14 Feb Seven Little Gods

The little Gods are whispering again. I can barely hear the words, but I feel their will tugging at the corner of my thoughts. I know what they want me to do. Pen and paper — I don’t trust the greedy machines which plunder my mind. I’m sitting here alone at my desk. The lights are off. The wood grain is real to my touch. The metal tip bleeds ink into my fingers. On what grounds should I believe my stained skin is real, but this stained mind is full of lies?

It’s her fault if I’ve gone mad. I never should have gone looking for my sister Wendy. Maybe it’s my father’s fault for leaving. Or my mother’s fault, for crying about our family falling apart. And of course my fault too, calling Wendy crazy and driving her away.

You could tell Wendy wasn’t all there the moment you saw her. Imagine a twenty year old Helena Bonham Carter, blind drunk, raiding a Halloween store and getting dressed in the dark. The hooks of her corset never matched up. Her hair was a bird’s nest after a storm. Her shower must drench her in jewelry and mismatched trinkets, if she ever showers at all. And always her haunted eyes, hardly blinking, wide and quivering, as though stretched open by invisible hands.

Do my eyes look like that now? I don’t know. The little Gods like the dark. I won’t turn on the lights. It’s the second rule.

I hardly saw Wendy after she moved to college. She wasn’t always like this, but she was definitely headed in that direction even before dad left. It was a bad split too — lots of shouting, almost coming to blows between my parents. My father practically ransacked the house before he left, throwing the TV and half the furniture into the back of his pickup. Wendy was screaming at him the whole time he packed, but dad wouldn’t say a word to her. He wouldn’t even look at her. Her face smeared with mascara, flushed beet red, stomping and wailing and throwing things, Wendy kept getting louder and more hysterical until they weren’t even words anymore. Just raw strained emotion, like her soul was being ripped from her chest. Dad drove away, and Wendy has never been the same.

I wouldn’t have blamed her for just being upset or depressed about the divorce. But something really snapped in her that day. Muttering to herself, kicking at walls, screaming in the night — I thought she would get better in a new environment after she left for college. Anyway we all thought dad was going to come back again, so nobody really intervened with Wendy. Even when she kept slipping farther away from us.

I didn’t like it when Wendy came back to visit. It was the way she looked at us, like studying bugs under a microscope. It was the way Wendy spoke out of the side of her mouth, always whispering to an invisible friend. She would look at us out of the corner of her eyes and giggle as she talked. Mom wouldn’t interrupt her when she was talking to herself. Mom very politely turned her attention elsewhere until Wendy scrutinized us again with her bulging eyes. It was painful to see mother’s forced smile. She wouldn’t let herself see what Wendy was becoming.

“It’s just a game,” mother said once. “And I think it’s charming. I’m glad she isn’t growing up too fast, now that she’s out on her own.”

I was honestly relieved when my sister stopped coming home at all. A year went by without seeing her. Then she stopped calling. No more posts online. I knew Wendy had two roommates, and managed to contact one of them. That roommate had already moved out months ago, convinced that Wendy was bat-shit insane. I distinctly remember her describing Wendy as: “Satan’s bitch.” I would have been offended if it hadn’t made me laugh.

My mother couldn’t take it, and I couldn’t take my mother, so this afternoon found me driving a lonely road to find my sister and bring her home.

Wendy and her roommates had been renting an old house that was much too big for them. They got it for a deal though, and I guess the other girls she shared it with thought they could clean it up and throw parties there. The house looked like it had been through a war though, with its sagging walls and red shingle roof caving in on the third floor. Heavy iron bars and boards over the windows. There was no paint on the rough limestone walls, but a river of graffiti navigated around the dark stains. Most of the graffiti contained monster eyes embedded within the letters or design. The most prominent phrase read: Home of the seven little Gods. It was spray painted in a neon orange arc above the heavy wooden front door.

It was late afternoon when I arrived. I was thankful it wasn’t night. I didn’t feel safe here. It’s not like the neighborhood was bad — the university was only a few blocks away. I wondered if Wendy ever went to her classes anymore. As I walked to the door, I had an unnerving feeling that all those graffiti eyes were following me. I couldn’t let uneasy thoughts get to me though. If Wendy really had gone mad, then it would only make things worse to reinforce her delusions. I was just going to go in, march her out the door, put her in the car, and bring her back home. She would be mom’s problem after that.

