The Theatrical Tragedy

Welcome to the World

CHAPTER 1
WELCOME TO THE WORLD

Man was made in a heavenly image, sculpted to reflect this God himself, so how are we impure? thought Doctor Rose, who had only the faintly fading hue of wax to keep him company. His study was dark and damp, plastered in the scent of decay and age. However, the setting held no concern. For every moment that passed, he found himself blooming with fresh uncertainty.
It makes no sense, the doctor thought, spinning a sharpened pencil. He gently twisted the smoothened wood along his wrinkled hand and fidgeted with the pencil tip in his fingers. If there is a God, it would've made more sense to get rid of the wrong. Why would you make Adam if you knew he'd sin? He can't experience Heaven because he bit the fruit. The doctor stops spinning the pencil, and it comes to a sudden halt, flying out of his hand like a wooden spear and stabbing into the dust-covered floorboards, protruding like a root from the ground. Weren't they damned from the start, then? Even before they bit the fruit. Isn't this God supposed to know everything? He stared at the cotton poplin-scented candle that rests on his desk. The shallow dance of the flame flickered and flared amidst the crispness of the autumn air which ran through an opened window. Why would you create something that was born to die? It would've saved the sinner not to be born at all. We wouldn't have to feel pain if we didn't know it.
The doctor gazed into the candle. A crackle whispered to him, and its gentle murmur burned, sounding like the soft sigh sand makes as it glides from a hand. If God was real, then this story wouldn't have happened. Because God would be wrong for making us. He'd have made us just to die. And how can you condemn every man for a mistake made centuries ago? He grabbed the wooden handles of his chair's armrest and, between pops and cracks, stood from the wooden mountain. He trudged over to the pencil that peeked out from the floor. I bet you if this God saw the world today, he'd hate it; actually, I know he would. He laughed lightly, thinking, I know I would. What he created is sick.
The doctor loosened the pencil from the floorboard, but the graphite within the tip cracked and whisked away under the wooden floorboards. He went back to his desk and closed the cover of the book. "The Bible, huh?" he said, placing the broken pencil in a dirt- caked cup. "So, if you're true, we're all broken from the start? That doesn't sound right, now does it?" He stared at the book. Its leather was black and polished, glossy, and looked like warm glass. "I can't believe you," he said. "Fairytale men and forbidden fruits just don't sit with me."
The crisp autumn wind blew cold air from the window, sighing gently into the room like a ghost. The gust blew out the candle upon the doctor's desk, leaving him intertwined within the endless void of shadows. He didn't pay it any mind, it happened often, and the weather had grown stiff, as it usually did on the outskirts of the village.
He looked around his study. Tiny cobwebs netted the room's corners, complimenting the recently discovered mold within the walls well. He reached for the Bible to put on his bookshelf. The books had grown bland, and the thick dust of the other books made a new cover for each leather-bound piece.
But, as the doctor's fingers brushed the book's leather, he felt something—something strong that shook him. He had never felt anything quite like it. It was happiness, it was pleasure, and it was peace. It was so strong—so poignant—that it took his breath from his lips, leaving a speechless corpse whose eyes rolled back from the pure, unbridled joy.
It ran through him, coursing. That was the only way to describe it. Words failed to encompass the entirety of the feeling. It was warm, like the tenderness of a whisky running down your throat, but it wasn't at the same time. It outnumbered any stimulant by thousands, but it didn't feel like a stimulant. It felt like liquid happiness flowing through his veins. It was nauseating, and the doctor felt his dinner muddy the floor amid all the chaos.
The doctor jumped back from the book, and the feeling slipped away from him as fast as it came. He found himself lying on the floor, inches away from lamb chunks and bread.
And to his surprise, he found comfort in the darkness that the candlelight worked so tirelessly to elude. He cleaned himself and the vomit from the floor. His head felt light, like a head cold, trying to float away as he walked to his bedroom, but his body kept him grounded. He felt empty. He needed the feeling again.
The day had been long, and the hour had grown late. As he walked into his bedroom, he noticed that no sound came from the wildlife outdoors. On warm nights, the insects would tease and play and teem with life, comforting him as he slept. It was not that he enjoyed the sound, but it was background noise. Tonight, though, not a sound was made, and the sky whispered through the wind as the clock on his dresser tapped a steady beat.
He looked outside his window and saw the empty, expressionless face of the night staring into him. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the stars were hidden behind the charcoal-colored sky.
He lowered his head onto his pillow and felt a gentle stream of rest rush up his spine. I need to find something, he thought, rolling onto his side. I'm hollow. He pulled the covers over his shoulders, encasing him in a blanketed cocoon. And I can't feel anything anymore. The room was hot, and the blankets made him warmer, so he slipped them down to his waist. He lay awake for a while, thinking to himself, before feeling himself fall down a fading black road.
His clock ticked slowly in an entrancing, waltz-like rhythm.
He was sweating and felt it sting his eyes. It drenched him, and it was profuse, like blood from an open wound. It stung and almost burned, like fire falling slowly against his face, as little water droplets rolled into his mouth. He could taste the mucus, feel the snot rise up his throat and beg to be thrown up. He raised his hand to clear the sweat from his eyes, but his arm wouldn't move.
The air grew heavy, and his breath grew thin. His bedroom was cold, so cold his face was numb. He tried to scream, but his mouth didn't move; his jaw was locked, frozen shut, as a silhouette of breath formed above him. The numbness fell onto his chest like bricks.
Then the door moved, shaking slowly, so slow that only the sound made the movement known.
But then, the door crashed open, knocking everything off his dresser and sending his clock to the floor, where it sprung and cracked into hundreds of little pieces.
He felt fear—true, unbridled fear. But it was similar to the feeling he felt, the happiness. It was the polar opposite, but it felt like it was from the same source.
This felt wrong, though. He was scared. This was fear that choked him, fear that broke him. It rose from his stomach and tasted like a sour lemon lodged inside his throat. It shackled him to his mattress, and the hair on his body froze and stood in attention.
Through the open door stepped a shadow, and with its footsteps, the ground shook.
"Don't hurt—"
He could only get two words out before it cut him off.
"This is just the beginning," the shadow said.
There was a long silence as the shadow stood quietly in front of
the doorway.
And so, it began.