Hidden away in the town called Kripke’s Hollow is the home of one unassuming soul – one whose name is known with fame and infamy through his lifelong work. Upon the coffee-stained couch he lies, face buried within a cushion. Soft snores, almost completely muffled by fabric, can be heard, an accompaniment to the music that rolls out in a low rumble from the radio. The wall-mounted clock fills the air with another dissonant rhythm, a tick-tick-ticking of the passing of each second. Morning has yet to dawn, slivers of sunlight from beyond the horizon inching forward ever-so-slowly to possess and illuminate the landscape.
Unconscious and all but dead to the world, the man sleeps on.
The presence, one that resonates within the cramped realm-between-realms with an aura of humble omnipotence, immediately calls the attention of a gathering of corrupt grace, frigid with its fury. The other two who share this space – his treacherous brother and said brother’s human toy – appear oblivious, continuing on their courtship of viscera and screams.
Its wordless dwelling here is far from anything new. In the beginning, a mere few millennia after his fall – when his prison had still allowed him an utterly thorough quiet, even while it had closed him off from all else – he’d called out to it. Urged it to speak to him, an order (a plea) that had always remained unfulfilled.
Eventually, he’d abandoned the hopeful prospect of gleaning some form of temporary companionship from the foreign consciousness. (He knew nothing of it besides that it held immense power – no insignificant soul could reach to see behind the locks to his Cage – because although he’d had suspicions, once or twice long ago, he knew that a visit from Father Dearest would be a nigh-impossible occurrence.)
Now though, as it returns for the first time since his freedom by demons (and subsequent re-imprisonment), he looks to question it again. (Had it known that, only a few earthly years ago, Lucifer the archangel had been back amidst humankind? Had it deemed it worthwhile, even, to see him once in his physical form? Or did it only ever come for its own amusement, glancing over God’s most wretched son in curiosity and scorn?)
And with no expectation of any response, he puts forth his demand —
“Who are you?"
Even knowing that he will be given no answer, he can feel the stirrings of disappointment, a sentiment that is immediately halted by incredulity and undiluted rage as he suddenly knows its reply.
“Lucifer.” It’s not audible, not in the waves-of-sound way of the human cries and whimpers that populate the cage; it’s an almost-telepathy, as though the message is a thought that has been present all along. And it is one that carries startling familiarity.
“I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I? Finally let this cage break me.”
"Lucifer. I’m not any creation of your mind; I am here with you now.”
“Why?” He lets the rest remain unspoken, not that that matters; He is omniscient in the true sense, and all that is existent is known to Him. (The muddled jumble of why are you here how dare you come I miss you I’m not sorry apologize to me for what you did where have you been Father I’d like to come home.)
“You’re still my son.”
And how could He think that He had any right to make such a claim, Lucifer cannot even begin to understand, not after He had more or less disowned him, banished him from Heaven and condemned his name as forbidden to his brothers. He would say that they were only father and son as they were creator and creation; the title would not signify any greater bond (not anymore). And if he still felt pinpricks of warmth like joy at His recognition, that was to blame upon indoctrinated former affections and nothing more.)
“Break open this place and free me, or leave and don’t return. I don’t see why You’re here in the first place, but You are not wanted.”
“You know I can’t allow that. Not until you learn to love humanity.”
“It’s been millennia – and you’ve seen for yourself how they are. How can you still expect me to do that?” He recalls, too, with precise clarity, the names and faces of the legions of angels who have lost faith, who look upon the creatures with the same disgust and irreverence that he holds; and yet they are all allowed to continue on unfettered as they are.
“Not all of them.” And now Lucifer wonders whether He continues to believe that, whether it’s a lie He repeats to convince Himself as much as the others. From what he had learned while he walked the Earth his second time, the majority view was that God had forsaken their kind and submitted to an apathetic oblivion that meant becoming blind to the failings of his creations.
He wants to call out to Him the lie, scream out His hypocrisy, but far more than that, he longs for silence. “Just leave me, then. If You won’t return me anything else, allow me my solitude.” What little of it there might be when he was made now to share the space with the brother he used to love, but now could not bear to even speak to.
He has the audacity to whisper again, “I hope you’ll change your mind one day,” before the essence of Father and betrayer recedes, leaving behind heavy silence punctuated by a vessel’s demonstrations of fragile mortality.
Chuck Shurley awakens with muttered curses, finding himself sprawled on the ground, his ankle throbbing from a collision with the hard edge of a coffee table. The radio broadcaster announces the time and date with his perpetual tone of false cheerfulness, followed by a, “And to all those dads out there, Happy Father’s Day!”
Flinching at the light of early noon, he gathers himself up from the crumb-covered carpet, all the while muttering to himself, “I need a drink.”
