Litost

by Jace Wilson

I can assume that I begin where he died. I imagine myself as the Magdalene, following him
into crucifixion and resurrection. I imagine standing at the door of that empty tomb, and then walking
backwards into hell. The bible describes hell as complete separation from God. It describes fire, and
wailing and the gnashing of the teeth of the devil. This is a different hell. It is cold and full of me, yet I
don’t recognize my thoughts as my own. There is no sound. There is only the table, and the chair
and the ink and the paper and the knife. There is only the room. Am I God, having been forcefully
parted from my divinity, or the devil, tricking myself into thinking I am pure, that I am His favorite
again? It is difficult to think about God, and the devil and heaven. There is only the room. There must
be something beyond it. I just need to wait. I think I have been here for a long time, as my legs are
numb and my eyes are dry. I feel sweaty and dehydrated, as if I had just woken up from a nap in the
middle of the day. I was not asleep, though. I am not tired, not like how you are after you wake. It is
like my body was empty, deprived of a brain, until a few minutes ago. I can’t bring myself to move
yet. I feel like a layer of dust has settled upon me from disuse, and I can’t bring myself to disturb it
yet. Maybe if I stay still, whatever comes next will think I am still empty. I blink. I want to allow myself
sight. I blink, and again and again, and yet I cannot get my eyes to wet. Suddenly I am fearful. I need
to move to look at the room. I need to see it again, to see it more, to see it better from the tilted view
I get from my current position. I balance. I am already in the room's mouth. There is nothing that can
be lost.

The walls are dry. I can see pore-like holes where the smooth, even surface of plaster should
be. I imagine moisture seeping through the millions of tiny openings. I imagine them retaining their
shapes, reaching out like clear hands towards the middle of the room. I imagine them holding each
other, living in the grasp of one another as they choke the room full.

The objects on the table are stationary. I almost expect them to start moving. Are they a part
of the table? Is the table just a part of the room? If I tried to pick the knife or pen up, would they be
attached to the table?

I am afraid, but not as much as I should be. I should feel the panic of being somewhere I
don’t recognize, and I don’t recognize this place, but I don’t feel that kind of fear. The panic I do feel
 Litost

comes from how empty the room is. There are the objects on the table, and I can only guess what
they are for, but I know with all my heart that there is something else here. Something else is going
to happen.

Not during the first day, however. I am alone on the first day. The walls do not move, and
moisture does not press in. I do not touch the objects on the table. I wish to remain still. At the end of
the first day, I sleep.

When I wake up, I cannot remain still any longer. There are people in the room now. The
room is suddenly much more real-- yesterday it was more like a dream; it was empty and motionless
and I felt like I could breathe. The people are packed into the room, all facing me. The people are
faceless, lacking any sort of distinguishing features except for their pale skin and red clothes. I can’t
differentiate one from another. I find that their skin matches the walls. I stare at them, and they stare
at me. They have no eyes and yet I know that they are staring at me. I wait for any of them to move,
or to somehow speak, but they don't. They look like they are waiting for the same from me. It is
unbearable. In my fear, I began to shake. The spasms of my leg made me look around at the people
quickly. Had they seen it? Will they move now that I had? After they didn't respond, I began to shift
more. Still, nothing. I slowly raised my hand and touched my face. The people just stared. The cold
fear gave way to an uneasy feeling. They could move at any time. But I know they won't.

I wonder if there is anything outside the walls. The people didn’t seem to come from
anywhere. They just appeared. Even knowing this, I still imagine a labyrinth of hallways outside of
some small crack in the porous walls. I imagine the people shrinking and growing to fit themselves
through the small holes, writhing around each other with the urgency of getting into the room. They
are here to see me. At first I thought that they were the anomaly, the predator in the room, but
maybe I am the difference. Maybe this is where they live. Maybe they live in the room, and in the
hallways outside.

On the second day, I write questions. I slowly move to the pen and paper, watching the
people standing around for any sign of movement. The paper is unlined. The first glide of pen
against paper is rushed and angry. I spend a moment just striking the pen against the paper, the ink
bubbling from the tip over and over again. I fold a new page over. I begin to write. What is this?
comes first. Who are you all? comes next. Hello. Do you remember being born? I finish. I think it
would be best to have good manners.
 Litost

I do not sleep that night. I don't think I can sleep with so much skin watching me.