I knocked on the door and waited. I looked around the old porch and stared at a garden gnome perched upon the wooden bench. The gnome was made of gray stone, and was pushing a little wheelbarrow which held a small brown cloth sack. I hopped from one foot to the other, waiting anxiously, trying to peer into the side windows. Both shuttered. No sound from inside. No lights.

I knocked again and sat on the bench next to the gnome to wait. Maybe Wendy was just out. I couldn’t remember what her class schedule was, if she even told us. She had nowhere else to go, right? She must show up eventually. Unless she had a boyfriend or something, but that didn’t seem possible. I reached for the gnome’s cloth bag and untwined the string to pass the time. I hadn’t opened the bag yet before feeling something inside squirm in my hands. It felt like an eel or a snake, muscular and smooth. I hurled the closed bag down into the stone wheelbarrow. It didn’t move.

I peeled back a loose piece of wood from the bottom of the bench and poked at the bag. The stick pushed it around easily. It was light. It was empty. I put the stick down and reached tentatively for the bag again. I only picked up the corner, lifting it enough to feel how much lighter it was than when I lifted it the first time.

The front door slammed open.

“Stop! Thief!”

I jumped bad. “What the hell…? Wendy!”

I stared at her a good three seconds before realizing it was my sister. She wore a bright yellow sun dress and a matching wide brimmed yellow hat tilted low over her face. Large aviator sunglasses and deep maroon lipstick made her hardly recognizable.

“Give it back.” Her posture was so straight and rigid. She looked downright imperious, a long finger pointing accusingly at the cloth bag dangling from my fingers.

“What’s inside?” I asked.

“Do not steal from the little God!” she shrieked.

She looked so elegant for a moment that I thought she was better in the head. Staring at the ugly contortions twisting her face, I decided otherwise. I slowly nodded, feeling like I was appeasing a wild animal. I dropped the cloth bag back into the wheelbarrow and stared at the gnome. Then at the spray painted letters above us. I read aloud:

“Home of the seven little Gods.”

“You wouldn’t understand. What do you want?”

Wendy didn’t stop pointing at me. Her posture accusing and suspicious. Not for a good ten seconds. It felt like she was pointing a gun at me, and wouldn’t put it down until someone gave her permission. I wish she wasn’t wearing sunglasses. What the hell was going on with her?

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said in a calm voice. “Have you been here this whole time? Why haven’t been answering your phone?”

“They don’t like machines. And they don’t like you.”

Wendy grinned as she started closing the heavy door. I stuck my foot in the crack.

“Mom is pissed, dear sister. She wants you to come home.”

“I am home.” Wendy furrowed her brow. “I. Am. Home. I…” her voice trailed off. Her mouth went slack a moment. Then she smiled at me. Her teeth were clean and bright — at least she wasn’t on drugs. Her voice rolled as sickly sweet as her smile: “It is so nice to see you, dear brother. Won’t you come in and have some tea?”

Wendy reached for her sunglasses, but her fingers started to shake as they rested on the frame. Her hand dropped away rigidly, with a motion like a puppet whose string had been cut.

“I’m not going in. You’re going out. I’m parked on the street, but don’t see your car. Do you still have the jeep?”

“I got rid of it. The little Gods do not like machines. If you insist, we will ask them for permission to see if I can leave.” Wendy drifted out of the doorway and knelt on the porch in front of the stone gnome. She clasped her hands together, and in a pleading voice asked: “May I please visit my family, little God?”

I half expected the gnome to say something. It didn’t. I started to laugh, but the sound died in my throat. The cloth sack moved again. I know it was empty. It was still tied shut. But it flopped like a tongue rolling about the mouth. I bit my lip and said nothing until Wendy stood and looked earnestly back at me. Then sarcastically:

“Let me guess. They said you’re their prisoner. Did the gnome call you Satan’s Bitch?”

Wendy shook her head. She tilted her face to the side, smiling coyly. “Don’t be crude. It was good news. The little God gave me permission to visit mom.”

