The Idol

It was during the hottest month of 1971 that it came to live with us. Only I recognised it for what it was, but the notion of cruelty and torment from my peers prevented any respite from their confidence. I remained silent, all the while watching and waiting, longing for someone to relieve my torment, exposing any of their own personal agonies. But it never came; so I continued my wait.
It was this inflection point that marked the beginning of the long twisted path ahead, the one that would eventually favour my congenital weakness; at last bringing me here to this smoke-filled, long-abandoned basement, patiently waiting for the final curtain to drop on the last act of life.

The sallow wash seasoning my lonely childhood was almost as if someone had shaken a fine, peppery gloom over all that I'd ever known and loved.
The instant that Reginald D. Prendergast strode through the massive, oaken door fronting Roakley Hall, pressing his weather-beaten, sanguine lips onto my mother's, it seems the pattern that described my destiny finally attained its print. This moment, no longer than a rapid blink in time, was when I fully understood the frailty of human-kind, and the comparison of chaos to human existence. Even now I still question what alternative futures could have emerged from this seed, if I'd only proceeded differently, twisting away from the ghastly outcome that would take shape.

Without word or cursory glance, Reginald D. Prendergast tossed the ragged parcel across the hallway to my feet. Then, fervently kissing my mother, he slapped his brown, leathern hand against her buttocks and squeezed.
"Marion," he breathed heavily into her ear, seeming eager for me to hear his passionate words, "let's go upstairs. I need you so badly." He pressed his body against her, groin unyielding, grinding back and forth across her, trying to tease her into submission with the attention of his passion. She stared longingly at his weather-beaten face, lost in the intensity of his lustful gaze, mesmerised by his dark and griping stare. As I watched, a red flush filled her usually peachy cheeks, spreading across her temple. I knew, for now, my time with her was lost. Again I was to serve as second best. But at least I had my comfort for the impending weeks of solitude, a paper-bound donation; charity to placate my happiness.

Reginald D. Prendergast was my father, but to me he was no more than a spectre; a ghost who'd show up to haunt me twice a year; brief respite from his naval cavorting in the Mediterranean. On these indulgent littoral excursions he would immerse himself in my mother's affections, stealing her from my side and leaving me emotionally ship-wrecked, alone in this massive shell of stately abandonment.
Sometimes he'd acknowledge my presence, preaching to me many of his own righteous treatises and describing experiences from his hidden past. But he would always attempt to be fatherly; anecdotal tales that would help to shape me into a man like him.
In my mind I would find myself wandering around his stories, appearing to him intent, yet not really listening; instead using them as the foundations for my own adventures: cavorting across the high seas of India, smuggling spices and gunpowder into the darkest ports of Bengal.

The paper-bound bundle landed clumsily at my feet; loosely coupled around the middle with a piece of brownish rope. He had obviously used fish-and-chip wrapping from the village chip-shop as it reeked of grease and cheap vinegar, but I didn't care; this bi-annual gift was the only connection I'd ever felt to him, and I needed it to remind me of who he was.
As usual I accepted his atonement, thanking him and graciously nodding, just as my mother had encouraged. "Thank you, sir," I called, before dashing to the escape of my bedroom, eager to explore his latest paternal offering.
Frantically, I pulled away the greasy coverings; desperate to reveal whatever was inside; this thing that was to appease my loneliness for the following weeks.

As I sit here, almost alone now, I realise this moment from my past was truly the last time I felt in control; the following two weeks were to transmogrify me forever, shaping me into the bipolar animal that I have now become.

As I stared down at the small wooden effigy, watching it spill from its grease- covered confinement to my bedroom floor, I suddenly felt cold.
I picked it up, surveying it in the outstretched palm of my hand, turning it over and over, attempting to snatch the significance of such a peculiar creation. Maybe it had no significance; my father acquired it on another of his shore-bound excursions in Morocco, bartering for the present at some bustling bazaar in Marrakesh.
I stared down at the small, black, dog-like figurine, and it reminded me of something I'd seen before; something from my schooling: then I had it, it wasn't a dog, it was a jackal. As I gazed into its hideous, sunken eye sockets, vainly attempting to discover why something so horrible should exist, I felt an icy tendril brush my face. I shuddered. It was the hottest day of the year, yet this glacial finger felt like it was probing, drilling down into the depths of my soul, scavenging for some simple prey to catch and consume. A shudder rasped the nape of my neck as my heart thumped: tribal drums pounded inside my tightening chest.
Then, as if satiated by its consuming intrusion, it relented, releasing me from its vice-like grasp. My vague memories of the aftermath recall the figure dropping, slipping quietly from my frozen fingers and twisting downward towards the floor. It bounced once on my mahogany floorboards before resting, motionless, retiring to sleep after its hearty engorgement. With a sudden release, I felt terribly tired; I needed sleep. As I drifted into tormented slumber, the sounds of lovemaking perforated from my mother's room: the horrible grunts of animal passion that lacquered the walls upon my father's return.

