Son Of God, A Modern Tragedy

Tell us, O Muses, the cause of such violence. What did drive Ira, Perturbatio’s equal to commit such egregious crimes, to go against his very nature, or was nature the conviction?

His thoughts would scream in a rush, gaze frantically musing on the mauling masses, breathing in the perverted lives that lived louder than him. “Stop! Don’t move!” he would yell internally; his pleading eyes bordering on desperate, chest and mind heaving with impressions. He’d feel their fingers follow him into the bowels of his bedroom; creeping extremities haunting his hallways. They coiled around his hermetic ankles, the only flight to be found within crying melodies. Alas, the thundering torment of the herd raged, but still the evil of noises was the beating of their hearts. So tell us, O Muses, the cause of such violence. What did drive Perturbatio’s equal to commit such egregious crimes? What wormwood fever took hold of his vestal heart?


(Perturbatio, recounting his death, he is hiding under desk left of the stage)

I was still as he came my way. An irregular yet purposeful pace fathered the recognisable sound of his footsteps. Behind the distant fire alarms and the haste scraping of chairs, not a sound was to be heard from him, except the dark, monotonous footsteps. A great stillness gathered in the nape of my neck, spilling its putrid pus down my arms and back.

The stillness Perturbatio felt, was it fear? His mortality failed to elude him, but within that lay an icy coat of undesired reverence. He, the aggressor, was the victim before this day. Beaten, tormented; He had revolted against the hallway oppressors.

(Enter Ira, wielding a gun from the right-wing)

An Everlasting Contrast burned through His eyes; born Good, turned Bad, or was He always the monster before me? His footsteps came to a fated halt as did my thoughts. Even in the midst of haze, I could see Him clearly. Radical and radiant, He donned a dark ensemble. Blood poured from His nose and onto His front. His nose was broken.

His nose was broken, and in that instant, Perturbatio became aware of Ira’s own frangibleness. He saw through his wild penetrating eyes, through the fiery lashings of his blaming hatred, and through the smiling wrath that wore him.

In that moment I saw no God, but a shadow of the violence that came before him. He was us and we were him, the only divide, the only wall, a stray bullet. As if he heard my thoughts, he raised his arm to answer with his guiding vessel. Looking skyward to meet His gaze, I faced my ending.

Hollow as the ‘O’ in God, Perturbatio faced the barrel and closed his weeping eyes. In his own terminal darkness, Ira bellowed as if to lend his cry an added note of levity.

Do you believe in God!?

So tell us, O Muses, the cause of such violence. Did Fate shoot this stray bullet from the heavens above? Who do we blame for this crime? Surely not music, surely not movies? Why act surprised? You did this, America. You did this, with your vender-machine guns, with your hallway oppressors, and with your selfish ignorance to your dying children. Have you no heart? Perturbatio’s last memory, a putrid stillness when the violence of yesterday came with its orphaned shadow. An unforgettable look. If you could face an emotion of God, it would have looked like his equal. Power, complacence, closure, and godliness. He smiled, and in that instant, through no endeavour of our own, we understood his actions.

"Bang! All fuzzy Spilling out of The deepest shade of mushroom blue The deepest shade of mushroom"

come back home