I remember the moment I killed Him so well. More vividly than anything else. I can still feel the freezing air. For years I’d watched His Herculean mass being whittled down to a pile of useless scraps and a collection of thin little sticks. Did I know that I held the knife that was digging into His flesh? No. It was only a lifetime after the final cut when I realized it. Rather, I spent that time clumping the scraps into neat little piles so I could glue them back in their place.
I remember that day, in that endless chamber of voiceless chanting. Those futile gestures, those deadly melodies. And there, amidst it all, I watched His frail old body drag itself before me. I saw how His wrinkles had sharpened, how His torso had shrunken, how His back had hunched over, how His hair had greyed, how His vigor had withered. Was This the Almighty God who would save us mute chanters? Was This what carried the burden of all mankind on Its shoulders? Was This the slayer of my misery?
The chanting was deafening, dizzying. I looked into His eyes. But I couldn’t see my reflection. He began to tumble, and I leapt for Him. I grabbed Him, shook Him, shouted and cried. Get up Old Fool! You cannot die! You must carry me! You must save me from my fate! But I looked into His eyes again. And I dropped him, watching as His skull crashed onto cold marble, those empty eyes wide open.
Was He dead? Was that decrepit pile of skin and bone still breathing? Could He be brought back to life, or had I truly sent Him to our doom? What was I to do as I walked toward that flesh and blood? Was I to consume Him, try to breathe life into that broken body? Or was I to sink into the void? I came closer and my horror grew. Then I drew my blade. And with the burden of a thousand galaxies, I plunged it into His heart and felt His final spark fade into the darkness. I threw him aside, then I stepped forward. And the terror of infinity overtook me.