Against God

by Patrick Senécal

  - You don’t want ties to anything anymore, you don’t wanna depend on anything anymore or owe anything to anyone, but c’mon, that can’t work! The proof is you need money! You’ve gotta see you can’t just say fuck it all, that won’t work!

  cause you to moan, as though each syllable pierces your skin, you jerk away and suddenly Sarah intervenes, gently suggests that you listen to your friend, you glare at her then and order her to mind her own business, you turn to Sylvain and ask him since when does he discuss you with his flings, discomfort on Sylvain’s part, then he reveals that Sarah isn’t just a lover, Sarah’s his girlfriend, they’ve been together for a week or so, but he didn’t mention it six days ago, it really wasn’t a good time, but you’re stunned at the news, dumbfounded, bowled over, you utter then the darkest and most ironic of half-laughs, still scratching your

  - So even you! Even you!

  scalp as it bleeds lightly under your fingernails, softly Sylvain begs you to be quiet, says you’re the one who’s been had, by your rage, your despair, your anger, but you don’t listen, you ask Sarah if she has any idea what a womanizer her new lover is, how he’d screw anyone anywhere, no ties allowed, again Sylvain tells you to be quiet, his annoyance growing with Sarah’s embarrassment, but you continue, or does she know he has a computer full of naked girls, pictures of orgies, does she know he smokes pot almost daily, snorts coke occasionally, has been known to call on escorts when he’s got the means, about three or four times a year, and Sylvain yells at you to stop, and you make a beeline for his desk, you open a drawer you know well, you pull out a little bag full of white powder that you throw at Sarah, now Sylvain clenches his hands into fists, now he shouts that’s enough, now he shrieks at you to get out, while Sarah hangs her head, rubs her forehead and murmurs two words that

  - My God . . .

  send you over the edge, that have you screaming at her to shut up, that make you slap her full across the face, then Sylvain jumps you, you fling him off, he flies into the wall, shakes himself then grabs his phone, his hands trembling, his voice shaking, he’s going to call the cops, he has no choice, you need help, and suddenly you pull out your gun, point it at Sylvain who freezes, his eyes literally crossing as he stares at the weapon, the phone just short of his ear, and you’re panting so hard you don’t even hear the girl’s whimpers, slowly Sylvain puts the phone down, terrified, incredulous, he stammers that you’ve gone crazy, he begs you to calm down, but slowly you advance, your breath wheezing, your face drenched in sweat, your lips twisted into a horrific smirk, your voice

  - This is chaos, Sylvain . . . You’ll never get away from it . . . Never . . .

  rasping, quick you open the cylinder, quick you make it spin, quick you close it again, and you take aim at Sylvain, who’s choked with terror, the barrel sixty centimetres from his face, and your voice is nothing more now

  - Chaos and chance . . . Nothing else exists . . .

  than a vestige of breath, and you squeeze the trigger, the click of the firing pin fuses with Sylvain’s cry, Sarah’s screams, then Sylvain falls to his knees, Sylvain lowers his head to the floor, Sylvain erupts into sobs, and Sarah rushes to enfold him in her arms, to cradle him, to wail with him, and you watch the two of them clinging to each other, both of them in tears, and your brow knits, and your bottom lip begins to tremble, and your stomach begins to heave, and suddenly you throw up on the carpet, a single mighty vile stream, no reaction from the sobbing couple, you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand, you slide the weapon back into your pants, you hurry out of the apartment, nearly fall down the stairs in your agitation, it’s still snowing heavily, you start to stagger down the sidewalk, stop, rub your eyes hard, give a long, keening moan, but you resume walking, into the wind blowing through your filthy hair, intersection, a commercial street, practically deserted now because of the weather, a taxi does come along finally, you climb into the back, the driver asks where you’re off to, you say nothing for a few seconds, dazed, paralyzed, the driver reiterates his question, you shake yourself awake, dig through your pockets, Mélanie’s note, the written address, twenty minutes, stop in front of the Youth Centre, barely recognizable through the curtain of continually falling snow, the fare is twenty-three dollars, you give the driver a twenty, explain that’s all you have, the driver balks, starts to kick up a fuss, but you scream you don’t have any more, the driver stammers okay, finally you get out, climb the rise, walk into the house, find yourself in the same room as yesterday, five people busy working, you spot Mélanie at the back, perched on a stepladder, painstakingly painting a doorframe, so intent on her task she doesn’t even notice you, you watch her for a minute, fascinated, then hurry up the stairs, pass a few people, enter Father Léo’s office, the priest is there, bent over some papers he’s studying, he recognizes you right away, smiles kindly, asks how you’re doing, but you start in on him, your voice harsh, your rancour incomprehensible, why do all these people come here, why do they join the group, and gently he answers that the common element here is people’s suffering, but his answer only serves to goad you, you ask what they’re suffering from, you ask what happened to them, Father Léo clasps his hands in front of him, explains that no one here knows another’s suffering, he points at all the people at work

