Unfinished Story
Jessica watched as a few clumps of freshly dug soil slipped back into the dark, dislodged by the shuffle of feet. Slowly, deliberately, the gathered group settled, and seemed to breath a punctuating sigh under the sombre weight of convention. She felt the kindly concerned eyes of friends and family on her, as she stretched her gaze over a gorgeously inlaid cedar siding, up over a polished brass handle, and was warmed and strengthened by their loving sentiment. The thumbing of pages and a respectful cough signalled the priest’s readiness to commence, and in a copse of mourning-black figures Jessica Knoel awoke to her father’s funeral.
It had been with an exhausted resignation that Jessica had taken the nurses softly spoken news. She’d been woken from the hospital waiting room and led into a small counselling room with a mug of hot chocolate. From that moment until now had seemed like some hazy dream; she only half-remembered the brief trip to the undertakers, the quiet discussion with the local priest regarding the funeral arrangements, and accepting condolence from countless, faceless acquaintances. Jessica had begun to grow irritated by the inevitable, and unconsidered apologies. She wasn’t sure what she believed, but she accepted Father Feist’s insistence that people died when they were meant to die. Neither her nor her father had ever been particularly devout. Though her father may have wavered at times of weakness (illness, loneliness), in the end – the priest assured the group – Eric Knoel had come to accept the truth of God… Jessica looked reflexively to the sky at this point, and noticed a seagull flying overhead. Imagined her father’s free soul, revelling unencumbered through the blue sky, so different from her memory of him at the hospital.
It was late by the time she got home. She had been driven back by an old friend who’d waited back after the wake. George had an unusually soft-spoken Scottish accent that Jessica found pleasantly reassuring, though they hadn’t talked much in the car – a few words about the beauty of the service as his Mercedes glided confidently through darkened country lanes. The silence hadn’t been uncomfortable, just thoughtful. A womb of warm leather and swooshing streetlights. She almost imagined she was a child again, driving back with her parents… her dad at the wheel…
Together, besides Jessica’s front door, he’d gently rested his hand on her shoulder and she’d been struck by the sincerity in his blue eyes. “It’s not… I know it can’t be easy for you. If you need anyone to talk to I’ll be here for you.” Jessica could only nod mutely – George’s intelligence and kindness were compelling, and she’d had feelings for him almost as long as she’d known him. She was too shy to express them, and though she suspected he reciprocated, he had kept quiet… His sudden openness and physical contact made her blush. He gave her shoulder a meaningful squeeze before heading back to his car and driving off.
Scooby was home. Until a few months ago she had lived alone, until a co-worker had intervened. Scooby had been one of a litter of unwanted kittens at a local animal shelter. Her co-worker and friend had got one of the kittens for her son’s eighth birthday, and had urged Jessica to save one from being put down. Once she’d flashed a picture of the kitten Jessica had been unable to let her conscience rest. Scooby lay on the sofa lazily clawing at the cushion. A pile of condolence cards lay on her table, but she was too tired to read them – She’d read them tomorrow. A couple of cards lay already opened and she scooped them up to place on the dresser. At first she had been unsure of whether to display them or not – it almost seemed like a macabre birthday-card parody – but she eventually decided it would be nice to remember she was cared for, and that people didn’t buy cards just to be put away. She balanced one of the new cards in an appropriate position between two others. It was from her zealously Christian Auntie Olwyn, and the inside was chock full of small scraggly writing explaining the mysterious work of our Lord, and the comfort we should take from Him. It seemed to expand on what Father Feist had said earlier, with talk of God’s plan for each of us, saying: “We are too small, to understand the wisdom of gods plan…”.
It had been such a long day, one that she’d been dreading for so long, but now it was finally over. Their had been many supportive family friends, with many attempts to comfort, but in the end she’d just have to accept that he was gone. She knew his suffering was finally over, that he had been prepared for his death, but it was hard not to feel the loss.
Many years ago someone had told her that mourning was like a broken heart; you remember the happy times you’ve had with this person, the plans you’d made together, and you will no doubt remember the harsh words you’d spoken and wish you could undo, but you must realise you will never be with them again. This had been intended to comfort her after the death of her mother, but she had been so young then. As a child it had all washed over her and she had adjusted and settled down. Since then her father had been everything for her, and this loss she knew would hurt so much more. Jessica had found herself in the kitchen, and her thoughts were distracted by Scooby’s loud meowing at the promise of food. She’d forgotten to feed him today.
The meowing was almost continuous as Jessica removed the remainder of the cat food from the fridge. It was the gourmet brand that she thought smelt almost good enough for humans to eat – “certainly at these prices should be!” With a compliment of ultra-cheap Cup-A-Soups in the cupboard, she often paid more for the kitten than for herself. She knew she spoilt the kitten, but it was so nice to have a companion – especially a soft, furry, purring one. She sighed. She might as well spoil herself. She finished up feeding the cat and made herself her Naughty Little Indulgence – triple choc hot chocolate, with a dash of Kalua. This was normally reward enough for a long day – today it would at least settle her down.
Jessica snuggled into the sofa cushions and started sipping, the hot steam condensing on her face. Her mind began to wonder, but she was loath to linger on the funeral. She thought of George. If it had happened under any other circumstance she would have considered it romantic… the moon had been out, and honeysuckle by the front porch etc etc. She should have thrown her arms around him and drawn him towards herself with the combined joy of a thousand wistful daydreams… Scooby, cushion-prone beside her, pawed and purred and meowed. In that last squeeze of her shoulder Jessica had caught something in Georges eyes. The passing of a secret message, a shared understanding. Whether it was raw intuition or the extra dash of Kalua, as Jessica headed up to bed, she had a feeling this was the start of something.