I sighed in relief. I hadn’t realized how tight and clenched my whole body had been. I glanced uneasily at the cloth bag. Was that an air pocket, or some hidden bulk inside? It didn’t matter anymore. I started for the porch steps, but stopped again when I saw Wendy wasn’t following. I went back to her and took her hand, intending to drag her to the car if I had to. She planted her feet and ripped her hand away from me. Her skin was so cold, I could still feel a tingling where my hand had touched hers.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in frustration. “We’re leaving, right? Do you need to pack something?”

“Yes. We will go. As soon as I get permission from the other six little Gods. Come with me. They will want to see you before they decide if you can be trusted.”

I would have rather done anything than go inside that house. Even coming this far, I honestly considered driving home now and pretending I never found Wendy. I had already seen enough to guess why her roommates had fled. But for me to turn back, I would have to admit to myself there was something to fear. I understood that mental illness can be hereditary, and ever since I saw my sister slipping into the well of her own mind, I have been afraid one day it would happen to me too. The little Gods weren’t real. I had to believe that.

I tried so damn hard to be normal. I didn’t eat lunch with anyone who had a mean nickname about them. I played soccer. I wore the team jacket. I passed all my classes. No one would call me twisted, or broken, or a freak. At least not twice. I couldn’t be afraid without being a freak like her. So I told myself that my heart raced from excitement as I followed her into the dark entranceway of the grand old house. I must be playing a game. Just like when we were kids, spinning fantasies of make believe.

I fumbled around the wall until I found a light switch. There was duck tape holding it down, but I forced it up anyway. Half a second of light. I flinched and recoiled from the dark mold which spoiled uneven shapes on the lower part of the walls. The blue carpet was frayed and uneven, compressed in a sluggish trail as though once bearing a massive weight. There was more spray paint on the walls inside — eyes embedded in the inscrutable artistic lettering. Wendy’s hand closed over mine, and gently turned the lights back off.

“The little Gods do not like the light.” Her voice was so soft and comforting, like she was trying to calm a frightened child. How dare she think I was the one who needed to be comforted? I wish she would take those damn sunglasses off!

I remained stiff and anxious until she released me. She turned gracefully to stroll down the hall. At least she didn’t look as wild as her gothic high school phase. I still couldn’t believe these smooth motions and measured words belonged to my sister.

I tested the waters by saying: “The little Gods don’t like cars, and they don’t like lights. There’s something I have to ask you, and I hope you’ll be honest with me.”

“Anything, dear brother.”

“Are the little Gods Amish?”

Wendy stopped dead. She turned to look at me over her shoulder. She stared at me. No hint of comprehension, no expression. Only the hard edge of her sunglasses reflecting the meager light.

“Do the little Gods not like jokes either?” I pressed. I couldn’t bear her silence.

Head cocked aside. She was listening again. But not to me. All at once she snorted and giggled pleasantly. I don’t think it was from my joke. She snapped her neck away to face foreward and marched through the dark living room. Slivers of afternoon light still sneak between closed curtains. The silhouette of a long leather couch in front of a massive wide screen TV. There’s no way she could have afforded those things. Her roommates must have been really generous to leave them. Or they really left in a hurry.

“The little Gods have many rules,” Wendy admitted. “But It is good to have rules. Thou shall not kill. We are not born with this rule. We learn it, or we break it, and we suffer the consequences. So it is with the little Gods. Their rules keep us safe from evil things. We are so lucky to have them here, or else we would never know which possible futures to avoid.”

Wendy sat down on the leather couch. I resisted the urge to pull out my phone’s flashlight. No machines, no light, that breaks both rules. Maybe each God had one. Two out of seven already done, this wasn’t so bad. Humor her, play along, I told myself.

“The little Gods are very wise to know the future,” I said cautiously. “Maybe they knew you would have been in a car accident if you didn’t get rid of machines. Or would have to clean up your own mess if you turned on the lights. Was that mold on the wall? I hope your security deposit wasn’t too high.”

Wendy wasn’t listening though. She stared at something on the stone mantle beside the TV. It looked like another garden gnome at first, but no. A stuffed animal? I took a step closer. Wide eyes blinked open, pale and shining. An owl. A real live owl ruffling its wings on the mantle.