Experts say the disposition of being bipolar could be considered congenital, and if you use my case, it surely proves this hypothesis to be true. My father's sister, Connie, died when she but a young woman, still physically sound. After a serious bout of mania, a general calmness settled upon her, and lasted for almost six months. The family considered her finally cured, travelling towards indefinite wellbeing, but then, unexpectedly, she plummeted back into the pits of depression. At the bottom of her descent, in a cell of dementia-absolute, she stabbed her mother twice in the eye, slit her dog Clarissa's throat, and threw herself, from the top window of their flat, into the bustling Kensington street below.
Connie had not been diagnosed as bipolar: that's a more recent diagnosis, yet it still describes her set of ancient symptoms; the markings of her condition equated directly to my own psychotic style.

The day after my father returned, I decided to take the figurine to our local museum. My intention was to elucidate this new torment to Mr Rutello: Curator of Antiquities. It was said by my mother that his knowledge of the esoteric should be considered almost catholic.
Mr Rutello was an old, thin, pasty man, whose bespectacled eyes peered out from a wild hydrangea of greying hair. My mother often said he looked like an owl staring from the confines of a hedgerow.
Tentatively I offered him the figure, explaining its sketchy background: my father's bestowment; a gift from his travels in the south.
Hands shaking, I passed it into the old man's open palm.
He stared down at the small dog-like effigy, rotating it just as I had done, attempting to visualise its history, vainly hoping to decipher some purpose.
With a startling realisation, marked by a barely audible high-pitched squeak, he pronounced the name that would become me for the rest of my life. "Anubis!"
"Anubis?" I repeated, raising my eyebrows in question.
"Egyptian deity. God of the dead." His proclamation came flippantly, as if he'd seen hundreds of hideous dog idols over his years of studies in esoterica.
"Should I consider it as a danger?" I asked hesitantly, still concerned with the previous day's invasion of my soul.
"No, no, dear boy, don't be silly, it can’t be dangerous. It's just a badly-made trinket from some cheap African market." Assuming a well-rehearsed and sage-like manner, peering over the rim of his glasses, he continued, "Even Anubis himself was never dangerous. In fact, he should have been considered a bit of a freak really. He led a cult - as I recall, something to do with funerals and embalming."
His flippancy came as a shock, a blow to my already fragile ego, and it ran deeper than I could ever have imagined. Overwhelmed by this wizened old crank's lack of respect for my father's gift, I sensed a new feeling, one of unbridled rage, surging from inside my personal Tartarus, emerging into the world for the very first time.
I grabbed the idol from his loose, flabby grip and without drawing breath I slammed its blunted edge into the soft part of his temple. Mr Rutello stumbled then fell down onto his knees, partly concussed but mainly in shock. The vision of reality that I'd seen moments before suddenly tinted, shifting to a strangely sallow projection. Then, without warning, that same icy grip reached inside me, releasing me and pushed me into my nightmarish, macabre dance. I felt a god-like splendour in my heart; I had the power to decide if this old man should live or die. But Anubis had now spoken; shown his mind to me and it was my job to do his bidding. I raised the idol high above my head and brought it down with terminal force onto Rutello's exposed skull: again and again I struck him, smashing the statuette into his battered, bleeding head until he lay motionless at my feet; thick, red blood pouring from the gouges in his perforated skull.

After Father's return to sea, Mother decided to rekindle her dormant interest in her only child. But I had changed; and soon she started to notice. A new- found sense of elation was about me, an air of superiority, and it perplexed her. I'd always been her timid, subservient, little boy, doing Mummy's bidding, always needing her support.
The confusion and shock in the village, caused by the brutal murder of Mr Rutello, seemed to overshadow the lives of our community for weeks; my Mother's moods swinging wildly between the voids of sullen and reflective.
For me, life had become intolerable; not as a result of what I'd accomplished, but more from the negative emotion that was haemorrhaging from our dysfunctional family. It was Mother's fault, and this was undoubtedly the case; she was weak; and there was only one way to mend the wounds.
The second time was easier. I wasn't as startled this time by the lightning speed at which I could extinguish life. Mother lay peacefully in her bed, asleep, when Anubis came to her. It was a short matter, lasting no longer than a few minutes.
Then we were free.

Many years later, as I lay on the black-leather recliner in the centre of Dr Falco's office, I remembered that day my mother left. I didn't tell him - I didn’t like to sound too off centre - yet I did tell him of my childhood dread, and my loneliness as a boy. He diagnosed my condition, and that was that. But in my heart I knew the way I was could not be through some physical condition. I had higher purpose, and was only acting to further the cause to which then I had little understanding.
So, here I sit, waiting for the end, with the knowledge that this final dance will finish my work forever. The years have educated me, allowing me to become more competent. I have now developed self-control and a wisdom that has allowed me to shape my methods to deathly perfection. Within me, my guest has grown ever stronger, granting me the epiphany that my own Earthly life has not been meaningless; all paths have led me here; to witness the rebirth of a deity.
My father is very close now. His recently diagnosed condition will not grant him the luxury of witnessing the end, as he slipped into coma over fifteen minutes ago. Dr Falco's eyes glow still brightly, attempting to plead with me as tears stream down his face. Yet, he is bound and motionless.
So finally, all that remains is to complete the act; to open the gateway, and allow his return.
Three simultaneous deaths: not an easy finale to arrange; especially as the third player is also the director.
Father is now slipping from me, so I must make haste.
Three shotguns.
Pointed at three heads.
In my hand, three pull-cords.
It is time.
Ewer R. Prendergast proudly presents: The Age of Anubis.