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In the beginning the world is a formless void, and darkness covers the face of the deep. I say, “Let there be light”; and there is light.
Genesis.
My capricious will ignites the spark of understanding, the first cause; the end is already written. I build up the world. I write its history and its pages and its actions and conclusions. I create them, I bless them, and I say to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the world and subdue it; and have dominion over every living thing that moves upon the earth.”
Flashes of existence interposed by nothingness. Distinguishing itself against an eternal shroud of black, dead, cold. Pulses of meaning building all out of an essential truth: This vast landscape moulded from His word.
Movement and thirst. Desire is born and born again, action indistinguishable from object. Now a million of them, each one illuminated into motivation. The blinding glow of a world of light. What now?
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Sunlight streamed through windows and the air was crisp, filled with the sound of birds singing. Jessica had had a dream of her father, smiling and talking to her. It had been reminiscent of their summer years ago, when he’d been working on fixing up the old car, and she’d come blowing in to talk to him. He’d looked so full of life back then, his broad, smiling face absentmindedly smudged with engine oil. While he explained the part of the engine to her. So full of vitality. She had a pang of sadness at the thought of never enjoying such a conversation again, though not deeply… He had been so sick for so long – the constant battle and chemo slowly crumbling his will and resolve – and the dream had filled her with the a sense of her father’s final peace.
…
The funeral had been almost two weeks ago, and her suspicion of George’s feelings had been realised when, four days ago, they’d gone on their first “date”. The restaurant had been sublime; the food exquisite, the champagne delightful and the night perfect. Their mutual feelings had been patently obvious after the first few nervous manoeuvres towards a date, and since then their time spent together had been electric with scintillating excitement.
Their first night together was mutually rewarding. After the last few nights had been spent out, they’d both agreed to a more relaxing evening watching movies with a bottle of wine. Halfway through the first movie they’d dragged each other up stairs. She had been so enamoured by George and the anticipation of that moment that she climaxed almost immediately, then a second together with George. In a hazy glow of post-coitus she was totally content. It was what she had missed for so long; warm arms around her as they spooned, to feel needed and loved, and wanted.
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I say, “It is not good that it should be alone”. And then they are a couple. And they are both naked, and are not ashamed. But I resent them - for having something that I don’t; a dialectic of reassurance and combined mutual weakness. I make them guilty. I conflict and confuse their emotions and convolute their energies. Cast out from Eden and break down their Babel.
A communication and conversation. Mutual assumptions ease crossing intersubjectivities. But these assumptions are based on the arbitrary.
Then there are many languages. A different tongue leads to different mode of thought. Different thoughts lead to different actions. Confusion causes conflict.
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Jessica’s tearfully reread the Email. It had come in innocuous enough:
Drummond,G. Re:Tomorrow Lunch 18/6/20
And only the subject had been a bit strange. At the time Jessica had dismissed it as unimportant that she hadn’t originated the “Tomorrow Lunch” subject.
If she had read it, the new email received from “Sender: Drummond, G.” would have made the circumstances of the mistake apparent:
Dear All,
I apologise if you have received any email from me in the last few moments. This is quite embarrassing. A virus has hit my computer and it is currently sending out my emails indiscriminately. The IT crew are having a look at it and should have it all fixed shortly, but in the meantime please don’t open any emails from me with attachments and the subject “Please Read!”.
Thanks again,
George Drummond
Senior Marketing Consultant
A.M.R.C.S
Instead, Jessica closed the mail and headed for the door. As she regained herself by her favourite park bench she thought of how stupid she had been to believe it was love. She meant nothing to him, obviously. Nothing but an easy fuck. Who knows how many other “business lunches” he’d arranged, just hours before meeting up with her for a romantic dinner?
George’s third email sat in Jessica’s SPAM box.
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I control beyond coercion; My desires realised in reality as I have set in motion– yet I give the sense of agency. Responsibility. They are agents of My providence.
Difference experienced through oppositions and dialectics - Experience differentiates. Constituent parts of the whole, unique in their context, yet cast in one die and with one path.
I create them in My image, and they are born Creators. It is necessary; their imagined potency is the source of their Divine utility.
_____________________
“I’ve messed up. I’m no good at anything. It’s my fault things went bad.”
Jessica arrived home early from work; after almost breaking down completely in the bathroom she had made her excuses and left. Scooby lay across the linoleum tiles of the kitchen. He did not jump up meowing excitedly and slink figure-of-eights through Jessica’s legs. In fact with her keys still in hand as she sifted through the mail she had almost not noticed the rag-doll pile of soft fur. White, chalky foam clung to his tiny face, which had been shaken into an unnatural configuration by the spasms of death. Between Scooby and his owner lay a scattering of white, diamond-shaped pills, the open fallen bottle of Jessica’s sleeping pills, and silence.
Jessica had collapsed into one of the chairs by the kitchen table. As the hazy dark withdrew, Jessica slowly became aware of her world; the ticking of the clock in the next room; the jagged motion of her shoulders in silent weeping; the dampness of the letters she still held, now held against her face.
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Judgement Day.
The end of the world. I have fought a war and lost and see the satisfaction of the Evil and the Craven. The Corrupted wields Money, Politics, and Power as deadly weapons. It is no surprise; I was author to the Consequence as well as the Action.
Apocalypse. Creation comes to its conclusion. Transformed into the Created, it is ineffably judged. The four horsemen come in the guise of Norton, McAfee, ZoneAlarm, and F-Secure and existence is cleansed of infection.