“May I please visit my family, little God?” Wendy asked the owl sweetly.

I quickly scanned the rest of the room, looking for other hidden animals. Nothing. Then looking back, I stared at the owl — at the graffiti owl, spray painted in blue directly onto the television screen. The real animal was gone. Only its image in thick paint remained.

“Thank you. I will ask him too.” Wendy pulled her knees up onto the leather couch and turned around to face the opposite wall. “May I please?”

Another image. Dark red paint. A terrible mask with tusks like a wild boar. The graffiti image of a screaming demon. How had I not seen it before? Was it like the owl, a real demon truly there a moment before, and only now replaced by the paint image?

“Thank you. I will tell him.” Wendy smiled at me. Her lipstick was the same color as the demon on the wall.

“They both said yes. As long as you also follow the third rule: no lies.”

I nodded, dumbfounded. No machines. No lights. No lies.

“Tell me all the rules now.”

“I can’t. The rules change. Sometimes thou shall not kill is not a rule. I have never heard it in this house, so maybe it is allowed here.” Then after an uncomfortable pause: “You can laugh. I made a joke too. I won’t really kill you.”

I didn’t laugh. “Well you aren’t allowed to lie either, so that’s nice.”

Wendy stood and moved for the stairs. In a casual off-handed tone, she asked:

“Do you think I’m mad?”

“No lies? Yeah. But I don’t think it’s your fault.”

She paused to consider, but seemed content with that. Before following her up the stairs, I leaned over to run my finger over the blue graffiti owl on the TV screen. The paint was still wet. I hadn’t just been too distracted by the real owl to notice. The image hadn’t been there before, and now it was. I looked back at the red demon.

“No lies, your turn,” I said. “How long have you been talking with the little Gods? From before you left for college, right? You didn’t find them in this house. You brought them with you.”

“Yes,” Wendy whispered without turning.

She hurried up the stairs, lingering briefly on the small balcony which overlooked the living room below. She stared down with a regal confidence at me while I climbed. At least she wasn’t afraid. I moved slowly, carefully scanning the walls and ceiling for more graffiti. The owl had been real though. Was the demon face real? Were the eyes real? Of course not. There were spray painted words too. It’s not like there were real floating words in the air that turned to paint. That thought had been intended to reassure me by how ridiculous it was, but then I wondered if they were only snakes twisted into the shape of letters. Here on the dark stair, climbing through the madness of another mind, anything at all seemed possible.

One of doors on the second floor was open, and Wendy was already inside. I heard her say:

“May I please visit my family, little God?”

I hesitated outside the door. A normal bedroom — a familiar bedroom. Neatly tucked pink blankets, cluttered with stuffed animals. Nature posters on the wall. Stacks of books — children’s books — I didn’t have to see the covers to know. It was the way Wendy had her bedroom when she was little. Every detail mimicked, all the way to the doll mansion which dominated her little writing desk. It was her Christmas gift one year, back when mom and dad were still getting along. Back when he was still making good money. Maybe it was a kind of therapy for Wendy, trying to stop time at the last point where the world made sense.

Wendy prayed before the doll house and listened to a reply only she could hear. Then I thought I heard the whispers too — so soft, only my imagination. Mumbling, chanting, laughing, nothing. Just guessing what my sister must hear. I scanned behind me, a subtle betrayal of my own confidence. There blazoned in fresh red paint across the wall, the mask of the demon painted beside me. And where its tusks should be, real bone pierced through the wallpaper to stick out from the wall. I didn’t turn my back on it as I maneuvered to the door to Wendy’s room, slamming it shut and leaning heavily on it.

“The fourth rule,” Wendy said at last. Her voice was cold and calm, the words almost clicking with their precision. “Thou shall not fear.”

“From these little tricks? Easy!”

Wendy turned to smile at me. “You see? These are good rules. They are for our own good.” She kept smiling, wider now, stretching unnaturally far. A trick of her lipstick extending beyond her mouth perhaps, but no. The smile kept extending until it split her entire face across. And so many teeth! Teeth which were not even separated from one another, but carved from the same block of white wood. It wasn’t lipstick, but red paint, with the rough wooden grain of her lips clearly visible. In Wendy’s hand she clutched a doll which wore a wide brimmed hat and yellow dress, just like her.

