Life Lessons

A swinging tune waltzed through the clouds that day, up and over the angel's wings, around the golden gateposts and past the lazy cherubs, filling the skies with its melodious sound. It was an arrogant harmony - the trumpets blared with contempt as the piano notes elegantly drawled out, one beat after the other, claiming its rightful title as a musical masterpiece. Or maybe not - masterpiece was far too demeaning a title to give to this musical piece that had intruded amongst the heavens.

Even the seraphs stopped short, turning their heads while blinking back their confused, ocean blue eyes, while all thinking to themselves, "What mortal music dare invade upon our home?" Oh yes, it had to be mortal music - their beats and rhythms were not so contemptuous, for the angels and cherubs here were only versed in the playing of humble songs. This was a music so striking, so bold, that it had pierced the barrier between the mortal world and their own, daring to interrupt those who lived above them.

It was inevitable that He would be unpleased. The angels felt the clouds grew turbulent below them, shaking and rolling through the air. Winds picked up, and thunder boomed throughout their paradise, His lone voice rising above all the noise. When He spoke, His words were enough to carve each angel out of stone, forcing them to stand rigidly still amongst the other weary ones.

"What is that music?" His question ripped through their home, and then, silently, hung in the air, unanswered. No one dared to answer him for no one really knew - most didn't even care, despite the fact that it was an intrusion upon their home. Angels tossed their soybean yellow hair over their shoulders as they glanced at one another, their eyes darting from side to side. No lips parted to speak, none stepped forward to enlighten, despite how His tone thundered from angel to angel.

One stepped forward then, parting the crowd of angels as Moses once did to the Red Sea. Modest, mousy brown hair hung down to his shoulders, and a white robe covered his lanky frame - humble clothing, at best, considered strange for anyone who resided amongst the clouds, but for this one, such modesty was expected. The young man betrayed no expression on his face, nor did he stop and smile to any angel or cherub that he happened to pass as he made his way in the depths of their cloudy abyss. Whenever He called, it was this one's duty to answer, even if he did not have anything of importance to say.

"Merry travels," one cherub called out, breaking the holy silence. A thousand glares were thrown his way, followed by a hundred disapproving shakes of the head - how dare he speak to the only one He truly trusted! They thought to give him a break, for he was quite new here after all, and he did not understand how these things worked. One seraphs, forever forgiving, clapping a hand to his shoulder, turning him away from the crowd, mumbling rules and regulations which would help him stay out of trouble … or at least, it was hoped. The first rule was: no one talks to the one He trusts the most, when he is visiting Him. Surely, it was not a holy thing to do.

Whiterobes soon found himself lost amongst the clouds, away from the fussy seraphs and giggling cherubs, and found himself smiling, if not a little. This was the best part of the journey - when His throne was not yet in sight, and the paradise behind him was no longer able to be heard. Complete silence! For a moment, he bathed in it, letting the light envelop his being - but it was only for a quick while. The clouds were rumbling once again, he could feel them twirling and whirling underneath his bare feet. Sighing, but knowing better than to keep Him waiting, Whiterobes plunged into the clouds, and stood before His throne.

The throne was simple, but at the same time, elaborate. Crafted out of His own holy light, adorned with the essences of all seven virtues, surely it was a place that no other but Himself could sit upon and feel justified. Once, Whiterobes had tried to plant himself upon His throne, but found that he could not bring himself to do so. Only He could, because it was made for him, and made specifically so that anyone else who tried would feel their own unworthiness seep into their system - cursing their sin, every sin they've ever committed.

"What ails you, Father?" Whiterobes finally asked, his face blank, looking upon Him without so much as flinching. And, as usual, He looked back, peering down from his throne, but, as always, did not reveal his face. Sometimes Whiterobes would envy the creations of his Father - their moms and dads had faces, they had ones that smiled and laughed and cried and sang, so full of different emotions, so capable of displaying so many! And here, he had never seen his own Father express one - at least, not with his face. Once, he had a dad who had laughed and cried with him, but such luxuries were taken away, along with everything else he had once loved about living. Now he stood there, and for a moment, though he'd seen some light in in His eyes, but found that, as usual, they seemed so far away. Naught but an outline could the Son catch, and knew he should be grateful for that alone.

"You know what ails me," He muttered in such a small voice, so small that the Son had to strain himself to hear it. He adjusted his robes a tad, making sure the sleeves hung properly off of his arms, stalling for time, but found that was all the information He was going to give him. If the Son was impatient, he did not show it, not even sighing or rolling his eyes. Perhaps he didn't remember how to; it had been a long while since he had done such things…

The Son let his arms hang leisurely at his sides. He had all the time in the world. "It is just the poppets, Father," he did claim, and with a gesture of his arm, the clouds parted, giving the duo a perfect view of the ruckus down below. From his throne, He peered down intently, and watched his dolls slide their nimble fingers over piano keys, watched them sing deep melodies into microphones, watched them blow diligently into trumpets, mixing a recipe of sounds that He had never heard before. Of course, He did not hear much music from his marionettes, not even the ones they sang in honor of him, for none were strong enough to break the barrier. This, however, was an exception in itself.

