Going to the Lordy
A character-defining exercise belonging to the plotline of Hero, an alternate-world story where a city has been closed off from the rest of the world and is ruled with an iron fist by the government.
In this political climate, several small groups of revolutionaries have appeared; among them, a group of Anarchists infamous for their members' violent acts. Azrael is one of the few who actually are violent, and this is mainly because of his addiction to a drug called Haze.
Among other symptoms, Haze essentially causes you to lose your mind. Throughout the novel-length story, Azrael (who is a main character) becomes progressively more insane and violent. He's known for talking to himself, addressing people who aren't present or dead, and also talking to a 'demon' (a delusion of his, manifesting itself something like schizophrenia) in his mind which is called Ezekiel.
~---~
Prison guard. That was the job description. He stood here, prison guard to the most dangerous man alive. And everything was wrong.
Sitting in the corner of the cell behind him was Mr. … Mr. Azrael, he supposed, as he had given no other name except for ‘Tammy’. He was instantly recognisable for his red fringe, spiked skywards on his left side, and otherwise dark clothing, still intact from his capture yesterday. He might have been thirty years old at most, and without the tell-tale signs of his sleepless madness would have been considered rather handsome. The government had apparently known of him before from his prominence at rallies, and had even brought him in once, thinking it was all over after a particularly severe interrogation and ‘correction’. But it seemed, instead, that this was what had finally pushed him over the edge, to force his way into the government buildings and gun down the Head of Cabinet and several other cabinet members.
“People… will hate me…”
The guard turned around at the whispered words, to see Azrael clutching his arms to him as if sheltering from the cold of his cell, curled up against the wall and staring forward through the bars immediately before him. It was an old and basic cell, but made entirely of concrete and iron. It was only temporary – one or two days at most, and then they’d promised to get him a… ‘correction’. The only way to cure addicts to the psychotropic drug Haze, they said. Cut out part of his brai- the guard stopped himself thinking about it. It was… too horrible. Not with the man sitting here.
Azrael looked up at him, the gaze of those dark, bagged eyes making the guard reach for his gun.
“If I… if I go… outside… people will… shoot me…” The criminal’s voice shook along with his shoulders, halfway between sobbing and laughter. “But… if I go in here… you will shoot me too…”
The guard was tempted to shake his head to reassure him that he wouldn’t, but he was forbidden to communicate with the man, and there were cameras watching.
“Fu-uck, two bullets might be too much for me. Skidoo, that’s a downer.” Azrael seemed to consider this, relaxing against the wall and looking up at the ceiling, “******** capitalists, right? It’s not that fun; gets boring after a few. Bit like horses, like that. Seen one whore, seen them all.”
…what?
“Oooh, you know what? Nobody loves me. It’s a ******** pain sometimes, and I have a s**t time getting laid. Though I think that could be a bit to do with my tattoo. That’s a nice tie you’ve got there.”
The guard looked down at his tie. It wasn’t really, just standard issue; besides, Azrael was wearing one that was arguably nicer, in bright red fabric with a scrawled black Anarchy symbol on the tip, apparently drawn in permanent marker.
“Anyway, doesn’t really matter; anyway it really blows. ******** it, I shot that b*****d. I feel old. D’you think that’s got something to do with it?”
He didn’t even understand what Azrael was talking about now, so no, not really…
“
Quid sum miser tank disturbus? Qualm patronum rotators, c** vex justice sit secures?… and then… something about the devil… a lot is about him, actually. You know what I think? I think God doesn’t exist, and it’s all just Satan waiting to ******** us up the a**. Which is really all life is, really; just one big a**-rape. You know what I think of when I think of sodomy? Larceny. Not for any reason, really, just ‘cos it sounds the same, you know.”
How did we get onto this topic again?, thought the guard, before he remembered that he’d had nothing to do with it. It was all the ramblings of the man’s Haze-poisoned mind. He’d only heard of addicts before, never seen them in person, and it was enough to shake him a little.
Azrael stood up at this point, grinning a wildly happy smile. “Said they were gonna take my brain out, you don’t say! Sounds bad, but look on the bright side! I could do with more space in here!”
The guard had to bite back his tongue from saying that that wasn’t how it worked, and Azrael apparently saw this movement, because approached the bars with a curious look on his face.
“What were you gonna say? That it don’t ******** work that way?” he asked, and the guard took a step back as he saw the murderer’s hands wrap around the bars. They were too close together to allow Azrael to get his arms through the gaps, but it was still somehow chilling.
“Wait until tomorrow, mien Führer! I can finally get rid of these ******** gremlins in me head, and you’ll still have them! God, you see, he won’t let me live like this! Ezekiel can try taking me over—” he shivered suddenly, shaking his head as though the feeling had passed right through his body, “—feel him move!—but he’s just a demon, and God, he’s my pal! O Lord, you’ll take me up with you, won’t you? I could be an angel, with big black wings and a silver halo, yes I could! Yes, Tammy, yes you could! You can be an angel!”
At this point, it seemed almost as if Azrael was having a conversation with himself, rather than directing his words at the guard at all.
“I can be an angel! I’ll sit next to the Lord, and I’ll sing the songs of heavenly grace:
Just as I am, Thou wilt receive; Wilt greet me, pardon, wash, achieve; Because thine promise I believe; O Lamb of God, I come! I come! Ha ha!” He swayed back on his heels, releasing the bars and stumbling backwards into the cell before falling down, landing on his rear. Recovering quickly, Azrael sat up and crossed his legs, looking particularly attentive. After a few moments he started to rock back and forth, eyes closed and a smile on his face as if he was listening to some inner music.
“
I have seen Him in the watch-glass of a billion spinning lamps; They have builded Him an alter in the night time hues and amps; I can read His righteous judgement by the slim and flaring damps: His day is marching on. Glo-ry Hal-le-luiah!”
He lay back against the concrete, staring up at the ceiling again. “See, it’ll all be gone tomorrow. Doesn’t matter; nothing really matter anyway. I killed the old guy, I can’t say I didn’t. Just think, in a couple of years, they’ll write books about me. They won’t ever know what was going on, either, ‘cos even I don’t. And it’ll all be empty and clean, and I can have those wings and silver halo.
I wonder what I will see when I get to the Lordy; I expect to see most glorious things; Beyond all earthly conception… hmmm…”
©2008 ~Zayda at Deviant Art, a.k.a. Hayley Moore, a.k.a. Ooare
~---~
The songs he sings are, in order:
- Dies Irae
- Just As I Am
- Battle Hymn For The Republic, and
- I Am Going to the Lordy
He gets all their lyrics wrong, save for the last. The relevance of the last song is that it was written by Charles J. Guiteau, the assassin of U.S. President Garfield, and which he performed at his execution.
The purpose of this piece was to establish Azrael's speech and thought patterns for future writing.
Thank you for reading; constructive critism is appreciated, but you don't have to give it. ^__^