  - We’re not a discussion group for sharing, we’re here to act. Those who join aren’t required to explain why they’re suffering. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is doing something to offset the suffering. Because we are defined not by what we say but by what we do.

  around him, you’re skeptical as you observe him, still dissatisfied, still tormented, then you return downstairs, back to the other room, Mélanie still intent on her work, you watch her from a distance, your face confused at first, as though a fissure, a crack was about to open and release something from within, but finally your features harden and you turn on your heel, Father Léo is standing there, he has come downstairs, he has followed you, he looks at you, you pass him and you spit out your words

  - Your boss is a liar and a double-crosser.

  without stopping, he doesn’t react but a glimmer of compassion appears in his eyes, you hurry outside, it’s storming now, you start to walk, your eyes full of snow, reach a major thoroughfare, a convenience store nearby, you enter, no customers, the clerk barely looks up from his iPhone, it doesn’t take you long to spot a surveillance camera behind the counter, you leave immediately, fifteen minutes by foot to the next corner store, you enter, tiny interior, a lone customer pays at the counter, you scan the room for a camera and find none, you approach the counter, finally the other customer leaves, the Asian clerk smiles, you pull out your gun, take aim, demand all the cash in the register, the sales clerk is nervous but controlled, hurriedly he gives you all the bills in the register, you stuff them into your coat pockets, then stare at the clerk, still aiming at him, you hesitate, finally you hit him with the grip, he crumples to the floor, moaning, half-stunned, you rush out, you walk through the storm until you find a taxi, during the cab ride you count the money, 140 dollars in all, the taxi stops in front of Le Losange, you pay, step out, walk inside, Guylaine is behind the bar and this time she seems to recognize you, even calling out that you look like a snowman, a lone customer, a woman in her fifties playing the slot machine at the back of the room, you sit by a window, the server approaches, you order a beer, your voice surly, Guylaine walks off, you start thinking then, you look conflicted as though trying to convince yourself that what you’re about to ask isn’t a good idea, Guylaine returns with the beer, you ask her then what happened to Mélanie, the server doesn’t understand, you try to be more specific, you know something terrible happened to Mélanie recently, but you don’t know what, Guylaine is surprised, she doesn’t know either, she adds that Mélanie has always come across as unhappy, showing up at the bar every night, often to get drunk, but if something serious happened recently, that would explain why she’s hardly been by for the past week, then Guylaine returns to the bar, and you drink
looking outside, and you stare into the emptiness, and you seem to struggle with conflicting ideas, harrowing thoughts, and the hours pass, and you drink, beer, shooters, two other customers appear, sit down together in a corner, and darkness slowly overtakes the streets, the snowstorm continues, Guylaine brings you your ninth beer, you grab her arm then, ask her what you should do, she gives a start, doesn’t understand, and you insist, your voice thick and