"The poppets…" It was not a question, just a statement, as if He could not believe such delicate creatures could create such a strong force. "From which of my dollhouses do these poppets live?" The question dripped with His curiosity, and the Son knew better than to keep him waiting. With yet another swoop of his arm, their view of the world below zoomed out, so as to get a better look at just where these curious creatures resided. It was hard to remember such simple facts - He was known for being quite the tinkered, and had many experiments to attend to. He couldn't be bothered to account for all his creations at once!

He recognized this dollhouse immediately - a world of vibrant blues and gentle greens, enshrouded by lazy clouds. "Earth," He confirmed, and the Son nodded in his usual apathetic way. Surrounded by an elixir of stars, this dollhouse was isolated - purposely - from the other dollhouses he had crafted over the years. Or at least, the other ones that had been successful. He had placed this one amongst other worlds incapable of housing the needs of poppets, wondering if, one day, they'd ever grow intelligent enough to find His other projects that had been successful where others had not. They were slow creatures - many considered themselves the only intelligent life forms in this universe. Of course, they were wrong.

"How many years has it been?" He asked, although he was quite aware of the number. He turned his face - what should've been His face, at least - towards His Son, who could not honestly calculate the number correctly. The Son had tried very hard to forget about his time spent down there; the trials and tribulations he had gone through, all for the sake of granting them salvation. It had been a good idea at the time, maybe, but then Father had went on to create different dollhouses and mold different poppets, some humanoid, some animalistic, but either way, they were all the more interesting than the ones down on Earth. It was the first pancake - the one that was thrown out, tossed aside, and left uneaten, for there were always better pancakes made after the first. The Son bit his lip slightly, taking a deep breath.

"That is not a question easily answered, Father," the Son muttered. "They've lost count themselves, after all." He could feel Father's gaze burning into his very being. "But according to their system of dating, it is the year 2011 there, they have been alive - well, surviving - for quite some time…"

"Alive, you say? And are they well?" He laughed, shaking his head. Their image of Earth zoomed back down to the band of poppets, still playing their instruments with enviable zeal. "Ignorant and arrogant as they may be, they are getting along quite nicely, I'd say. How long it has been since I have checked up on them!" His voice peaked, growing louder, but there was  a schoolboy's happiness in His tone. "Wouldn't it be delightful, to sit amongst them and listen to such music? They didn't have such graceful tunes back in its Beginning. Do you recall listening to anything like that, Son? Do you?"

"No, Father, I do not," was the Son's sullen answer, not wishing to speak of his time there. Instantly, he changed the subject, clasping his hands together and holding them near his chest. "Father, you do not mean to visit them, do you? For idle pleasantries? Things are not as peaceful as they may seem down there, Father, your poppets are running themselves into ruin." It was obvious to the Son that this would happen ever since his execution, but since Father no longer cared, then why should he?

It was then, for the first time, that the Son saw what he had always assumed he would never seen - Father stepping out of his throne. It was a graceful motion: His feet touched the cloudy floor of their paradise as he stood upright, taking a humanoid form. Arms, hands, fingers, toes, legs, and most importantly, a face, was given to Him, equipped with a set of eyes. His eyes looked into those of His Son's - who felt as if he might turn to stone by looking into a set of eyes that were so pure as his Father's.

"Do not do this, Father," the Son managed, his voice naught but a whisper. "I can barely stand to look into your eyes - how do you plan to sit unnoticed amongst these poppets? Unless…" A thought occurred to him, and it wasn't one that he liked. "…Unless you plan to give them the hope they desperately need, yes? Unless you plan to go to them, revealing yourself - you have not done that for many centuries!"

"Nor do I plan to do so," He informed with a laugh. The Son's shoulders sagged with a frown, but remembered his place amongst this paradise. It really was no concern of his what happened to these particular set of poppets. "I plan to have myself a good time, amongst those who love me. Out of all of my creations, these are the ones who love me most, I believe? These are the ones who truly recognize me as their Creator! I shall have a good time with them, I think, and listen to more music, and be merry!"

It was the first time the Son had  seen Father laugh - the only time he had seen his Father laugh. In mere minutes, He was a well-dressed gentlemen, equipped with a black and white suit and tie, along with a cane and top hat, to finish off the look. He probably could've passed for an elderly gentleman, if not for those disturbing, holy eyes. Even he, the only Son, who had never once sinned, felt unworthy looking into them. The Son could only watch as He swung his cane about and tipped his hat to him, waving a hand once again towards the poppet musicians down below. The clouds form a stairway for him, an easy way to drop himself down to Earth - his first dollhouse.

"Won't you come with me, Son?" was His question, which hung awkwardly in the air, like a leaf blowing about in the breeze on a windy day.

It was a tempting offer, but the Son's place, he knew, was here. It was his job to tidy up the dollhouses, to appear whenever the poppets were loosing hope, to draw their puppet strings when needed in order to avoid world-destroying chaos. He cleaned the dust from their arms and shined them up, making them appear brand new. He gave them the knowledge they needed to create, and to destroy, but made sure he learned from the mistakes of the first pancake - Earth. No other poppets suffered as much as the Earthlings did, and there was no way the Son could righteously visit them without feeling immeasurable regret for their failings.

It would do his Father some good to see their ruin for himself.

"I cannot," the Son replied, with a sad little smile. "I've much to do here, and I must see that it gets done." It was a shame, truly. For the first time in all eternity, he could look into his Father's eyes, and tangibly give him a hug, he realized, but he could not, due to his duties. Such was his fate, and the Son would not complain.