FILL: Team Anna/Ruby, Father's Day
—
Hidden away in the town called Kripke’s Hollow is the home of one unassuming soul – one whose name is known with fame and infamy through his lifelong work. Upon the coffee-stained couch he lies, face buried within a cushion. Soft snores, almost completely muffled by fabric, can be heard, an accompaniment to the music that rolls out in a low rumble from the radio. The wall-mounted clock fills the air with another dissonant rhythm, a tick-tick-ticking of the passing of each second. Morning has yet to dawn, slivers of sunlight from beyond the horizon inching forward ever-so-slowly to possess and illuminate the landscape.
Unconscious and all but dead to the world, the man sleeps on.
The presence, one that resonates within the cramped realm-between-realms with an aura of humble omnipotence, immediately calls the attention of a gathering of corrupt grace, frigid with its fury. The other two who share this space – his treacherous brother and said brother’s human toy – appear oblivious, continuing on their courtship of viscera and screams.
Its wordless dwelling here is far from anything new. In the beginning, a mere few millennia after his fall – when his prison had still allowed him an utterly thorough quiet, even while it had closed him off from all else – he’d called out to it. Urged it to speak to him, an order (a plea) that had always remained unfulfilled.
Eventually, he’d abandoned the hopeful prospect of gleaning some form of temporary companionship from the foreign consciousness. (He knew nothing of it besides that it held immense power – no insignificant soul could reach to see behind the locks to his Cage – because although he’d had suspicions, once or twice long ago, he knew that a visit from Father Dearest would be a nigh-impossible occurrence.)
Now though, as it returns for the first time since his freedom by demons (and subsequent re-imprisonment), he looks to question it again. (Had it known that, only a few earthly years ago, Lucifer the archangel had been back amidst humankind? Had it deemed it worthwhile, even, to see him once in his physical form? Or did it only ever come for its own amusement, glancing over God’s most wretched son in curiosity and scorn?)
And with no expectation of any response, he puts forth his demand —
“Who are you?"
Even knowing that he will be given no answer, he can feel the stirrings of disappointment, a sentiment that is immediately halted by incredulity and undiluted rage as he suddenly knows its reply.
“Lucifer.” It’s not audible, not in the waves-of-sound way of the human cries and whimpers that populate the cage; it’s an almost-telepathy, as though the message is a thought that has been present all along. And it is one that carries startling familiarity.
“I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I? Finally let this cage break me.”
"Lucifer. I’m not any creation of your mind; I am here with you now.”
“Why?” He lets the rest remain unspoken, not that that matters; He is omniscient in the true sense, and all that is existent is known to Him. (The muddled jumble of why are you here how dare you come I miss you I’m not sorry apologize to me for what you did where have you been Father I’d like to come home.)
“You’re still my son.”
And how could He think that He had any right to make such a claim, Lucifer cannot even begin to understand, not after He had more or less disowned him, banished him from Heaven and condemned his name as forbidden to his brothers. He would say that they were only father and son as they were creator and creation; the title would not signify any greater bond (not anymore). And if he still felt pinpricks of warmth like joy at His recognition, that was to blame upon indoctrinated former affections and nothing more.)
“Break open this place and free me, or leave and don’t return. I don’t see why You’re here in the first place, but You are not wanted.”
“You know I can’t allow that. Not until you learn to love humanity.”
“It’s been millennia – and you’ve seen for yourself how they are. How can you still expect me to do that?” He recalls, too, with precise clarity, the names and faces of the legions of angels who have lost faith, who look upon the creatures with the same disgust and irreverence that he holds; and yet they are all allowed to continue on unfettered as they are.
“Not all of them.” And now Lucifer wonders whether He continues to believe that, whether it’s a lie He repeats to convince Himself as much as the others. From what he had learned while he walked the Earth his second time, the majority view was that God had forsaken their kind and submitted to an apathetic oblivion that meant becoming blind to the failings of his creations.
He wants to call out to Him the lie, scream out His hypocrisy, but far more than that, he longs for silence. “Just leave me, then. If You won’t return me anything else, allow me my solitude.” What little of it there might be when he was made now to share the space with the brother he used to love, but now could not bear to even speak to.
He has the audacity to whisper again, “I hope you’ll change your mind one day,” before the essence of Father and betrayer recedes, leaving behind heavy silence punctuated by a vessel’s demonstrations of fragile mortality.
Chuck Shurley awakens with muttered curses, finding himself sprawled on the ground, his ankle throbbing from a collision with the hard edge of a coffee table. The radio broadcaster announces the time and date with his perpetual tone of false cheerfulness, followed by a, “And to all those dads out there, Happy Father’s Day!”
Flinching at the light of early noon, he gathers himself up from the crumb-covered carpet, all the while muttering to himself, “I need a drink.”