  - What do I do now? Sit here drinking ’til I’ve got no money left? Leave and shoot some stranger? Throw myself off some damn bridge? What the fuck do I do?

  broken, Guylaine tries to free herself, the first signs of panic showing in her eyes, and just then you see Mélanie through the window, in the snowstorm, crossing the street, walking toward her building, you stand up then, start pounding on the window, pounding so hard she finally turns around, shelters her face from the snow, recognizes you, but Guylaine has had enough, she tells you you should go, Mélanie is already inside the bar, you make your way to her, your gait unsteady, waving your arms with a dramatic flourish, you sneer as you ask whether she’s spent another day renovating that frigging house, being the do-gooder, deceiving herself that life has some kind of meaning, the other three customers look at you embarrassed, Mélanie watches you draw near, you stop once you’re up close, then she answers, without the slightest trace of irony or

  - I’m happy with my day. I feel I’ve done some good. For me, that’s got a whole lotta meaning.

  mockery, you hold her gaze but you have nothing to retort, you bite your lip, all of a sudden you retrieve your coat, all of a sudden you head for the exit, and behind you Mélanie’s gentle voice, telling you she’s there, she will always be there, no matter what you do, you turn to her, her calm, her certainty, her eyes full of compassion sending you into such a fury that you kick at a chair on your way out, in the street, the storm is raging, you look for another taxi, cursing, staggering, swearing at everyone and no one, you find a cab, you give the Youth Centre address, the driver seems concerned by your condition, but he says nothing and begins to drive, he tries to engage you in conversation about the weather, but you don’t answer, your crazed eyes staring at your feet, your shaking hands between your knees, a vein throbbing in your temple, stop at your destination, you grab a twenty and a ten that you throw at the driver, step out, struggle up the slight snow-covered rise leading to the front door, slip, fall, get back up, turn the knob, the door opens, a moment’s astonishment, as though you expected it to be locked, then you enter, the room empty but the light’s on, painting finished, the decorating further along, you roam through the room, turn in circles, sway, look at everything with your crazed eyes, tools, plywood, cans of paint, CD player, a stray pack of cigarettes, old newspapers, forgotten coat, freshly painted walls, new furniture, and your eyes glisten with hatred, and you pick up a hammer leaning against the wall, and you start swinging at the walls, the furniture, breaking, smashing, demolishing, you cry with each blow, so loudly that you don’t hear the noise above and on the stairs, too swept away by your fury, and you swing and you swing and you freeze suddenly at the sight of a silhouette framed in the door leading to the hallway, it’s Father Léo, one hand against the doorframe, the other down by his side, Father Léo watching you in silence, Father Léo suddenly looking so old, and the only emotion on his face is one of disappointment, nothing more, and your chest is heaving, you are drenched in sweat and melting snow, silence, the howling of the storm, then the priest asks what you’re doing here, you drop the hammer then, bury your hand inside your coat, pull out the revolver, and as you open the cylinder, as you spin the cylinder, as you close the cylinder, you answer in a voice by now verging on hysteria, that you are the instrument of chaos, and you raise the firearm and you aim at the priest, your tongue moistens your lips several times, your arm swaying from the effects of the alcohol, your teeth clenched to the point of cracking, but Father Léo doesn’t move, he keeps his hand on the doorframe, ignores the weapon, he looks at you, yes, you, and his voice is so slow, so very very

  - No, you are not the instrument of chaos. You create chaos. There is a huge difference.

