Kuklos
an excerpt

I killed God.

I am sitting here, in this empty room, on this broken chair. There are tears running down my face. I only know it because they are dripping from my chin and making dark damp splashes on my khaki trousers.

I do not cry for who I have killed.

I cry for what I have done.

I can hear the sounds of fighting outside the door. The Demons, my Demons, are probably getting slaughtered. That is what God’s Warriors are good at. I should know. I was one of them.

I am hiding, and I am ashamed to admit my cowardice. I killed God, and now I cannot face the world. I let Lubomir be killed, and for that, I deserve no mercy.

My journey here was a long one. Not physically. I have lived here, in God’s Palace, for the past two years. To do this was a matter of walking down the hall. Physically.

When God’s Warriors find me, as they will when they have killed the Demons, they will show me no mercy. I think, in a way, I am glad of it. Though I have no idea who their leader will be, now that God is dead. Perhaps they will elect a leader of their own and continue to fool the people. God has done enough of that.

My journey here, emotionally, mentally, has caused me more pain than I will ever be able to describe. While I know it was necessary, the losses that I have suffered are unbearable. Death will come as a blessing to me, death will be the lifting of a burden off my shoulders.

I feel as though I should pray. But to whom am I to pray when God is dead? That thought is enough to make me laugh, but I clap my hand over my mouth so that God’s Warriors do not hear me. Even now, I am still afraid of death.

Privately, we called ourselves Angels. Sometimes, God did too.

The room is dark and it is cold. I can see my breath misting out in front of me. I am wearing the uniform of one of God’s Warriors; khaki trousers and a white shirt. There is a gold star over my heart. This uniform is many things, but it is not warm.

There is blood on my white shirt. We were told, in school, that God’s Warriors do not bleed. I run my hand up under my shirt to find the wound. When I withdraw my hand, it is sticky with blood. Another lie, though I had known that one false for a very long time. The idea that God’s Warriors could not bleed was just to make the people afraid of them. Afraid of us.

God will kill the disloyal in his midst, the saying goes, but His Warriors will kill the disbelievers.

I feel numb, which I suppose is normal in situations like this. I feel almost like I can hear voices in my mind, like I can hear his voice. Alternately, he condemns me and tells me that I did what I had to, that I did what was right. I don’t know how I can hear them with the sounds of battle and death right outside the door.

There is an old children’s song that I am reminded of. Even now, I can see it is almost prophetic:

Come here, little child
Stay close, don’t stray far
Don’t go wandering into the wild
Demons lie there, foul beasts abound

Come here, little child
Obey your parents and your God
Let them be your torch and guide
Away from beasts inside and out

Come here, little child
Cover your eyes from the bad
When blood is spilled, God’s place defiled
All will end, all will end

Blood has been spilled here. I spilled the blood. I opened God’s throat. I held his shoulders and watched the light fade from his eyes. Then I let him fall, let the rich white carpet under our feet be stained a rich, dark red. I stood there and watched as the two pools of blood spread and touched. Then I had to leave. I couldn’t stand to see the two of them touching, not even in death. Especially not in the case of his death.

This day will haunt me, but not because I have killed God. It will haunt me for everything else.

God’s Warriors are good at killing. I can hear the screams. I know they are being efficient. That is how I trained them.

The men I trained are killing the men I led. Even now, at the time of my own death, or at least as that time approaches, I can appreciate irony.

I allow myself to think about what should have happened. But I do not want to dwell on this. I cannot stay here. I have decided that. It is a sudden decision.

I stand up and my back cracks. It feels good.

I reach for my gun. It is warm and secure in my hand. For so much of my life, I have held a gun. It only seems right that I die with a gun in my hand.

The floor is solid underneath my feet. I had half-expected it to fall away beneath me. My shoes are new, my shoes are always new, and are just a little too tight. They are white, too. There is blood on them, but I don’t know who it belongs to. My shirt is growing redder, stickier, and I press my hand to it. If I wish to die like a man, I need to leave now. I need to leave this room before I bleed to death. That is not, I realize, how I want to die.

I step towards the door and am surprised by how soft my steps are. But you can’t erase years of training, and I was always the best.

The best son.

The best God’s Warrior.

The best leader of the Demons.

The best assassin.

My name is Androkles, and I have killed God.