METANOIA

MUSHROOMS

Barry wiggled his pinkie inside his ear to see if he could stop the ringing in his ears.

Buddy Christ turned out to be a surprisingly annoying prankster. He was prancing around the room in his fluffy cartoon robes; Barry stared back at him in disbelief. The devil was more calm and collected, and Barry started to like him.

Taylor was snoring audibly. The aroma of various bodily fluids that filled the room had become palpable. Barry turned around to look at her back. The phoenix stared back at him, a white ink tattoo across her broad ebony back. The tattoo stood out to him. Barry had no body art and didn't know much about it either. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen a white tattoo before. The phoenix was menacing as its feathers molded seamlessly into white phosphorous flames that danced as Taylor's chest heaved up and down.

Barry looked around the room. It was a medium sized room and the cheap oversized bed occupied most of the space. The devil was sitting on a table covered with all sorts of tribal objects on it. It was a messy room and had all different sorts of lights mounted on the ceiling. Individually, they were all dim, but together, they lit up the room like a mosque. The maggots from the bloat fly were still gnawing away rather unsuccessfully at the badly painted pink windowsill.

An ungodly pair of husky like eyes followed his every move.

Barry's stomach was making all sorts of noise as the hunger set in. "You should eat, Barry," prancing Buddy said in his melodic voice. Barry looked around, and there was a homemade fungal pizza with unfamiliar looking mushrooms on it. Barry didn't think much of it as the pizza disappeared in his hands. He ate it with such speed that Satan joked, "Wow, you inhaled that." His voice was deep and soulful. Barry didn't want to touch Taylor and felt compelled to get out of the bed. Buddy lent him a hand getting up.

Barry stared at his smiling face. Something about the smile was hollow. Barry had always looked up to the person and the myth with awe. But the man before him was clearly a dunce. "What's wrong with him?" he asked Satan.

"Crucifixion does that sometimes," Lucifer joked.

Barry leaned forward to steady himself. He was now on his feet, drawing small circles as he rocked back and forth.

"Why are you two here?" murmured Barry. Taylor shuffled in her bed at the sound of his voice. Barry reduced it to a whisper. "Are you real? Is this some sort of test?"

Satan smiled at him. "You are the reason, Barry. Because you, my friend, are the chosen one."

In truth, Barry was drooling as he stared at a mask.

"We are here to make sure you achieve your destiny." Barry wasn't even sure he believed in destiny. His views on spirituality were obtuse at best. He had always liked the idea but had never thought too hard about it.

The concept of destiny is in itself paradoxical. What good is destiny if you don't know where it leads; more importantly, if you have no control over it? Does it really make a difference if we act out of free will or in accordance with our fate? The choices we have in action are always limited to our frame of reference. Destiny, determinism, and free will, on the other hand, lie beyond our scope. We have no control over whether we are free or not. Regardless, destiny is a tool many people fall back on to project their failures. Whenever you succeed, it is always because of your own efforts, but when you fail, it is always just destiny.

In his tiny mind, Barry also was now falling back on it. He wanted some justification for what had happened in his life, something to hold responsible. In a way, for the first time in his life, he wanted control over it as well. Maybe, just maybe, he would be the single person in history to have control his over his own story. Then he could fix it. He was merely projecting this idea to Satan and Buddy.

He will get his wish, but it is easier said than done.

"The chosen one?" Barry stared back quizzically. He liked the sound of it. It sounded official, important, and powerful. He was consciously hesitant, his subconscious battling against the idea. He wanted verification. "I'm sorry Satan; I think you got the wrong person. Satan? Is that what I call you?" He mumbled, and the saliva in his mouth had given him a slight lisp.

Satan smiled and corrected him. "Lucifer. You can just call me Lucy."

Barry accepted this suggestion in a heartbeat: "Okay, Lucy. I'm sorry, but 'chosen one?'" Taylor shifted in the bed as Barry whispered.

Lucy confirmed, "Yes Barry. You are special." Barry's fractured mind was trying to battle his feelings of worthlessness. His mental conjurings were there to mend the scars from his vicissitudes. He was trying to brand himself worthy. Well, if Lucifer was saying it, it had to be official, thought Barry.

Lucy continued, "It is about time you showed the world who you really are. We are here to make sure you get the respect you deserve." When the answers we require to face the problems of this world are not enough, often we seek answers beyond it. Such is the birthplace of faith. Barry was writing his own.

Now allow me to make a clarification. Neither Buddy nor Lucy was real. This whole conversation took place mostly in his head. The universe is more subtle if it sends messages at all. Why it would send one to human beings, merely a speck in the infinite is hard to fathom. But on the off chance it does, it would be quite impossible for us to understand with our limited perception.

Even in his drug-induced psychosis, in his weakened state, the title "Chosen One" was unbearable. Barry felt his stomach churn from fear, in part because he was constipated. As far as Barry was concerned, it was official. He thought he would be relieved to be the man in charge; to have responsibility would at least lessen the pain. It didn't. But he was committed to the idea and accepted it.

Barry stumbled out of the room, groping random objects around the house as he made his way to the bathroom. Some unidentified objects toppled over in the process, but even that couldn't put a dent in Taylor's kip.

When he entered the bathroom, there was a large black cat staring back at him. Barry shooed it away and closed the door behind it.

He palmed the walls looking for a light switch to no avail until he noticed the dangling string. He yanked on it, and the tiny plastic piece at the end of it tore off. Well, at least the lights came on. He noticed there was a mirror. He feared what he would see on it.

He approached the mirror reservedly, but he didn't recognize the man staring back at him, a madman with crazy, droopy eyes. It was the face of ruin staring back at him. He couldn't face himself. Avoiding all eye contact with himself, he lifted the toilet seat and pulled down his pants. His belly hid his manhood and all he could see when he looked down were some gnarly stretch marks.

He placed his oversized rear over the toilet seat as Buddy and Lucy stared at him. A distant memory of being potty trained flashed somewhere in his mind.

"Some privacy, please?"

His words fell on deaf ears. It is really hard to go when someone is pointing at you and smiling.