“Let us leave behind our fear in this house, brother. It will only make us suffer.”

I backpedaled, knocking hard into the door. I forgot it was closed. But I wouldn’t open it to face the painted demon, the thing which whispers, the little god. I was leaving this madhouse with my sister. Daylight would reveal these tricks for what they were.

“What happens if you break a rule?” I asked.

I bounced off the wall and dashed for the closed shades.

Wendy made an awful screech. I wouldn’t look at the wretched puppet. Reaching for the string — my fingers around it, but I could not pull. There was a rule against the light, and I was a wretched sinner for needing its salvation. An angry chorus of accusing whispers rose in my mind. Hissing, spitting in their anger. A mounting roar from an unseen crowd, cursing in a language I didn’t know. Wendy’s warning screech drowned out — my pounding blood drowned out — my own thoughts, overwhelmed by the anger at my own action. I felt ugly and wrong, as though acting against my own nature. Holding the string of the shades felt like holding a knife to the throat of an innocent. I was crushed by the moral guilt of daring to challenge one of the sacred rules.

“No light. No fear.” Wendy’s wooden jaw clicked.

I looked longingly at the warm sun sneaking between the cracks of closed shades. I released the string. I released my fear. I turned around and stared at the wooden creature kneeling on the floor.

“Three more rules,” I said, breathless. “Then we go.”

“Three more little Gods.” Wendy bent her head away from me as she stood, her face concealed beneath her broad hat. Then looking again, the wooden texture was gone. Her mouth was the proper width again — her teeth clean and bright and human. She opened the door, and her smile was steady and confident while she waited for me.

She said the rules were good for us. What if she was right? She was such an emotional wreck in high school, but there was no denying she had transformed herself completely. This was a powerful woman who would get what she wanted. What was so bad about leaving behind fear and lies? If these spirits were real, then could they really be helping and protecting her?

Back in the hallway — the walls bare. The painted red demon was gone. Two holes remained, ripped wallpaper drywall beneath where the tusks pierced through. I think the demon was one of the little Gods, but it was the only one following us.

“I was afraid when father left,” Wendy said. “What would happen to us? What was wrong with us, to be worth less than the television?” Wendy sighed. She marched ahead of me down the hall, straight toward another closed bedroom on the second floor. “I didn’t know then that fear was against the rules. I would have been so much happier if I had been good. But I understand now how wicked I had been, and how right it is for the wicked to suffer.”

I flinched at the way she savored the word suffer. Like it was some kind of medicine, bitter to taste, but necessary to live. She opened the door and revealed a dark room without any windows. Not even the tiniest sliver of sun. I could not see past the doorway and the frayed carpet which was ripped to shreds to leave bare floorboard within.

“What’s the fifth rule?” I begged.

Wendy only smiled and stepped into the yawning void.

Whether this waking nightmare was real or not, it was real to Wendy. And I could only save her by following her into the dark. I left the door open behind me this time and stood there while Wendy recited her rhythmic chant:

“May I please visit my family, little God?”

Maybe I hadn’t always listened to Wendy before. But I listened now, intent on each word. Was there another texture in her voice, another wooden click? Her words did seem more distant than they ought to. Was the sound I heard her speaking at all, or a monster which mimicked her voice? It was so dark, there was no way to know. She might as well be alone as long as I stood on the threshold. I stepped into the black room, my hands gingerly probing the air in front of me. She had only been a few steps ahead. Shouldn’t I feel her?

“The fifth rule: do not hate.” Wendy’s voice sounded more distant than ever. Her words were almost insubstantial, drifting across an unseen lake.

“I don’t hate anyone,” I insisted.

“No lies!” Wendy wailed.

The angry chorus roared in my head at once. Scolding whispers. The shame. I hadn’t even realized I was lying. The words came to me so automatically, but I maybe I didn’t stop to think what they really meant.

“Do you hate me?”