"As you wish!" He dismissed, and went rumbling down the staircase, leaving the Son alone, cursing the fact that he was unable to cry.

-----

The café was even more striking when he experienced them with his own eyes, rather than watching it from above. Browns and beiges made up the color scheme, the tiled floor being a creamy caramel in color, complementing the sturdy, mahogany walls. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving off a tranquil glow, illuminating the musicians playing their instruments upon the stage. People sat idly at their tables, conversing amongst one another while sipping sherry or enjoy a cup of earl gray tea. Never had He been so amazed in all His life, and He stood there for quite some time, hypnotized by the musician's song.

"Come sit with us, good sir!" a young gentlemen called out to Him from across room. Quite obviously, He stood out like a sore thumb, standing in the middle of the café, watching the jazz band as if they were the most astounding performance He'd ever seen. This, in fact, was the truth, but to His poppets, they might've seen like an adequate sounding much. He turned to face the young gentleman who called out to him - he sat alone, although he chatted amongst the others sitting in tables around him, and casually tossed smiles at anyone around him. His aura seemed well enough - why not take up his offer? Cane gripped in His hand, He sluggishly made his way over to the young gentlemen's table.

"There's a good man. Pull up a chair!" He did so, slowly, getting used to fingers and reflexes. These poppets had it fairly easy - for being the first pancake, that is. How simple it was for them to use their limbs!

He took his seat, noting how comfortable the cushioned chairs were here. Nothing like his throne, of course, but quite comfy, indeed! Suddenly, He wished that he had spent more time watching these poppets, from up above - they were such snazzy dressers, and had the cutest little places to loiter about. They were even quite beautiful, especially the maiden with red hair, now sitting across from him. He watched  as she sipped at her martini and let his mind drift…

"Cat got your tongue, mate? Seems like this is the first time you've been to a place like this before." It was the generous gentleman speaking once again, brushing his jet-black hair out of his face, his grey eyes locked onto that of His, looking a tad troubled but the depth of which the stranger's eyes held. The people about him had lost their manners, and openly stared into His eyes, entranced by their inhuman quality, but the young gentlemen caught him, coughed into his elbow, and extended his hand out to Him.

"The name's Ray Campbell, sir -my father own this little café. There isn't anybody in the city that doesn't know about us."

At first, He merely stared at Ray's offered hand, but quickly recalled that these poppets placed a strange amount of faith in physical greetings. Right, he wished to shake hands. His hand gripped Ray's tightly, squeezing it and vigorously shaking it up and down, as one would shake a Manhattan Cocktail. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Campbell. Your father must be proud to have such a respectable-looking chap like yourself as his son!"

"Indeed, he is," was Ray's offhanded comment, as if he preferred to dismiss the matter. "Tell me though - I have not seen your face around these parks! My father - well, and myself as well - knows everyone in this city of ours, and it is quite a rare sight to see someone I don't know. Care to introduce yourself?"

"Ah, there is little interesting about myself," was His statement, which he felt was not a lie. It was impossible for him to lie anyway, especially in this dollhouse, where it was a heavy sin. "I heard this music from far away, and decided to come and listen to it in person. Those musicians are… very talented." For poppets, anyway.

Ray laughed, flashing a set of pearly white teeth. He clasped his hands together, showing off a golden watch clamped on his wrist, along with a simple golden ring placed upon his right ring finger. "Ah, we get that a lot. This particular bunch is a always a favorite here, that's true! They can only play here once a month sadly enough, but whenever they do, it's always a blast!" Ray spread out his arms, as if to gesture to the entire café. People were up and about, leaning against the wall while bobbing their head to and fro to the beat, chatting amongst their friends, and snapping their fingers to the musician's tune.

Mr. Campbell smiled at the sight, then turned back to Him, then leaned in closer, a hand shielding one side of his mouth, the way one does when about to confess a secret. "They say this music is enchanting enough to breach the heavens, you know. Some have claimed to see angels and cherubs, dancing amongst them!"

"Really now!" He exclaimed, for this was the first time He had heard of such a thing. Surely this had to be legend… but it would explain how the tune had reached Him, and called Him out of his idle, systemic routine. He turned toward the musicians, and watched them play their last tune, before bowing to the clapping audience and packing up their things for the night. Of course, He had not prepared Himself for the fact that, eventually, the music would have to stop playing. These poppets had been cursed with such short-attention spans and extremely low stamina - something he had fixed in his other dollhouses - whereas He could've sat there and listened to them for the rest of the night. He was thinking that, perhaps he should force them to continue, when Ray yawned, with one hand covering his mouth, stifling it.

"'Tis been a long night, sir. People your age do not stay up this late, or at least, I thought they didn't. If you're waiting for another band, there won't be another until tomorrow." Ray's information struck a melancholic note in His heart - there would be no more music to fill his ears… until tomorrow? His eyes filled with an irreconcilable sadness, and the grip on his cane grew tighter, holding onto it for dear life. Ray picked up on these signs, smiling a little. "You like music, don't you, old timer?"

