Michael LaRocca
©2000
I killed my best friend, but he refused to stay dead.
My name is William Jackson. My best friend was Ernest Springer. I buried Ernest
in my back yard, roughly once a week, for several months. I really don't know
why, but he was drawn to the grave like a puppy to his food dish.
Then Ernest was sentenced to a mental institution until such time as he was
cured. He was never cured, but he was eventually released. I buried him in my
back yard seven more times. On the seventh time, his body remained dead.
My life turned complicated after that. Ernest's body was dead, but his soul was
not. With no body of his own, he inhabited mine. It seemed like the ideal
solution. Between the two of us, I figured, we could scrounge up one whole soul.
At first my life became better. Then Ernest turned evil. He made me do horrible
things, unspeakable things. I tried to stop him, tried to force him out, but he
was too strong. And then, one day, he left.
Such was my delusion. Of course it was a delusion. How could it be otherwise?
I killed my best friend and instead of accepting it I went through this whole
charade. But now I have progressed beyond believing that the evil spirit of
Ernest Springer's undead soul possessed me.
After Ernest died, I quit using LSD and my life got better after that.
Sometimes I'm surprised at how far I've come. I live alone now, able to take
care of myself. I've held down the same job for almost a year and done well at
it. I've even gone back to school, just because I enjoy learning. I often speak
with the confidence of my convictions, defending an opinion that is totally
mine. My life is good. My mind is healed.
Or so I believed. That belief would soon change.
The teacher read the poem aloud and closed the small book. His head dropped as
if to silently contemplate the words that he had spoken. He was a small, aged,
seemingly frail man. But that was only an illusion. His voice was commanding and
his manner was animated. He turned to a student and spoke. He didn't shout, but
everyone in the classroom jumped.
"Mr. Clayton. What did you think of the poem?"
The student's name was Nick Clayton. He was tall, tan and handsome. He had neat
black hair, a neat black moustache and mildly Latin features. Were it not for
his arrogance, he would have no personality at all.
"It sounds profound," Clayton replied. "But what does it really say? One might
reply that you know what he means. But he didn't spell it out because he lacks
the talent."
"If he did spell it out," I replied, "You would disagree with it just because
that's what you do."
"Only because it would be wrong."
"Is everything that you disagree with wrong?"
"Of course."
"What are you, then? Perfect?"
"Of course. Would you like to know why?"
I took the bait. "Yes, Nick, I would love to know why. Tell me why you are
perfect."
"I am the only thing in the world that is real."
"What?"
"I made the rest of you up."
"So what does that make you?" I asked. "God?"
"Jehovah means I am. Who is your god? I am. The world is my idea. I am its
god. If I truly know this and I do, then I can do anything."
"That's enough of that," Professor Sarrett stated. "Let us move on to the next
poem."
"Yes sir," Clayton agreed. "But only because that is what I want us to do."
Professor Sarrett read the next poem in the small book, a somewhat predictable
diatribe against war. Then he paused to let his words sink in, as if perhaps he
was too moved to speak. It was a habit he showed regardless of how good, or how
bad, the material was. Finally he turned to Nick Clayton.
"What do you think the author was trying to say?"
"He spent entirely too much time listening to old anti-war protest songs. He
wanted to write one too, but he didn't know what to say, so he stole from
everybody and called it his own."
"When you can't find a valid criticism," I replied, "You make the attack
personal so that you can still feel superior."
"Is that right, Doctor Freud?" Clayton chuckled. "By the way, did you know
that Freud was Oedipal?"
"And you're the poster boy for penis envy. The author's saying when you judge
someone else so wrong that you have to kill him, just for disagreeing with you,
that is the ultimate arrogance."
"So you think that's how the world works?"
"Maybe the author's a bit naive. But if you listen to his words, you hear the
truth within them. To kill someone for having a different opinion is the
ultimate arrogance."
The first time I said those words to Clayton, I don't think that I was
consciously aware of what I was doing. I repeated myself to see his reaction,
because those were the same words I had said to Ernest Springer when he was
inside me.
"The sanctity of human life is grossly overrated," Clayton replied. "There's
far too much of it on the planet. I think I'll get rid of some of it."
"That's enough of that," Sarrett stated, glaring at Clayton.
Clayton met the professor's challenging gaze with a bemused grin. After a
moment, he turned to face me and spoke.
"Man is evil by nature. He wants to do so many things that he can't do, so he
adopts a moral code and pretends to be good so that his impotence doesn't drive
him insane. That's at the heart of what man is - taking all that he wants and
still wanting more. Freud spent a lifetime looking for the conflict that causes
insanity. I have seen the answer. Humans are the only moral animals on the
planet and they are the only animals that go insane."
"Only if you believe in free will," said one student.
"Free will," replied another. "The only thing in the world that is free."
"A stone is rolling down the hill without knowing that gravity pulls it down,"
Clayton stated. "This is humanity, mistakenly believing itself to be free of the
immutable laws of physics."