It was a new voice in the dark. So alien, yet so familiar. It was the first time I heard my father’s voice in years, and now it came from right over my shoulder. My arms raised and flailing, I spun in a circle and probed the blackness. Only then I realized I could not see a spec of light from the door I entered. It was dark in every direction, so deep that not even shadows passed over one another. There was no light or strength in me which could endure.

“I’m talkin’ to you, boy.”

The blow came hard and sharp against my right ear. I stumbled to my knees, catching myself on the rough wooden floor boards.

“Do you hate me?” my father’s gruff voice demanded.

I was frozen. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to accidentally lie. My ear stung like mad — maybe I was even more afraid of the truth.

“I hated you,” Wendy’s voice from so far away. “Before I knew it was against the rules. And I suffered for it, daddy. You didn’t make me suffer. I deserved to suffer. I was wicked, daddy.”

“Be quiet,” I pleaded.

“I won’t ask you again,” came my father’s gruff voice.

I took a deep breath. I wouldn’t let myself be afraid. And if I wasn’t afraid, then I wasn’t weak. And if nothing made me weak, then there was nothing to hate. I would not break the rules.

“No,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t hate you, dad. And I don’t hate you, Wendy. I think it’s a good rule, not to hate. And that you should probably remember not to hate yourself while you’re at it.”

I cannot say there was a light which led me from that room. Instead I no longer let myself hate the darkness, and moved and felt freely until the doorway presented itself. I exited back into the dimly lit hallway, with Wendy close behind. My breathing was shallow but calm. I felt in control.

“Where’s the sixth little God?” I asked.

Wendy nodded upward, tilting her sunglasses at a string dangling from a little trapdoor in the ceiling. The ladder for an attic, revealed as Wendy pulled it down. I stepped back and gave her deliberate space, looking everywhere but the yellow sundress rising up the stairs. I looked at the demon face painted onto the wall. The paint faded to nothing before my eyes, withdrawing along with the tusks which left two new holes. The paint did not reappear, but a pair of yellow eyes burned through the openings in the wall.

It was all a game. A test. I would not show fear, but that didn’t mean I had to stick around with it either. I jumped up the ladder two rungs at a time, hauling myself hand over hand onto the wooden platform above.

“Wendy?” I called tentatively.

The thick air made me gag. More than mold or stench, it felt like I was swallowing a lungful of tiny insects with every breath. I made my way toward the small square of light — a boarded up window. It wasn’t enough to see anything besides a few inches of rough uninsulated wood.

“Where are you Wendy? Where’s the sixth one? What’s the rule?”

My fingers traced the board over the window. I wanted to rip it off so badly. It was getting dark outside anyway. There wouldn’t even be much light that came in — just a little clean air. My lungs and throat tingled with the texture. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized each piece of minuscule debris I breathed in was itself wriggling and crawling within my lungs. Countless little creatures, spreading so deep as to become part of me.

I wanted the light, but I must not have the light.

I wanted to scream, but I must not be afraid, and dare not breathe to do so.

I wanted to hate Wendy for bringing me into her nightmare. But I could not hate her, because I felt pity for her, enduring the clutch of the little Gods alone these years. I felt sorry for every mean thing I said, and the part I played in driving her away.

“The sixth rule,” Wendy’s voice came softly at my ear. “Is not to hope.”

“Hope? That’s not a good rule. Hope isn’t like hate. You can’t get rid of hope.”

“The rules are the only thing that keep us safe,” she insisted earnestly. “I was like you before I learned, for we can only learn through our suffering. How many days I told myself not to worry about that day, because I would move on with my life when dad came home. And how many nights I held onto that hope, that redemption, that forgiveness for being the awful person I was becoming. That hope rotted inside me. It was poison. So the little Gods said it was not allowed. Thou shall not hope.”

Not to hope, and not to fear. How could I do both? How could I do anything at all without hope of my action mattering? I realized what was happening now — that each aspect of my humanity was being shed from me. But I could not break the rules. How could I have any hope, when each breath tingled with the invisible creatures permeating my body? How could I hope against the moral condemnation, hope against the whispers which rose bitter in my mind? They were part of me now, and there could be no hope of them ever letting go. I did not understand the whispered words, but I felt their intent to steal my awareness. How dare I challenge the rules which kept me from suffering? Who am I hurting but myself for these wicked desires? I must not give in to hope.