He could do nothing but nod. Desperately, He groped about for the words. "More than anything else in this world." The ultimate truth in this statement was eerily shocking. "I have to leave for back home in the morning, I've no place to stay here," He explained, knowing that he should get back to His Son, and tend to the paradise once again. Back to the mundane work of being the Creator…

At these words, Ray's expression perked, an impish grin rising in his features. "I'll tell you what. I could give you a free room at the Campbell Hotel, for free! No charge at all - you've done enough by spending this lonely evening with me." He raised his class, in cheers. "I'll take you to it, how's that for convenience? I ask for no payment, except that you tell anyone who asks you how you paid for your room that it was given to you for free, by Ray Campbell, son of the richest man in town!"

-----

Ray, in His eyes, was the perfect Christian. Born into the eternally wealthy Campbell family, he often took in strangers he met in charity events or parties, giving them free rooms in the Campbell hotel, free of charge, only asking that they spread the word of his good deeds. On the surface, it seemed like an altruistic thing to do, but, perhaps, if He had bothered to scrape past said surface, he'd find that these actions were not necessarily self-sacrificing. As more people talked about Ray Campbell, the more popular he became,  the more people visited his father's café and hotel because of this. Eventually, his good deeds more than paid for themselves.

But He, surprisingly enough, was not here to judge - in fact, a week after Ray had given him a free room at the Campbell for "as long as he needed it," He had totally forgotten why he was originally here in the first place. But perhaps this was for the best, because this dollhouse had a lot to offer Him, and He wanted to sample all of its goods before going back to take his place on the throne.

Without Ray, the luxurious life God lead would've been impossible. He had thought Ray had been kidding when he claimed to have been lonely - but apparently, this was not the case. Despite being the most well-known bachelor in town, Ray was admittedly single, and had no close friends to which he would spend his evenings with. He claimed to pass the time by playing solitaire and attempting to beat himself at chess, but this was only when he wasn't promoting his father's café or hotel, or meeting with more of his father's associates, or socializing with other important blokes for the sake of his father… Ray was a busy man, but He had given him reason to claim a stake to his own life.

They went out for cocktail parties often - another prodding from Ray's father, yes, but it was all in good fun. The women were always dressed in their finest, their hair done up with extra mousse and hairspray, lips painted with their most vibrant shades of lipstick. Most sent a plethora of winks and air-kisses to Ray, who always returned their shameless flirtations - sometimes out of interest, eyeing their curved frame and perfect legs, and sometimes out of obligation, for it wouldn't do well for Ray to be seen as imperfect to the public eye. Although he was always watched by the world, Ray, in return, always watched the world as well.

Often times, when socializing wore the two out, Ray treated his strange friend for dinner - again, it was on the house, asking nothing but to tell others of his names. These dinners were what He liked the best, for Ray always knew the best places in town, where the food was just as good as the waiters who served it to them, tending diligently to their every whim. Once, He was complaining to Ray about a terrible cramp he had developed in his back, and Ray, with a snap of two slender fingers, brought to waiters to His side, who worked out the kinks in his back instantly, with what had to have been a magical massage. T

They served of food that He had never been able to dream up of - lamb steaks, grilled tilapia… but most of them were dishes with names that He was unable to remember. Pastas, soups, salads, multitudes of different chicken, pork and fish dinners… And the deserts! Oh, He could never pass up ordering a desert, but his favorite had to be Devil's Food Cake, much to his own dismay. "Is there any way you could go about renaming this dish?" He had asked Ray once, who only laughed and answered that his father wasn't that rich.

On Fridays, Ray dragged Him to the theatre, where they sat in the crowd, in the very Top Box - with his father's name engraved in said box, Campbell - and watched actors dance and sing, and monologue, all of them donning expensive gowns and utilizing elaborate prompts to make the show all the more appealing. When the play was over, Ray brought Him backstage to meet the cast, who all signed autographs for Him, smiling and thanking him for coming to see the show. Of course, they already knew Ray - as everyone did, and more people continued to do so, with His promotion and Ray's prominent social status.

Time wore on, and He came to be a small celebrity in himself, known mainly as Ray's best friend, his confidant, while others claimed Him to be Ray's grandfather. His enigmatic quality made him the talk of the town, and it wasn't long before he was attracting the same number of inquiring journalists and adoring fans as Ray was. The two made a game out of how long it would take for someone to come up to them and ask Him a question or proclaim how much they admired and adored Mr. Campbell - He usually won, which Ray lamented over jokingly, a good-natured sport 'till the end. Many laughs were sometimes shared over how big the two were in this quaint little town, and often, over a pipe and a glass of sherry, they wondered silently to themselves what life had been like before they had met each other.

Alone in his hotel room, He oftentimes stared into the mirror, truly attempting to remember what life had been like before he had met Ray. What did he do, all that time, when not creating new dollhouses and fine-tuning his poppets? Truly, playing the puppet master was not as fun as living in the little houses he created for his dolls itself. They were lucky here, he realized, they had it all made! From theatre houses with a play airing every week, to restaurants where butlers catered to their every whim… what had the Son been so worried about, when he spoke of the ruin of these poppets? Surely, this was a wonderful world, and he saw no reason to pity these creations. Sure, they were not as intelligent or resourceful as his other creations, but they had a pretty easy life here, nonetheless. His ponderings usually left him sleepy, and after a while, He stopped wondering about the evident "ruin" of these people altogether, enjoying life with Ray as it was.

