE,…”

He pointed to the neat row of small scruffy goblins all standing at attention, weapons in hand.

“...WHO WILL REPLAY EVERY TIME YOU MANIPULATED OR EMOTIONALLY ABUSED SOMEONE. THEY WILL REPLAY IT FOR YOU IN EXQUISITE DETAIL. WE WILL REVIEW ALL THE PAIN AND SUFFERING YOU HAVE CAUSED.”

“I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I WANT TO CRUSH EVERY SINGLE POSITIVE MEMORY LEFT OF YOU IN THIS WORLD, SO I WILL KEEP YOU HERE AND FEED OFF YOUR DELICIOUS SUFFERING UNTILL YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY IS EMOTIONALLY EXHAUSTED AND FINANCIALLY DESTROYED!”

“ONLY THEN WILL WE RELEASE YOU FROM YOUR ‘PRISON OF THE MIND’, THEN YOU BE READY TO ACCEPT MY INVITATION IN HELL!” a deep throaty laugh of evil satisfaction followed. Once it died down,

“I HAVE PREPARED SOMETHING VERY SPECIAL JUST FOR YOU DOWN THERE.” the last was said with wide eyed macabre relish, jabbing downwards with his bony finger which ending in a long sharp claw,.

***

Timur’s eyes snapped open from this nightmare. The ceiling was still there but something was not right, The crack and the dot were gone; and it was quiet. Deathly silent in fact.

“Am I dead?”

“OH NO, NO SO FAST”, came the familiar evil voice.

He sunk into the familiar grey haze again. A vast multitude of tiny fiends ran around with their sharp weapons. Multiple screens hung, all replaying various despicable episodes from his life. ‘The 24h sports bar version of judgement’ he ruefully thought to himself.

Thousands of pokers snagged and jagged at his nakedness, burning and stinging welts and wounds covered his body. Another bunch had grown wings and hovered over him sprinkling salt, while yet others gleefully squirted him with vinegar. The pain covered his body and kept changing and intesifying. He looked down and found a mischievous pair pressing a heated poker under his toenail. He stamped at them but they just giggled and now four of them attacked his toe again. Every time he swatted at them, they multiplied in number.

The screens replayed all his flaws replete in agonising detail. Each victim's suffering embodied in exquisite painful detail, over and over again.

Timur stood on a pedestal surrounded by an angry multitude of tiny winged beasts scratching and stabbing. His hands now raised in religious submission, eyes pleadingly cast upwards, aimed at an invisible saviour, a repentant calmness in his eyes.

He fancied himself a modern Jesus without the cross. Inviting retribution for the world's sins. In that instant, the demons began a new song and a new attack:

In the kingdom of pride, his ego touched the sky,

With hubris like giants, he dared God to defy.

Biblical in scope, his fall was bound to come,

In his towering pride, he met a fate he couldn't outrun.