Do you ever wonder if it thinks? Looking down at us, its radio antenna like antlers raised to the clouds; I imagine the bolts as eyes peering into me. The green paint had begun to chip by the time it had occurred to me to consider the bolts as such, but once I had, the image was burned into my retinas.
The tower stood a hundred, perhaps two hundred feet in the air, its cylindrical body filled to burst with water, and its crown covered in jagged, mechanistic spikes. Some people claimed that they could feel the signals which radiated outward from the antlers, but I never could. All I could feel were its multitude of bolted, omnidirectional eyes. At once it looked at me, and from behind the fence into the Townhouses and beyond. In its sight it bore witness to something lesser than itself: all of us.
I wonder if it thinks. I wonder when I walk alone at night to my apartment, peering up at it as it were a monolith to the stars. I wonder as I lay in bed, knowing that just from beyond my windowsill, it stood. I wondered if it could see within my home, and watch me as I rest. The more I considered, the more I knew that it could. Even in draping the window in linen, I knew it could see.
For us lesser beings, but not so lesser that thought is unreachable, thoughts are paired with feeling. When I think of my dog curled up in my bed, I feel love—companionship—joy. But the tower, as with all beings of sufficient grandiosity, did not feel. It surely thought, and often, but no feelings did cross its cerebrum; if it can even be said to have a cerebrum at all, as such a thing is required of us lesser things, but perhaps not something as great as it. No, not it, He. I know he’s there, watching me, studying me, contemplating my actions. For something like Him, it can be certain that whatever it is that I might do, He has surely already considered it. There is no surprising, countering, or fighting Him; He is beyond any such action. Indeed, He takes no action; ever watchful, but not active. He just stares at me, those bolt-eyes piercing my flesh and rending it from within. His gaze is like a thousand roaches writhing through the ligaments between my bones, pushing past my flesh to escape my skin. Through piercing my body and consuming me, His gaze only wishes to escape my body, and gaze upon Him and Him alone. Through tearing me apart in His observation, He is able to witness himself with even greater clarity.
Perhaps that is what He wants—to see Himself within us. I am unconvinced. Any motivation that we might approximate is akin to the desires of an ant in the dirt, looking up at us, as we look up at Him. I do not feel comfort knowing He is watching. I feel fear—fear knowing that He does not feel anything when he thinks. Whatever it is he thinks about, I know that it is beyond what us lesser things can understand, and in our failure to understand, we are left with no other option but to assume malice.
Two weeks ago today I noticed His antlers. One week ago I noticed His eyes. One day ago I realized His thoughts. Today, I have begun the process of excising myself from his gaze. I know I can’t escape it in life, so I have begun my preparations in death. I do not expect to find anything in death, other than perhaps the freedom of His eyes. It began with the extirpation of my eyes, followed by my legs, and then my left arm. I kept my right so that I had the means to end things after I had given Him a sufficient show of admiration. In assuming malice, I also assumed thus:
He desires my blood, and if I am to escape His gaze even in death, I must make an offering that pleases Him.
So now I am left, a screaming stump, bleeding like a pig hung up for slaughter. I lack the strength to lift the blade to my neck—I’ve lost too much. I hoped that He would get a better show… I can only hope that bleeding out onto the floor is enough for him.
God, I pray it is enough….I cannot imagine what he thinks, only that it is evil.