But one day, after leaving an especially ritzy cocktail party with Ray in his limousine, the dark-haired gentleman lit his cigarette, turning to Him expectantly. "You know, it's kind of funny," he started, laughing to himself. "Here we are, best of friends… and I don't really know much about you." They had ignored small-talk, calling it trivial and inane, and whenever Ray had tried, His eyes would lock onto his, and it would be hard for him to remember why speaking with Him was so important in the first place. Now, equipped with almost opaque shades, Ray looked everywhere but at Him, awaiting his reaction.

Understandably, He was silent for a good moments, lost in calculating his retort. "Like I've told you before, what's to know about a little old man like myself?" It was here that he would abuse His holy eyes and make sure to hold Ray's gaze, loosing Ray in their depth, sucking him in, until Ray remembered to look away and change the subject for his own sake. This, however, was not an option today.

Ray took a drag of his Marbolo, blowing smoke, while watching the clouds swirl about listlessly in the air. "Nothing interesting? Maybe. But there's got to be something." He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, looking down at the limousine floor before continuing on. "For all I know, you could be a convict on the run. Or a pedophile, coming to a new town in order to seek out some new pray." Immediately, he realized how harsh his words were and sighed, shaking his head, as if he meant to apologize. "Look, all I'm saying is that it's… it's just weird… I trust you like I'd trust a brother if I had one, and you know everything about me. All I ask is that you tell me a little bit about yourself. It's all I ask."

When he put it like that, it seemed like a reasonable thing to do. Ray had given him a luxurious hotel room, shown him theatre, parties, great food, and most importantly, music. And now, all he wanted to know was a little about himself. For anyone else, it probably would've been an easy request but obviously, it wouldn't be easy for Him to just 'open up.' But Ray was a Christian, perhaps he could except the fact that the Being who had created him was now his best confidante.

With a strange amount of optimism for how this would turn out, He turned toward Ray, smiling his own little shaky smile and admitted: "I am God."

Campbell choked, inhaling the smoke he had been planning to exhale, nearly swallowing his cigarette in the process. Quickly, He patted Ray's back, as if this would help at all, but to his surprise, Ray pushed him aside, gasping for breath. The vigor of his coughs was forceful enough to knock the glasses off of his face, but thankfully, he no longer needed them - He was too flustered to think about abusing the quality of His eyes at the moment. For the first time, He saw Ray's eyebrows narrow, his stormy gray eyes turning to slits, saw his hands clench at his sides, his fingers nearly crushing the cigarette in his hand.

"God?" Ray laughed, his voice high-pitched and hysterical. "Are you kidding me? I mean - I'm serious, are you really trying to make a stupid joke, or something?" He shook his head in the negative. "I give you a free hotel room for how many months now. I take you out to dinner. I take you out to cocktail parties - not just hosted by anyone, mind you, but some of the most prevalent people in town! I take you to the theatre and let you sit in the seat where my father sits, where only he is supposed to sit, but I make an exception for you because I trust you. I trusted you. And you're sitting here, claiming to be God?"

"It is not just some paltry claim!" He exclaimed, his voice weakened, not as strong as it should've been. "I am telling you the truth. I am being completely honest. It is true - the rumors about those musicians being able to play music that transcends to even the heavens; they are how I came down to Earth! I heard them and I only wished to be amongst them, to listen to more melodies play experience life down here, among the people I have made. Is this so hard to believe? Are you not a Christian, Ray?"

"Don't you-" Ray spluttered, pointing his Marbolo at Him, his hands shaking with rage. "Don't you try to play the religious card on me. You know I donate to the church every Sunday - you know I am a charitable person! Don't bring God into this - don't slander my beliefs with your falsehoods!"

"I slander Him not, for I am Him!" was His retort, truly hurt by Ray's claims. His eyes, once powerful, holy things to look into, now drooped with melancholy, unable to understand why Ray could not believe him. "Am I not your confidant? Why do you think I would lie to you?"

"God doesn't just come down from Heaven to listen to a bunch of - to a bunch of shoddy musicians playing in my father's ragtag hotel; that's a joke and you know it!" Ray thundered, putting his cigarette out on his pants and crushing it with his palm.

He was silent for a moment, but then a smile crept onto his face as he let out a small, half-hearted laugh. "Prove you're God, then. Make this car fly, or set it on fire and let us walk out of it unscathed. I'll believe you if you prove it to me. After all, you're my confidante." The last bit of his speech was smeared with sarcasm, which only dampened His spirits. After all, what Ray asked was ludicrous, and the simple fact that he needed to prove his existence to one of his creations was unheard of!

A pregnant pause settled in the limousine. Even the driver, who usually chatted on her cell-phone while she escorted them back home, had ended her call, attentively listening in to the conversation below. Ray could've bet anything that she was using her cell-phone to record this conversation: it'd be all over the city within a day or so. Campbell's stormy grey eyes settled on His, and for once, looked into them boldly, no longer entranced by his ethereal gaze.  

Finally, the truth came forth. "I cannot prove it," He admitted, with caused Ray to laugh bitterly, shaking his head, placing a hand upon his forehead and rubbing it with annoyance.

"Stop the car, Maria," Ray ordered, and immediately, the limousine pulled over halting completely. They had stopped in a remote area of town, where no woman with bright lipstick and fine high-heels walked, nor did well-dressed men in suits and ties, walking around with briefcases and cell phones pressed to their ears. Instead, there were barely anyone: just abandoned buildings and shady alleyways that no one would ever dare to go down. Ray, idly, lit another cigarette, exhaling the smoke in His direction.

