I Am Friendly.

January 3, 2011
By LibbyL PLATINUM, Layton, Utah
LibbyL PLATINUM, Layton, Utah
34 articles 0 photos 10 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Tomorrow May Rain, So I'll Follow the Sun"-the Beatles
"Hungry Bellies Feed Revolution"-Mr. Seiter

This may sound odd as an introductory, but I am friendly.

Stars cartwheel across their black canvas. Each twinkle caresses the universe with awe. It’s a clear night, without a trace of smog in the heavens. The celestial beams are evident without any intervention, enabling the human mind to wander as they gaze into the night. Are these points of light a portal into another world? A widespread map, purposely sent from Providence? No matter how much humanity may revere stars, I do not like them.

Snow falls. Ah, but this is not snow, is it? It’s not cold to the temperature, like condensed precipitation should be. It’s philosophically cold. It chills the heart and mind rather than the skin. Still, the white fluff, pushed by the breeze, falls from invisible clouds on this clear night and plasters the ground. This snowstorm hasn’t brought along crisp air, however, as one might assume. The air smells of smoke, and something indefinable. Only I could place a finger on that smell, for it is one that has beckoned to me since my very existence.

This was not snow, silly me. Ashes. Burned remains of creation scattered this city tonight. It was such a beautiful night, but not a soul entered the streets. Such a shame, I think, that I missed this wonderful city all lit up in gold… I do not like desolation. The emptiness of the town was a familiarity to me, however. A job is a job, whether or not you like it.

Catching an ash in my hand, I solemnly wonder to whom it belonged. There are no bodies to take away this night. Flames already forced those souls into my arms. I must only walk a little longer to reach my destination. The plume of smoke scars the night, and I know that is where I’ve been called to.

My job, you may ask, is to heal the downtrodden. Fix the broken, repair the tortured soul, and mend the physically ill. I often get calls. My job never takes a break. Travel is a certain, but twisted, benefit. I have no need for life insurance. Strange, isn’t it, that as I consider my job, I walk underneath the metal gates declaring, in German, that “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.” Work will make you free…

This is the opening message to a camp called Dachau. Just a few miles northwest of Munich, Germany, Dachau is advertised as a concentration camp for political prisoners. In reality, it is nothing more than an extermination camp. Here I stand, introducing myself at the gates of horror.

Clouds of smoke now crowd the sky, erasing any vision of beauty. I am familiar with clouds. Screaming begins from inside the building, I close my eyes. The earsplitting cry stops abruptly. I cannot linger long. Time is running short these days, with so many souls that need to be healed. It seems as if the demand for me is rising as the 1940’s bloom.

Gypsy blood is on the ground as I make my way into the brothel. The room I’ve stepped into is rising in temperature, and the people inside are beginning to feel pain. A child falls, I catch him. A woman, presumably his mother, rushes over to his body. It is too late. I catch more falling people, until I have gathered everyone in the steaming room.

This is what I came for.

I step back outside into the chill air. The clouds block my view of anything heavenly, and the heavens cannot look down upon the massacre. If it were possible, God would have seen and stopped the annihilation. But with His vision skewed, here I stand, reaping in the souls from the bloodbath.

You may have guessed my identity. I will not make you search any further. In fact, I’m sure that you’ve seen me before. I know you, personally, and one day I will greet you. If you’re unprepared for that day, simply take a look in the mirror. It’s you-humanity, that is, that’s caused my appearance. This war, a peoples war, has caused innumerable casualties. I do not like humanity. I do not like evil, murder, or loss.

After all, what soul truly accepts themselves?

This may sound odd as an introductory, but I am friendly.

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