  slow, you squeeze the trigger then, a deafening boom, in the room, in your head, everywhere, your arm literally propelled backwards, a flash of pain in your right shoulder, two or three seconds’ worth of confusion, then you realize that Father Léo is no longer standing, he’s sprawled on the ground, you blink several times, then you draw near, the bloodstain spreading outwards on his white shirt above his solar plexus, his open eyes staring at the ceiling, his left hand opening and closing on the floor, his rattling breath growing weaker and weaker, ten seconds, twenty seconds, then the priest makes no more sound, the priest moves no more, the priest is dead, you stare at him in silence, and slowly a grimace distorts your features, a horrific blend of hatred, appeasement and despair, you return to the room then, pick up the hammer and start raining down blows on everything, punctuated not with your cries this time but with a harsh keening emanating from a darkness from which nothing human can emerge, your fevered eyes fall on the pack of cigarettes on the floor then, you drop the hammer, you pick up the pack and you open it, a matchbook inside, in no time you have lit several matches, you throw them into every pile of paper and sawdust you see, a half-dozen small fires spring to life in the room, you walk toward the front door, you open it, you glimpse a car parked across the street, I imagine you hadn’t noticed it earlier on, you return inside then, in two spots the fire has already begun to spread, you step over the priest’s body, hurry up the stairs, enter the office, rummage through Father Léo’s coat, find his car keys, then you open the top desk drawer, then the second, you come up with a hundred dollars or so, you take the money, head back downstairs, step over Father Léo again, this time you glance at him briefly, then you cross the room already full of smoke, your gun, where is your gun, you turn in circles, crouch, spit, there, it’s on the floor right there, you make your way over, jam it in your coat pocket, finally outside, you tumble down the rise coughing, you climb into Father Léo’s car and take off, in your drunkenness your driving is erratic but fortunately the streets are practically deserted, visibility is near zero, skidding, distorted view, a storm raging both inside and outside your head, fifteen minutes, then you skid one too many times, hit a pole, you get out, recognize the neighbourhood, it’s not far now, you run then into the wind, whipped by snow, and you reach your building, and you enter and you stumble upstairs, and you bang with all your might on Mélanie’s door, she opens it to you, and suddenly she’s frightened, as though at the sight of you in this state she knows what is about to happen, you shove her then, you enter and close the door, you grab Mélanie’s hand, you drag Mélanie to her room, you push Mélanie onto her bed, Mélanie crumpling onto the mattress, begging you no, panic in her voice, and you strip, without a word, now you’re naked, you’ve got an erection, you order her to strip, but she refuses, still begging you to stop, you mustn’t, don’t, you mustn’t, you swoop down on her then, in a fury you rip off her clothes, she starts to struggle but your fist connects with her left eye, she goes limp then, half-conscious, and you stretch out on top of her, you penetrate her violently, her dryness, a cry of pain, her body stiffens, then your to-and-fro, your savage piston moves, and your grunting, and your lowing, but soon your vigour is lost, and you cry in rage, you intensify both in ardour and violence, but nothing helps, your member too limp now to continue its ravages, you stop then finally, still lying on Mélanie who struggles weakly, your face buried in the mattress by her head, a terrible retching, your stomach turns over, you roll onto your side and finally you founder, shadows, nothingness, perhaps you’ve passed out, perhaps you’re asleep, it doesn’t matter, the fall is the same, and when you open your eyes again, sunlight filters through the bedroom’s half-open curtains, you sit up on your elbows, splitting pain in your head, sounds from the next room, Mélanie appears, wearing not her workclothes but clean jeans, a woolen sweater, she sets a tray down
on the mattress next to you, toast, coffee, a large glass of cranberry juice, two pills, you stare at her stupidly, she stands there, her hands clasped in front of her, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her left eye black and swollen, no reproach in her gaze, no anger, only resignation with perhaps a shadow of hope emerging, finally she speaks, suggesting you wash the pills down with the glass of juice, an even voice, no intonation, and you obey, you swallow the pills, you drink half a glass, docile, the clock on the desk reads nine thirty, Mélanie explains that she didn’t want to leave you alone this morning, that she’ll go to the Youth Centre this afternoon or tomorrow, you sit up on the mattress, you examine her in silence, incredulous, bewildered, she adds then that she told you, she will be there, she will always be there, no matter what you do, no matter what you’ve done, you lower your head then, rub your forehead, and you yourself seem surprised to hear the words that