Nagi watched the single tear slide over velvety smooth skin and tumble downwards. It was outlined perfectly against the floor for a split second before it touched the plush hotel carpeting and was obliterated. It may as well never have existed. Nobody but Nagi would ever know that that single tear had fallen. It would leave no trace.
Nagi reflected quietly that he could do the same. Simply slide gently across the edge of life, fall briefly, an instant of exploding pain, so powerful as to be beautiful and terrible at the same time, then...
What then? Nagi doubted that the bible-toting evangelists were correct in their self-righteous ideas of heaven and hell. It was much too perfect, too clear-cut. God would just separate people into two lines, good on the right and evil one the left. But nobody could ever be purely good. Nobody was perfect, everyone agreed. So there was some delicate balance, apparently. Perhaps your good deeds and bad deeds were weighed against each other, and if the ratio was sufficient, you were admitted to heaven. It wouldn't be, then, an issue of being "good", but one of being "good enough". Was all of life, then, all of your deeds, simply a running tally? Help an old lady across the street and gain two points. Under tip the waiter, lose a point. Everything you had ever done reduced to a numerical value. The prospect was not a very attractive one...
Nagi was much more attracted to the Buddhist ideals of karma and reincarnation. Those were more satisfying. If you fucked up one life, you could try again in the next, and so on until you finally managed to get it right. It was a pleasant idea, indeed. There could be no failure, simply trial after trial with no retribution until...
Until what? What should happen if you finally did get it right? Finally lived a perfect life? What then? Was it all over? Did you go to paradise, where you spent the rest of eternity drinking fine wine and getting pleasantly drunk without all the unpleasant after-effects? That became a little too perfect...
The boy stared into a mirror hung on the wall. Another tear fell slowly down his porcelain skin. Too perfect, indeed. And what made him believe that he could ever deserve such perfection? It was a nice thought, but impossible. It was much more likely that after life, there was simply death. It would be like sleeping and never waking, never dreaming. It would be nothing. And nothing was beginning to seem more attractive with every tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Nagi surveyed the room. It was a classic hotel room, though perhaps a bit more expensive than most. The wood floors were highly polished and dotted with thick plush rugs to warm pampered feet. The overstuffed chairs were large enough to sink into and lose an afternoon with a good book. The bathroom fixtures gleamed in the tastefully soft lighting. There were a few generic hotel-type paintings arranged carefully on the walls. A fire danced invitingly on the other side of the room. Numbly, Nagi crossed the floor, his feet making hardly a sound on the thick carpets. He sat down gently on the edge of a mahogany chair and stared into the flames.
It was a fake gas fire. The flames did not flicker merrily. They roared from the opening in the pipe, lapping around plastic logs they would never char. Nagi was hypnotized by the blaze. He leaned closer to the flames, only backing away when he smelled the acrid odor of burning hair. His eyes began to water uncontrollably. He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over in his haste. He glanced wildly about the suite. The luxuries that had seemed so indulgent a moment ago now disgusted him. The bedcovers were white. The towels were white. The carpets were white. The clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick, maddeningly slow and regular. The floors gleamed. The ticking grew louder. The fire roared. The ticking intensified until it blocked out all other noise. Then, suddenly, there was blessed silence. Nagi smiled gently before toppling to the floor, his only sensation one of a gentle rocking back and forth.
Is Nagi dead? Is the clock a magically ticking demon? Is this author on crack? Find out in the next riveting chapter!
Nagi reflected quietly that he could do the same. Simply slide gently across the edge of life, fall briefly, an instant of exploding pain, so powerful as to be beautiful and terrible at the same time, then...
What then? Nagi doubted that the bible-toting evangelists were correct in their self-righteous ideas of heaven and hell. It was much too perfect, too clear-cut. God would just separate people into two lines, good on the right and evil one the left. But nobody could ever be purely good. Nobody was perfect, everyone agreed. So there was some delicate balance, apparently. Perhaps your good deeds and bad deeds were weighed against each other, and if the ratio was sufficient, you were admitted to heaven. It wouldn't be, then, an issue of being "good", but one of being "good enough". Was all of life, then, all of your deeds, simply a running tally? Help an old lady across the street and gain two points. Under tip the waiter, lose a point. Everything you had ever done reduced to a numerical value. The prospect was not a very attractive one...
Nagi was much more attracted to the Buddhist ideals of karma and reincarnation. Those were more satisfying. If you fucked up one life, you could try again in the next, and so on until you finally managed to get it right. It was a pleasant idea, indeed. There could be no failure, simply trial after trial with no retribution until...
Until what? What should happen if you finally did get it right? Finally lived a perfect life? What then? Was it all over? Did you go to paradise, where you spent the rest of eternity drinking fine wine and getting pleasantly drunk without all the unpleasant after-effects? That became a little too perfect...
The boy stared into a mirror hung on the wall. Another tear fell slowly down his porcelain skin. Too perfect, indeed. And what made him believe that he could ever deserve such perfection? It was a nice thought, but impossible. It was much more likely that after life, there was simply death. It would be like sleeping and never waking, never dreaming. It would be nothing. And nothing was beginning to seem more attractive with every tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Nagi surveyed the room. It was a classic hotel room, though perhaps a bit more expensive than most. The wood floors were highly polished and dotted with thick plush rugs to warm pampered feet. The overstuffed chairs were large enough to sink into and lose an afternoon with a good book. The bathroom fixtures gleamed in the tastefully soft lighting. There were a few generic hotel-type paintings arranged carefully on the walls. A fire danced invitingly on the other side of the room. Numbly, Nagi crossed the floor, his feet making hardly a sound on the thick carpets. He sat down gently on the edge of a mahogany chair and stared into the flames.
It was a fake gas fire. The flames did not flicker merrily. They roared from the opening in the pipe, lapping around plastic logs they would never char. Nagi was hypnotized by the blaze. He leaned closer to the flames, only backing away when he smelled the acrid odor of burning hair. His eyes began to water uncontrollably. He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over in his haste. He glanced wildly about the suite. The luxuries that had seemed so indulgent a moment ago now disgusted him. The bedcovers were white. The towels were white. The carpets were white. The clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick, maddeningly slow and regular. The floors gleamed. The ticking grew louder. The fire roared. The ticking intensified until it blocked out all other noise. Then, suddenly, there was blessed silence. Nagi smiled gently before toppling to the floor, his only sensation one of a gentle rocking back and forth.
Is Nagi dead? Is the clock a magically ticking demon? Is this author on crack? Find out in the next riveting chapter!