GODCHILD By Lucivar

“…He has been known to exhibit strange characteristics that qualify him as manic and beyond control…”

He wasn’t listening. He was watching the clock, imagining how slow it would be if it was stuck within a spider’s web. Through the windows, he looked at the faint glow of the sun which hung in the sky outside, wondering if God didn’t feel too hot from all that heat. Or if the Devil lived there. Was death actually a portal to the sun? And did people just called it hell because they didn’t know what else to call it? Did God lie to them? Was it God, or aliens who ruled?…

“…going through his diaries, I’ve found a very complicated pattern of thought, like sand being thrown against wind. Scattered. Sporadic. Deep, but not weighing depth. He denied writing them, of course, claimed it was his alter ego’s diaries…”

His parents shot looks at him. Looks that bordered between fear and hatred. He noticed everything, but pretended not to. He could almost hear the very thoughts. Hell. He heard every single thoughts in their heads. He could even hear the creak of their brain cogs as it spun in confusion and denial.

Mum couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She kept on wondering, ‘Why my own son? Why?’ This was the sort of stuff people see in movies. This didn’t happen to Nigerian teens. It didn’t happen to IGBO teens! Dad was pondering darkly, sure of the fact this was no illness. This was witchcraft; nothing other! His brothers scattered in various parts of the East had finally moved against him. But no. He wouldn’t let this happen. Never!

No one saw his fingers lightly brush the bright steel stuck in his big man jeans. But he who noticed all, did.

“He very much prefers to speak in the 3rd person, more like a ventriloquist. Alter egos are not uncommon, remember, but his state of mind has degenerated to a state where each of the characters he ever created has been given a separate life to live, all in one body. This has caused a strain to his brain, signified by his constant one-sided migraines, and subconscious hand tremors. During an interview, I was chanced to hold a short conversation with Luci-“

Bia, Therapist or whatever they call you, I don’t know who is Luci. Amaro m onye o bu. What did you say is wrong with my son?”

“Sir, based on my findings and extensive diagnosis, it’s safe to assume your son is schizophrenic. It’s going to be hard dealing with it, but he needs constant attention, people who will always be-“

“i na e kogheri.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes, doctor. You are saying nonsense. Schizophrenic o bu onye ebe? Not my son. Mba! Is he mad? Ona wi ara?”

“In general aspects, he suffers mild dementia, so yes-“

“So he is mad.” Mom’s voice was naught more than a quiet whisper. Everyone held their breath, unsure of how to handle this. After a moment she continued, still at a whisper, weaker this time, “What caused his madness, nne?”

The therapist shifted her spectacles slightly higher up her nose, then replied,

“From what I gathered, he faced a lot of trauma as a budding adolescent, both at school and at home. Lack of friends and low self-esteem led him to create imaginary friends in his head, with a misguided zeal to make them reality, so he started writing. I believe neither of you knows he writes, do you?”

The two parents buckled gazes at each other, saying nothing, eyes accusing. Dad was the first to speak up.

“He always had friends, Doctor. What are you telling me? He was rarely home sef. All these talk of madness is rubbish. You are mistaken-“

“You don’t even know me, Dad.”

Everyone turned their eyes to him, shocked at his outburst. He said nothing more; just twiddled his fingers on and on, staring at something within himself. Dead eyes. His hands were shaking again. Only the therapist noticed.

“Is it me you are talking back at? Eh? So you have grown wings, okwiya? You are now a big boy, abi? I know. I know your problem. It’s not your fault. I always warned you not to eat at uncle Sunday’s place, you didn’t listen. Now they have gotten you. They have possessed you. But I will remove that ajo mmuo inside your body, today today, not tomorrow. I will make sure this doesn’t get outside. I will cut you open today, idiot.”

Things happened in slo-mo.Dad lunged for his neck, razor sharp kitchen knife at the ready. Mom dodged, screaming for her husband to stop. The therapist ducked under her table, hitting the hidden alarm button beneath.He had expected everything. He waited, then twisted the knife from dad’s fingers at the last second.

Then the voices in his head screamed. They screamed so loud he opened his mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream that contained a thousand pains and legions of voices. This was it then. He had evolved.He buried the knife in dad’s chest.Not once. No. Not even thrice. A dozen times would have been a mercy. Twenty times, he stabbed, and pulled, stabbed, and pulled, tasting warm, stale blood on his lips. His vintage shirt was ruined. He didn’t care.

The therapist watched him with something akin to wonder in her eyes. The body was full of holes already, but he kept on driving the knife in and out, feeling nothing. He wasn’t mad. No. He couldn’t be mad. He had evolved.

The security came by and put him in shackles, dragging him to the intensive psychiatric ward, for the dangerous mentally unstable. He screamed again, spittle forming at the edges of his lips. His deranged screams echoed all the way to his ward, where it died off slowly. The therapist opened her drawer and pulled out his diary, last entry yesterday and read softly to herself,

“I reckon things will change. They always do. I reckon people will die. They always do. Change is inevitable, so is death. I refuse to be limited. I am Change. I am Death. I am what I am. I am becoming. I am perfection in mortality. I take, I always will. It will always be. It will never be. When there is no life, I will remain. I am who I am.I am GodChild.”

She closed the book gently and sneaked a glance at his mother, sitting beside her husband’s body, weeping softly, saying over and over,

“I warned him not to hurt this boy, I warned him.” She opened the boy’s diagnosis files, and filled in one last entry: “Power is limitless to those who have broken the restraints of their mind. What will be, will be.”

Then she bowed her head and wept softly for the GodChild, broken and wise beyond his years, his quest for sanity leading him to doom.

4 thoughts on “GODCHILD By Lucivar

  1. Favour says:

    Quite deep. Multiple personality disorders translate synonymously into demon possession in our part of the world, sadly.

    Reply

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