“The sun has set,” Wendy said.

The sliver of light grew a little stronger. Wendy was shifting the board which blocked the window. The sky was dark, but a little moonlight was salvation to me. But even this was not hope. There was no escape from this. The voices would not cease, rising and falling within me as waves of emotion which were not my own. What was left of me was at the mercy of these laws which I could not question.

“The final rule.” Wendy carefully removed her sunglasses at last.

I flinched, but was not afraid of what I saw. How could I be afraid of what had happened to my sister, when I had already given up hope for us?

Two tusks. Piercing from her skin, where the eyes should be. Just as it they had done from the wallpaper. The bony spurs pulled back into her head, and the yellow eyes of the demon peered at me through the bloody sockets.

“The final rule.” My sister’s voice, but not her voice. It was her words inside my mind, one of the whispers from the angry Gods. “The final rule is that you take us with you. The little Gods will go with you when you visit your family. They will be with you always, to keep you safe from suffering.”

No machines. Thirty miles. We both chose to walk.

No light. We would cover the distance before the sun rose.

No lies. That is wise. We will make the world a kinder place.

No fear. At what I had become.

Even walking thirty miles, with blisters bloody and sore, the little Gods told me I did not feel pain. Maybe I did, if I really focused on it. But my feet and my body seemed so far away, and the voices were so close. I was their vessel, and they sailed me safely through the storm.

No hate. But only pity. For the lost and blind who wandered through their anguished lives without little Gods to show their way. Through the noise within my head, part of me which was still me protested against the madness I was thrall. But that part of me was small and quiet, and did not dare to question the rules. Each step another rationalization that I was still the one in control. I even convinced myself that I was becoming more free the farther I left that house, but it was all a lie. The little Gods were with me still.

No hope. They were in my lungs, in my blood, in my thoughts, screaming and then quiet. Challenging, mocking me for my every thought and focus. I had no hope for myself, but kept guarded in me a secret flame of hope for others who have not yet been claimed by the little Gods. I would not bring this curse home to my mother. And yet my feet walked as if on their own, and I could not muster the strength to challenge them.

All night walking weary along empty streets, until the first hint of morning gave me pause.

“We must hurry!” Wendy grabbed me roughly by the arm and dragged me onward, but I resisted.

No light. It was a rule. But if I could only slow my pace a little bit, then the light would come again. Just by standing here until the sun, I would break the rule. I would suffer, but I could not stop the sun from rising. If I could only stop my body, then I would break the first rule. And that would give me enough strength to break the rest.

“I’m going as fast as I can.” A lie. I was holding back. I was testing my limits, and I was breaking the rules. I planted my feet and stopped where I was. “I have a cramp in my thigh. Give me a minute.” Another lie.

Bitter whispers creeping through my thoughts. The little Gods were catching on. They would force me onward, or make a new rule on the spot. I only had to resist until the light. I sat down on side of the street. Then lying flat, spreading my arms and legs wide as though to plant myself where I was. Nothing would move me. A lone car honked and flashed its brights at me, but I would not stir. The sun would come, and I would be the tree which drank in its light. I would break every rule. I would be afraid, and scream for any who cared to listen. And let me hate, for there are evil things in this world, and it is right that I should hate them. And on I hope, if only the sun would come again, then this suffering too shall come and pass.

I lay on the side of the road until the morning light engulfed me. My skin tingled as though melting ice. And deep inside, the squirming protest of each part of me which fought back. Until at last the peace and quiet, the birds breaking the rules alongside me with their hope for the new day.

Wendy was gone. Fleeing for darker places, no doubt. But I walk through these days unafraid. I will follow only the rules I make, and when I make mistakes, and I will not hide from my own suffering.

My resolve is not some epiphany, felt once and preserved forever. It is the daily struggle, and the nights like this where I sit at my desk. I feel the things squirming in my chest, and I hear the whispers of the little Gods. So I will keep the lights off tonight for respect, and I will write this note of warning not to hide from suffering. These words you can trust, for I must not tell lies.