Many hours later, without sleep, I become confused and restless. The people's eye skin
shifts now, moving to focus on me and then the knife, me and then the knife, over and over. If I look
at them for too long, which I often catch myself doing, I am suddenly very aware of where my tongue
sits in my mouth. If I look directly at where the eyes should sit, bile rises in my throat and I need to
look away. I feel like I am away from myself, like I have lost track of my legs. I need to walk. I still feel
empty and lost. I must return to myself. I stare at one of the people, feel the bile rise, and then make
a decision.

When I use the knife, I begin with my right thigh. The sting of the beginning of my flesh
parting sends a thrill through me, and a whisper through the crowd. I'm sure I can see more and
more of them smile. After blood spills down onto my seat, I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop, and I
don’t. My arms and legs are sticky afterwards, and my clothes are wet and uncomfortable, but better
words begin to fill my brain. I write them down. The people around me shift closer as I write, as if this
was what they were waiting for all along. I can remember what I am. Do you remember being born?
Do you remember being born? Do you remember being born?

Afterwards, I take off my clothes. In some parts, the blood is still warm and in some it has
gone cold, beginning to mold itself to my body. It is too sticky. It hurts taking the clothes off. The
blood had dried enough so that it was attached to blood in the wounds, so I slowly tear off a layer of
gore as I removed the soggy coverings. I still bleed. I sleep again. I think the people are happy. Their
eyes do not move anymore.

On the fourth day, I read the words I wrote the day before. They are nonsense, just parts of
sentences put together messily. I need to make something of this, something that isn’t just
nonsense. I need to remember.

I easily become enamored by the scabs that formed on my legs and arms. The slight bit of
pain when I pull at them, the flush of blood underneath my skin, the raised flesh, it made me sick and
yet it made me want. I want more. I want to use the knife again. And I did. I use the blood this time. I
mix it with the ink of my pen. I begin to write. It is a slow and difficult process. The blood makes the
writing look more like a stain than actual letters.
 Litost

I start a story about someone I would like to be. This person lives in a city, and has a job at a
grocery store. Every day this person visits a cemetery. I can’t figure out if someone they loved had
died, or if they just enjoyed the absurdity of death. In the end, I decided that the person loved one of
the angels there. The stone was always the same. This person is insane, I decide. This person loves
a statue like one would love a wife. I imagine the Magdalene. I imagine the crucifixion. I imagine the
tomb. I imagine hell. I imagine God. I laugh as I write the story. I don’t understand this person. I am
not sure what a statue is. Now I think about my life. I imagine the hallways outside of this room. Did I
come from the hallways? Do you remember being born?

I finish the story. I set down the pen. As I begin to reread, the people begin to laugh. Did they
not like the ending? I am not particularly proud of it either, but I didn’t intend it to be a comedy. I think
about a saying, one that I don’t remember the origin of. One man’s treasure is another man’s trash, I
think it was. Something like that.

They keep laughing. Why do they keep laughing? It is awfully grating, and I don't understand
why they keep laughing. Do they really hate me that much? I don't want to be here. They put me
here, didn't they? Is this what they wanted? Did they want my story? Did they want me to make a
fool of myself? I thought I made something. I thought I made something but it was one sick joke.

I pick up the already bloody knife. It was one sick joke! I stab it between my ribs, wanting to
reach my heart. I don't. This isn't funny! I just feel the puncture of a lung. I want to be gone. It is
frightening, feeling blood slowly fill your only means of air. Soon I don't have enough room to take
another breath. I do anyway. I choke, and choke and the blood is too close, and I cannot breathe.

Then I wake up. I am still in the room. I am still in hell. The people are still there. God is still
there. They aren't laughing anymore. I look at my story. I'm not proud of it anymore. It's trash all
around. I am still angry. Why can’t I die? I stand, my bare, marred legs painfully accommodating my
weight. The people are easy to kill. The knife tears into them like they are wet, soggy bread, and
they fall to the ground easily enough. When they do, I notice that only their clothes are left behind. It
is like they have retreated to the hallways, all the moisture and flesh seeping out in a second. Once
they are all gone, I go to a wall. I tear into it. It's not the same as the people, I realize. It is like God. I
carve a rectangular shape into it. It still holds. How annoying. I take the pen and draw a handle.

I wrap my hand around it and it feels as real as anything. I open the door.