"You don't believe in free will?" I asked.
"No," Clayton replied. "Not at all."
"You really believe that you have no control over yourself? None at all? Not
even your most innermost thought?"
"The perfect legal defence," Clayton replied. "It should be even more effective
than claiming to hear voices inside one's head."
"Huh?"
"Why, my dear Mister Jackson," Clayton observed, "You seem disappointed."
Clayton gave me a knowing look. "Perhaps you have me confused with someone
else."
"You're not a determinist!" I shouted at him. "You're not."
"But I am a determinist, Mister Jackson. It was predetermined that I become a
determinist. Was it predetermined that I have free will? No, but it was
predetermined that I become aware of this. I consider myself fortunate, but of
course this too was predetermined."
"Why are you lying?!"
"Mister Jackson -" Sarrett began.
"Why?!" I shouted at Clayton. "WHY?!"
"Such rage. Perhaps a hit of acid would calm your nerves."
You may call me Jehovah, said a voice inside my head, Because I am. It was my
voice, but they were not my thoughts. Ernest, who was now Nick, was talking to
me the way that he had when he possessed me.
I leaped to my feet and lunged at him. My attack was swift and silent and his
back was to me. He was facing the rest of the class, basking in the glow of
their attention. There was no way that he could avoid me.
I sailed through the air and landed face first atop an empty desk. It promptly
collapsed beneath me. How I went from closing in on Clayton's back to sailing
through the air, I do not know.
But you do know. And remember, whatever you know, I know. Even that which you
dare not admit to yourself.
I ran from the classroom before my thoughts could betray me further.
It doesn't matter. Where you go, what you do, doesn't matter. You can't stop
me. Nothing can stop me.
I hired a detective, the kind who thought his badge represented a job rather
than any moral obligation. I gave him Nick Clayton's name, the name of the
school and the hours that Clayton was there. The man I hired next was not a
detective. His job was to visit Clayton's house while Clayton was away.
When Nick Clayton got home from school, he would turn on the light. The voltage
would ignite the gasoline inside and make it explode. That would kill Nick
Clayton and I hoped it would send Ernest's soul to the other side.
"Maybe a hit of acid would calm your nerves," Clayton had said. Those weren't
thoughts inside my head. Those were actual spoken words. But there was no way
that Nick Clayton could know I was once a drug user.
If Nick Clayton was a real person whom Ernest had invaded, there was no hope
for him. He could no more force Ernest out than I could. Ernest had the power of
a god and the mind of a man. A sick, perverted, dangerous man. He would deserve
death even without the power. This is not the ultimate arrogance. It is simple
fact.
Also, killing Ernest is not wrong because, to quote Ernest himself, Death is a
beautiful woman. Death is orgasmic.
I stared at a clock. I don't know what I expected. If Ernest died, or if he
caught the assassin, or if the assassin hauled ass with my money, I wouldn't
know. I sat in my room, watching the clock and waiting for something, but there
was nothing to wait for. Nonetheless, I waited.
I felt a rush of adrenaline, more intense than anything I had ever felt before.
I was sitting on a bed in a cheap roadside motel and the sudden power surge made
me fall backwards. After a moment, I opened my eyes and sat up. Then I probably
smiled.
I became aware of things that I had not been aware of before. I heard the drip
of the bathroom faucet. The room to my left was empty, but the couple in the
room beside it was making love. To my right was the office. Someone was drinking
coffee and watching television.
I could hear these things. With a bit more effort, I could see life through the
eyes of these people, read their thoughts and feel what it was like to be them.
I was like a small fish in a great stream, in danger of being washed away.
I am William Jackson. I am in control.
I reached out with my mind, striving to sense something that had happened
almost 800 miles away. I was still in the motel room and yet I saw the
interstate rushing below me. So seemingly contradictory and yet so natural to me
now.
The smells and noises of the cars and the thoughts and sensations of their
drivers, could have easily distracted me. I shut them out, just as you can see
something right before your eyes or something thirty feet in front of you,
shutting out one to focus on the other.
I saw that Nick Clayton's house was on fire. I could smell the burning of the
wood and fabric and yes, human flesh. The body was burnt beyond recognition, but
I knew that it was Nick Clayton. I just knew.
I found myself sitting in a room. My shoulders hurt. The wall before me was
white, covered with thick padding. It was then that I realised where I really
was. The straitjacket held my scrawny arms wrapped around me and I was sitting
on the floor of a padded cell.
"You can't do this to me!" I shouted. "There's been a mistake! I'm God! God,
do you hear me?! GOD!!"
I willed the straitjacket to be gone, but it did not happen.
I don't have the power!
Ernest was not gone. My assassin had killed Clayton, but he had not killed
Ernest. Killing Ernest was no longer possible. And now, Ernest was punishing me
for daring to defy him.
The world thought that I was insane, some crazy drug addict who killed Nick
Clayton, but I was not. I was the man who tried to kill God. This was my
punishment, my own private hell.
