The Last Prophet
I am dead.
My execution is tomorrow and I know what to expect. My hands will be tied and I will be hooked to a wagon, where I will be dragged on my belly in front of thousands of jeering people. Some were once my friends. Then, after my body has been broken, they will torture me to death. And there will be cameras everywhere and newscasters around me will cluck and cluck and wonder how something terrible like this could have happened. How could such a promising boy become so much trouble?
How indeed.
The noise is getting louder outside of my cell and they are yelling, "Kill him, kill him!" They call me a liar, a devil, the antichrist. They say that I am evil and God will condemn me to hell forever and I will never be able to escape. But I am not afraid. I only told the truth.
They didn't understand.
The policemen are laughing with each other. They are watching TV, imagining their faces plastered on the screen. They will be there soon enough, giving interviews to reporters. I know what they will say. They will say that I was one unrecognizable face among many and then they will describe at length how they captured me. How I struggled to be free, and yet they managed to beat me down anyway. I will be a coward.
I do not mind. It is not my face that matters. It is my actions. I drum my fingers on my chair, watching the men laugh. They are happy. One is standing on a chair, giving off an imaginary toast of champagne. Still others are reciting their scripts to imaginary, understanding, reporters. Only one of them is quiet. He is staring at me with hollow eyes. I recognize him. He is the one who found my body.
I gave it to him.
When he sees me look at him, he nods his head wordlessly, his lips growing tight. He is young, but dark shadows curl round his face and he looks old, older than ever. But as I watch him, a blush darkens his cheeks and he lowers his eyes to the floor, ashamed.
I lean closer to him. "Come to me," I whisper.
He shakes his head.
The noises outside grow. A lynch mob is starting, and the policemen wake from their reverie, frightened. Their bodies stiffen as they look at their security cameras, watching the mob of people grow and grow, lighting torches and screaming for justice. The policemen turn to each other slowly before finally turning towards me.
They talk.
Their voices and hands tremble and their words tumble out endlessly, but I know what they want. They want to bring me out and force me to go to a different cell, where they think I will be much safer. Where they will be much safer. They ask me what I think.
What can I say?
I tell them that I do not care for my safety very much, otherwise, why would I be here? But before I can finish, they kick me in the stomach. I fall, winded, and try to stand up. But they only crunch their fat boots on my hands and twist the tread on my fingers.
I scream.
I cannot help it. It is funny how much the pain hurts. The torture never ends -- I know that now. This thought makes me laugh, even as tears stream down my face. It will just continue on and on and...
The policemen kick me out of the cell. They want me to walk. I tell them I can't. But they only kick me again and tell me that, if I do not walk, I will die. And death is bad. I try to agree with them, telling them how much I ache and how I wish I could just stop, but they only kick me again.
They do not understand.
The noise comes closer and a window is broken. The mob is outside, their shouts louder than ever. They are talking about justice. They want justice. They want peace.
The policemen stop at these words. The mob sounds close, closer than ever, and a chant breaks out among them. They are calling the policemen sinners, servants of the devil, Satanists. All because of me.
I turn and look at the policemen. Their faces are white, but they do not react to the words. They know that I am dead and they do not care what anyone else believes. As long as they are safe.
Only one policeman stops completely. His face is white and pinched, his eyes wider than they should be. He glances at me and then back at the mob, his expression so torn that I feel sorry for him. The policeman next to him gives him an order, but he doesn't hear. Instead, he staggers up and, before anyone can stop him, he jumps out of the window, into the arms of the mob.
The glass shatters and he is gone, amidst a shower of a thousand glittering prisms. His comrades rush to the broken window and yell and plead for him to come back, but I know it is too late. The mob finds him. They kill him and all we hear are his screams. He has died. He is dead. And yet, his screams seem to echo on and on and the policemen stop, their faces petrified in fear. They are starting to realize the truth, and their hands are shaking. But their boots are stronger and one is thrust into my stomach. A policeman tells me that he wants me to walk.
I tell him I can't.
They decide that I am to blame. If I were dead, I could not cause this trouble. If I were dead, then they would never be dead. They would never die. One man suggests that they just let the mob get me, let the mob kill me, but others disagree. They want to see me executed, surrounded by cameras and sympathetic reporters. They argue, their voices rise to match the cacophony outside.
"I will carry him."
The voice frightens me. It is calm and soothing and said with such an assertive tone that the argument dies at once. I look, and once more I see the man. The man who found my body.
I had given it to him.
The policemen step away from him as he comes closer to me. He grimaces as he cradles me in his arms, and slowly, slowly, very slowly, he hoists me up on his shoulders. I am heavy, but he does not shake under my weight. Instead, he stands taller, his head erect. I nuzzle my face on his uniform. He is alive, wonderfully alive underneath and fear makes his veins throb, their sounds echoing in my ears. I smile and laugh. He asks me why. I lean closer to him.
"I love you."
He nearly drops me, but he only grits his teeth and starts to walk. The policemen follow him timidly. It is an odd procession. The policemen keep looking over their shoulders, afraid of what is behind them. One is crying. The rest are trying to not to. They can hear their dead comrade screaming in their ears. He is still screaming.
A minute passes, and then another. Then the world splits. A door is knocked down and then the mob closes in. There is screaming and the policemen rush away, pinning us against the wall. We cannot move. We are trapped.
But the man holding me doesn't let me drop. Instead, he closes his eyes tightly and whimpers. I know what he is thinking. He is thinking he will die and that there will be nothing left. But he is not afraid of death. He is afraid of nothing.
The mob is coming closer and there is no escape. The policemen will die -- he will die. He will die and his body will be broken and then there will be no turning back. He will be dead. He murmurs something about his wife and children. About how much they'll miss him. About how much he'll miss them. I lean closer to him and let my fingers brush past his ear.
"I love you."
He looks at me, tears in his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but the sound dies on his lips. He looks through me and then he understands. He knows everything now. There is nothing more to be said. He understands.
And yet, he cries.
The mob comes closer and they kill him. They shoot him, once, twice, seven times thinking that he is me and I am he. And he falls, his limp body crashing on the floor, still cradling my dead body in his arms. The mob laughs and tramples over us, racing towards the other policemen.
And then they are gone.
They have left my body and I am surrounded by the blood of my fallen guardian. I curl up to be more fully in his arms. His blood is still warm. And his body still feels so wonderfully alive that I can scarcely breathe. But he is dead. He has died. And it is time for me to join him and welcome him back. And to hold him in my arms, and protect him, just as he has done for me.
I am dead.