"I cannot prove it because I am not currently in Heaven," He quickly explained. "If I was, I could do such things - but because I am blending in, I cannot. It is not possible. When I return, maybe then, I…"

"Save the stories," Ray sighed, and on cue, the limousine doors opened, letting in the chilly October cold.

He wrapped his arms around his thin frame, watching as Ray sat back in his chair, brows furrowed. "I want you gone, old timer. Don't bother returning to the hotel. Don't bother returning from the café, either. Leave this city-" Ray crept in close to Him, and with a swift push of his unoccupied hand, pushed Him out of the limousine, watching him stumble out of the limo, onto the rock hard pavement, head first. "-and don't you ever think about coming back."

As Ray's limo drove away God lay there, rejected, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

-----

Never before had He noticed how cold these streets could be. This city had once been his oyster, his grand playroom to do what he wished, as he wished, with everyone's eyes locked on him. Now? Well, he might as well must've been part of the city's background - something to quickly glance at before quickly shuffling away. He had no place to go - no hotel to return to, no friends to call his own, and not a dime in his pocket. Perhaps now would've been the time to leave, but he couldn't, not without hearing the music once more.

Oddly enough however, the city had turned itself against him. He could remember its streets, could easily recall Ray slinging his arm over His shoulder, his breath tainted with alcohol, laughing as they traversed down these sidewalks, paved with gold. At least, before, they had seemed to be paved with gold - now, He saw them for what they really were. Cracks split up the pavement while potato chip bags and cigarettes lay scattered across the sickly streets. The buildings seemed to stand up crookedly, unable to stand up tall, erect, and proud - they were ill, some said, with an incurable melancholy contracted from the city's denizens.

As He walked the lonely streets, night after night, looking for that one little café in which Ray had instructed Him not to go, he came across the Sick Children - starving people, begging on their knees for money on street corners. Their clothes were tattered, the pavement scraped at their feet and knees when they sank down to them, skeleton fingers grasping at the threads of their betters for some coin, or the simplest piece of food. Once, He saw a beggar bending at knee before a man who He had been acquainted with at one of Ray's parties - a scholarly gentleman, he had claimed to be, but apparently, he had no heart of his own. A swift kick was sent to the beggar's stomach, who went tumbling backwards, head hitting the ice cold pavement, wounded. The scholar walked away and laughed, leaving His stomach feeling queasy inside.
There were times when He would forget His purpose here, and there were times when he longed for Ray to tell Maria to go back, to retrieve that poor fellow who he had reduced to nothing, and for them to have jolly good times again. What was the point of being in this city, of being amongst his poppets, if there wasn't any fun to be had? Never in his days would He have imagined that life here would not be amusing - his time with Ray had filled his head with jolly times and raucous laughs - and in the process, he felt that all of his dolls must live this way. If not with song, dance, and drink, then there should've been some other fun to be had, yes? Yes? He sought it out, hoping to find it hidden under a garbage can or in a dumpster, but found nothing. Nothing but cold days and freezing nights, wrapped in a blanket of regret.

"You, my friend, know nothing about these streets, do you?"

A voice prompted Him from his fitful sleep - which could barely be called a sleep to begin with. He rubbed his eyes, pulling the newspaper off his shivering body, and took in the sight before Him - a woman with cropped blonde hair and muddy brown eyes staring down at him with her arms crossed over her chest, a small frown painted on her lips. At her side was a small child, her very mirror image, only on her face was an impish grin. The child laughed as she wiped her dirty hands on the sides of her dress, looking at her mother, who was visibly distraught. The mother extended her hand, and His eyes widened, remembering that one night where Ray had done the same to Him. Shaking, He grabbed the stranger's hand, allowing Himself to be pulled upright and onto his feet.

This stranger was the first person who had gotten a good look at him for months. His hair was matted - something that had been once long and luxurious was now tangled, filthy, as if the very essence of these streets had possessed it. He still wore the same suit that he had donned the night Ray had pushed Him out of his limousine, but now, the clothes were more like a joke, if anything else - the sleeves were rotting off, the white undershirt was now grey from all of the dirt it had collected. But worst of all were his eyes - too exposed had he been to human sin on these streets, they were no longer enticing or entrancing, but wholly dead, for all that it was worth. He closed these eyes now, and let loose a long sigh, lamenting all he had lost.

"Do you want to stay here, in this alleyway, and die? Or do you want to come with me, and survive?"

It was a stupid question: of all the things He could do, one thing He could not was die. He was only looking for the music again - all He wanted to hear was the sweet symphony that had awakened Him from his monotonic existence. But he did not know how to tell the woman this, did not know how to ask for directions - or maybe, He lacked the soul to do so. In any case, He took her hand, and let her carry him off into the labyrinth that were this city's alleyways.

The woman, dubbed simply, Lucy, and her child, Chell, opened his eyes to the reality of the streets, and made sure he did not flinch or look away when they came across the beggars asking for bread and cider on the corners. "That is reality for us, and for you. It is nothing to be ashamed of. They have fallen from high places, or perhaps have been born in the mud, as I have. Either way, you will not shame them by looking away as if they are the plague. They are people. Always remember this." And He did.

