A Monster Was Born ✔️

Tower of Tanoi (Part I)

The dead, solemn corpses gaze sightlessly into the sky, their bodies already becoming bloated and tinged with rotting grayness. Yet, there was one man who made a pile as towering as a city apartment building out of the corpses, placing them one on top of the other, their limbs and clothes and skin sagging limply as he did so. And when he reached the top, he started to laugh.

I was awestruck and horrified. I remember how my hands shook, how I gazed into that airy stillness at that tower of corpses, spiraling to a place far beyond my reach. As much as I felt disgusted, I saw a sort of cruel beauty in it. It was like observing artwork, those paint strokes detailing every shade, every change, every hint of light and darkness that had been lost to the world, from their gaping mouths like fish in water to the unnatural coloring of their skin, the sure sign that a person is gone. Part of me wished I could capture the image, that these are the souls whispered to heaven, arrogantly gazing down at the rest of us from some forbidden place, the packages of their former selves no more than rag dolls lying about.

I looked at my colleagues, both of whom had an expression of shock, just standing there unable to move, hearing the madman laugh and laugh. I sighed, knowing I had to fulfill my duty, and raised my gun to his back.

"You're under arrest," I said, and the maniacal sound faded. "Put your hands up and slowly turn around."

It's strange how such a young man could lead me to this fate, I had thought. Surely a life gone to waste. This was in New York, after all. With a little bit of work, he could've gone to a state college with minimal loans, get a good job, start a family, and the rest would follow. It was a shame that yet another would follow the dark path that led so many others astray.

His body build and height suggested he was most likely in his mid twenties. Muscles rippled under his gray t-shirt, his skin the color of old caramel. The jeans he wore were black and torn at the joints, giving him the image of a thug or drop out. Yet his hands had the feel of an artist, of someone who was experienced in creation, who had endured hardship and time. Obeying my orders, his hands were lifted to the sky, as he pivoted his body so that his eyes could meet mine.

His eyes were a deep black, almost like the vastness of the universe, revealing in their emptiness. I was falling in them. Finally seeing me, his right lip twitched, curling into a sneer as his eyes widened as though in mockery. I was more than disturbed and my heart pounded faster as I made the order to arrest the man. He lowered his arms and the handcuffs binded him with a loud click behind his back. He began to contort his mouth strangely, making whooping noises. His head swayed like it was too heavy for his body and I managed to catch him before he fell over.

I felt like I knew more than I did before. This was mania through and through. Something must have washed his sanity away and then the noise and fever took its place. I shook my head in genuine pity. Poor thing. A dead parent, an eviction, a gun to the head. Of all people, I knew best how fragile the human mind is, how it drives even the brightest and kindest of people to become criminals. Perhaps when they take him away he would be able to get treatment.

Just before we could start interrogating, however, the man spoke.

"Isn't it amazing how long men can live? Even when they are dead they don't stop until their bodies reach the heavens!"

"What?" I said, startled by the suddenness of his speech.

He laughed at me and raised his head to the sky, then to the pile of corpses, his voice and manner weirdly akin to that of a toddler still exploring his new world.

"The mind crumbles when it stumbles, the building falls when it gets too tall, the oceans will dry up when God gets fed up."

He beamed and clapped, as though proud for the cleverness of his own words. I looked over to my colleagues, who had the same confused and uneasy expression as I did. They whispered to each other when he appeared distracted. Schizophrenia? Perhaps. Maybe he is drunk. Maybe he is crazy. Crazy from being drunk? Did you dig up dead bodies and pile them up on top of one another when you were drunk? Well, no, but each person is different. Maybe he is in too deep, I doubt any of the cures they have could work on him.

Clearing my voice, I spoke up.

"Is there a reason for all of this?" I gestured at the pile.

He glanced at me nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders, still swaying his head to some invisible rhythm.

"I wanted to see if they had melted into cheese. How does the human meat and bone hold, I wonder, when the soul is not there to stitch up the veins? Do they feel the same life as I do? The people who pass me by are so naive, they think they are special. But if they were to see these empty shapes of flesh, they shouldn't think so no more. No, no, no. In the end, these are all what we dissolve to be, marionette puppets, stubborn and free!"