Page 72 of Things Get Dark

Silence.

“I’m just not sure why I’m here, what I’m doing. I can’t tell you if there’s any meaning to my life or to life in general. It just all seems so empty sometimes.”

“Why would that stop you from deserving love?”

“I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”

“Oh, honey.” My own hand feels soft against my cheek, my words so unusual to my ears. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve love. You don’t have to achieve anything or accomplish something specific. You just wake up each morning, and there’s the love. You go about your life, your ordinary life, and there’s the love. You pay council tax, do laundry, hang out with friends, struggle with work colleagues, read a book, watch crap TV, and there’s the love.”

“It just doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Many people feel that way. Our world has done a number on us. But that’s why it’s up to us to act as beacons of what radical self-love can look like. That’s why I love you.”

“I…” But the words don’t come.

“You said it when you thought I was someone else.”

My companion reaches across and begins carving meat off the rabbit. The repulsion that captured me before seems to have fled. My stomach is unsettled for another reason.

“I understand,” he says, but his voice has changed again. I look over. Gabriel sits next to me. “Other-love is always easier than self-love. We don’t spend enough time with others to see their hidden faults. But think of it this way: I wouldn’t be sitting here right now without you. I don’t exist without you. You are fundamental to my existence. So if I’m worthy of love, it’s only because you’re capable of love. And beings capable of love are always worthy of love in return.”

Chapter Five

Gabriel leads me toa pile of bricks piled high in a wide expanse of land. Wind rustles through the leaves of the nearby trees, gently mixing with the soft birdsong that dances on the breeze. Anxiety feels light years away, and I feel at peace for the first time in… years? Ever?

“What’s this?” I ask.

“The pursuit of meaning.” He wanders up to the bricks. “Everything you’ve seen and yet you’ve no way to qualify it. Few people ever have. Those who did never felt the need to do anything about it, and so their insight passed unnoticed.” He taps a brick. “People construct what they can’t understand, put the ineffable into images, the ungraspable into objective reality that poorly replicates what they’re aiming at.”

At this, a line of men emerge from behind the bricks, each taking one and walking off. The men keep coming, dozens at first, then hundreds, then thousands, each taking a brick and laying it down in formation. Within seconds, they have a base; within a minute, walls stand tall. Before I have time to take in what’s happened, a church has been constructed; grand,sweeping spires reach towards the heaven I’d so nearly reached a lifetime ago when staring into Gabriel’s eyes.

“Man has always sought to codify his relationship with reality,” says Gabriel, walking up to the building. Strangely, there are no windows. Just towering walls and steeples so high they look like they may drift apart at any moment and tumble to the ground. “But reality is beyond explanation, at least not with words and certainly not with scripture. Art, however. Art has a way.”

A tremble in my stomach sets me at unease. “Why?” I ask.

“Our minds are mysterious. We prefer impressions and emotions to logic and reason, even if we pretend the opposite is true. We use logic and reason to justify impressions we’ve already made, even if those impressions are false. Art connects us emotionally. Why do you think churches have stained-glass windows?” He points behind me, and I turn to see huge panels of glass lying on the ground.

“I’m to create?” I ask.

“If you want.”

“I’m not sure I know what to do.”

“What would you want people to know? People come to church, to places of worship, to connect with a sense of the divine; to feel like their lives have meaning. What would you show people to convince them their lives have meaning?”

The glass is smooth beneath my fingers as I run a hand along it. Verdant grass is pressed flat underneath. To the side is a wooden table covered in pots of paint and a series of brushes of varying thicknesses and angles.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t how stained glass works,” I say.

“I’m pretty sure you’re overthinking it.” Gabriel smiles at me, and my heart flutters. “Now paint.”

Never one to ignore an instruction from a pretty boy, I pour some paint onto a wooden palette, pick up a couple brushes,then step onto the glass. It feels cool beneath my feet, and the nerves at the ends of my toes sing with pleasure.

But nothing comes. I stand, looking at the expanse of glass beneath me. Images come into my head, of the endless pursuit of space, of creatures of the deep, of beachscapes and birds, burning flesh and a bearded man on a cloud. But everything feels forced. Nothing feels adequate.

I’m not sure how long ago Gabriel disappeared. At some point, I sat down, paints to the side, and now I rest my head in my hand, pondering. My head is full, pulsating with thoughts and ideas that ricochet against each other. Noise fills my head. Exhausted, I fall onto my back. Sunshine pours down onto me, and I close my eyes, feeling the heat above and the cool glass below. Gentle wind teases my bare skin like a lover on a rainy Sunday morning. Birds chirp in the distant, singing sweet songs of the day. The taste of salt awakens on my lips as lavender flowers gift me their sweet, earthy scent. I become aware of being perfectly at peace, melting into the moment and finding myself eternal within it, stretching on forever. Endless movement grows still, held firm within the present moment. That which is now.

Dazzling white light sears brightly, lasting long enough to rip my heart open but not long enough to rupture my eyes forever. Triumphant blasts of the music of angels rings out, liberating life itself. Out of the radiant white light pours the most exquisite red I’ve ever seen, pulsating circles of scarlet that give way to emergent rings of orange. Bursts of colour to send the heart soaring. Yellows cascade out of orange, green cascades out of yellow. Greens dance to blues, pulsating colours flowing forthlike life itself. Indigos stream out of blues, their majesty and grandeur making way for violets. Waves of colour radiate into infinity, birthing every possibility.

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