She taught him how to beg. "You go on your knees, and let your body tell the story of your pain," she instructed, doing so herself. The woman hung her head then, blonde hair curtaining her face, while cupping her hands and holding them upward, resembling a tea-pot in her delicate pose. "Do not touch them, but always look them in the eye, especially those in suits and suede shoes. Appeal to the human inside them, remind them with your eyes that one day, this could be them."

At the end of the day, Lucy, Chell, and Him combined had little coins, but enough to spend on some bread and, if they were lucky, some warm cider, to fill their bellies. They had to eat it as soon as they had it in their hands, in case other wanderers sought to take it from them. But no matter how much bread they had obtained, something in their stomachs always seemed empty… unsatisfied. Their hunger was not something that the streets could easily cure, and He knew it.

Most of the time, they slept amongst other wanderers, with the hope that there would be safety in numbers. Sometimes, this was just the opposite, and hostile wanderers would attack their kin, thieving from their corpses any money or food they could find, before fleeing into the night. It had been a long time since He had seen death - or rather, the death of these poppets, his first creations. Their sort of deaths were always the worst kinds - the look in their eyes right before dying would hold in their expressions forever, the screams emitted from their systems for always ring menacingly in the ears of those who had lived to see their fellow human die.

This was no place for a child, He knew. Chell did not seem fazed by these deaths - instead, she watched them with impassive, blank eyes. Sometimes, if the murderer had not bothered to loot the body, Chell would reach into the corpse's pockets, ignoring the blood and the stench, and would pull out a couple of dimes and nickels, smiling, for she had found the means to buy herself and her mother another meal for that night. The money meant they would not starve, and for this, she laughed, ignoring the blood that had to be shed in order for their meal.

"It wasn't I who killed that man," Chell retorted, when He asked about it once. "You must learn to survive, or you will die!" Her voice was raspy and dry, it scratched at His eardrums to listen to, but by now, He had learned not to flinch away from anything. "That is what my mother has told me, anyway. She is a wise woman, you'd do well to listen to her." With this, she smiled a crooked smile, and He could only wonder what sort of mind lay beyond such a child's enigmatic grin.

Sometimes He didn't listen to Lucy, and Chell probably knew this. Sometimes, instead of begging, he'd take to the nearest alleyway and bury his head in his hands. Sometimes He'd just watch the wanderers pray on their knees for help, and he wondered what anyone could possibly do to help them. Even if they had food, these people would forever be scarred by these memories. He recalled the women he'd seen, taken into these very alleyways and used for nothing but pleasure, their screams muffled, with no one around to help them.

Sometimes He wondered if He'd ever find that music again…

Months passed, and He found himself sitting with Lucy and Chell in an abandoned warehouse, looking up at the sky through the destroyed roof at the snowflakes innocently floating down to Earth. Chell was shivering, and Lucy had given up her only blanket to warm her, whispering to the little one that everything would okay, even though she knew it wouldn't. Chell responded with a sniff, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, looking at Him expectantly, as if He could do anything about their situation. When no, all He could do was sit, and again, wonder to himself: where had it all gone wrong?

People outside were dressed in their warmest winter clothes - hats, scarves, mittens, and gloves all adorned their frame, as they all crowded around a large building, with a brightly lit ball sitting atop it, slowly ready to drop. Most came with friends, family, or lovers, holding them tight, taking pictures, ready to embrace a fresh new start in the world. For them, it would mean another year, but for the wanderers, it only meant that they had managed to survive yet another year in this wretched state. Lucy saw no reason to celebrate.

And neither did He, for that matter. With his skeleton fingers, He had managed to start a fire, a small one, at least, to ward off the cold from their little camp. Chell's stomach growled as she edged closer to the warmth, looking up at Lucy, and asking in the smallest of voices if she had any food to spare. As usual, Lucy didn't - the bread in her pocket was to be the only food she had eaten today - but gave it up to Chell anyway, smiling a little as she filled her face with its dry contents. Slightly warmed by the fire, and slightly full by the bread, Chell found herself smiling a little, content - which was a rare occasion. He couldn't help by smile at the sight, and wondered, for a brief moment, if there was beauty in these parts after all.

As Chell's eyes began to close, something moved in the shadows from afar. It dashed from here to there, sneaking through the warehouse, undetected by none, not even Him. The smell of bread still lingered in the air, and the fire - a real fire! - was too much for him to try and stay away from. A knife stood poised at his side, held tightly in his shaking hands, its point glinting in the moonlight shining in from the roofless warehouse. He licked his lips, and a ravenous smile sketched itself on his face, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth. The little girl, sleeping peacefully amongst the other wanders, would never see it coming.

The stranger leapt from the shadows then, knife poised, rushing towards Chell, letting an enraged scream loose in his throat. Their peace was shattered in that instant, but despite this, little Chell continued to sleep, not bothering to move, or open an eye, or to cry out for what was to be do. Lucy sprang up, ignoring the knife, ignoring what she had seen done to women by men with knifes, and charged at him, shoving the man away with all her might, her eyes dancing with fury.

"Stay back!" she cried out, her hands crossed over her chest in a defensive position, trembling as she stood there, knowing what was to come. "Stay away from Chell, you filthy pig! You will not lay a hand on her!"

The man, who had been tossed to the floor with Lucy's shove, slowly picked himself up and grinned luridly, wiping the drool from the sides of his mouth.  He poised the knife again, stepping slowly towards Lucy, a feral cackle slipping from his lips. "I will eat tonight, at least!" he cried, and rushed towards the trembling woman, without an ounce of remorse in his stride. The dagger soared closer and closer to Lucy, but right as he was about to struck, He stood upright.

"Stop this!" He demanded, and His tone was enough to stop the man in his tracks. The stranger cocked his head at Him, hissing under his breath. "You will not harm this woman and this innocent girl. You have to remember… He is always watching you. He is watching over you all."

The man with the knife stared blankly at Him, and then, he laughed, breaking into hysterics. Tears streamed from his eyes as he did this, his whole body shaking and erupting with his laughs that it seemed as if he might never stop. Soon, he brought his giggles to a close, and, with a grin on his face, shook the knife towards Him, smiling all the while. "He is watching over us all? Do you mean to tell me that you think God exists?"

These words burned at His throat, and He found that no words would come bubbling up at this throat.

"God? There is no God! If there was a God, would we be in this mess, huh? Do you think I'd be here, ready to take that little girl's life?" He threw down his knife in frustration, the blade bouncing off the floor and skidding far away from his grasp. "Do you think that there would be people like me in this world, if there was a God who loved, and truly cared for us?" His voice cracked as he spoke, and true anger seeped in his tone. "Well, I know damn sure there is no God. God wouldn't let the rich parade about in the streets as women and children die in alleyways. He wouldn't let people starve and kill others for a bit of money… There is no God! And there never has been! And so…. And so this deed must be done!…"

He was near Chell now, for he had been inching ever so closely towards her as he spoke. He took her by the throat, at first gently, as if to wake her, and then, he squeezed it tight, her little neck almost crushed under the weight of his grip. Chell's eyes flew open as he did this, and stared into the eyes of her murderer's, at first, and it was a damning stare. He arms flailed at as she tried to pull him off of her, but no, it was all in vain. Lucy rushed over to the murderer, slamming at his back with her fists, trying to break away his grip from Chell, but she was too weak, too hungry, too tired to go on… The life was rushing from little Chell's eyes, and with the last bit of her energy, she turned her eyes towards Him, in all of his useless glory, and spoke three little words that would forever haunt His existence.

"Go… to hell…"

She was limp now, in his arms. Lucy, defeated, could do nothing but stare at Chell's corpse, before slumping to the ground, drowning herself in a barrage of her own tears. The murderer bit his lip and scooped up the body, taking the meat with him for later, where it would ward off his own hunger. Lucy had no energy left to stop him; she had been fighting for all of her life, and now, there was nothing else she could do. Except cry. Except mourn. Except agree with the man who had killed her only kin in this world.

"There really is no God…"

He watched her cry, but felt no tears of His own come. An emptiness filled him, an explainable sort of pain and loneliness that he could not place a name to. He reached out His hand to were Chell's body had once lain, and wondered… and wondered… if this was all worth it. If a little music, if a little joy, was worth going through all of the repercussions. Pain, sorrow, loss - death, destruction, murder. For every bit of laughter and happiness, there would always be more strife and darkness to cloud their future.

A light enveloped Him then, as a familiar voice called from up above, telling him the time - that it was His time to come home, now. Perhaps the voice was right. Perhaps there was nothing more to see, about Earth.

Lucy looked up from her crying, but only to find that that He was gone. Everything was gone. She rubbed her palms together and looked up at the sky, at fireworks and the brightly lit ball dropping from the tower. In her ears, everyone around her yelled, "Happy New Year!" As they reached for each other, with hugs and kisses from friends, Lucy reached for the knife, hoping for joy her the end.

-----

He stood near His throne, in the same spot where the Son had first shown him those musicians, in the same spot where he had decided to have a visit with the first creations He had ever made. He did not have hands anymore - nor feet, a body, and most importantly, no eyes - for it was better this way. Easier. After all, He would never have such things again. No one in this universe would ever have such things again - at least, not the way that his first poppets had.

Slowly did He put His hands around His dollhouse, watching the world turn idly. He watched the oceans crash upon the shores and the clouds lazily chug their way across the Earth, and He wondered to himself why he had never done this before. No one ever preserved the first pancake, with the hope that it would taste better later. No one ever ate the first pancake, because they knew it would not be as enjoyable as the ones that came before it.

This world lasted much longer than it should've… But now…

He squeezed the world into his hands. He watched the oceans fall apart, the mountains crush under his grip, catastrophe unfolding as He crushed the once beloved dollhouse with all of His strength. It crumbled easily, and its remains fell into the abyss - space, where it would be forever lost, but never again would its pains and sorrows plague another of his poppets again. He watched the bits and pieces fall, and took a deep breath. It was for the best…

"Did you learn anything, Father?" the Son asked, standing suddenly by His side. He turned to face His Son, and searched his face; as usual, it was always unreasonable. A part of Him wondered if this was His Son's payback for what he had subjected him to a long time again - asking him to live amongst these poppets, and then having to die for their irredeemable sins.

God frowned, and, grudgingly, nodded. "I have learned too much," He admitted, and with a wave of his hands, brought earth and water together - it was time for him to rebuild.