The Truth

[feotakahari]

It's surprising how little I miss having eyes.

 

“The cane helps a lot,” I tell Bobby. “And if I can't chop carrots for dinner, well, I remember having a husband somewhere around here. I'm sure he could make dinner himself.”

“Isn't there anything you want to see, though?” he asks me. “I'd hate not being able to see your face anymore.”

“I can still touch you,” I say. “I can feel those strong cheekbones, and kiss that mustache you keep forgetting to trim. It's overdue, by the way.”

Bobby doesn't argue further, but I know full well what he would have asked. Out of all the things I could see in the world, was it worth giving it up for one glimpse of the Messenger?

My husband hasn't seen the Truth. That's why he doesn't understand.

–

I was one of the first to see Him, when He came down from the sky. It was a clear blue day when something orange streaked across the sky and landed in the woods behind our house. I went to look at it, while Bobby stayed behind.

I couldn't see Him in motion. No one could. So He'll always be a frozen picture in my memories, with eyes like galaxies, and wondrous, hypnotic tentacles. I fell to my knees, and the world went away.

I ran and stumbled, tripping over tree roots, making my way back to the house. Warm blood dripped down my face, and the Truth sang in my veins.

I crawled on hands and knees up the back steps, too lost in thought to hear his movements on the wooden floor of the living room. But he must have turned and looked at me, because he screamed and screamed for so long.

He called 911 and begged for help, saying his wife had lost both her eyes. I couldn't make him understand that I was fine. Better than fine. I'd seen the Truth.

–

“So what's the Truth, then?” Bobby asks me. “Why do you keep talking around it?”

“Because I can't explain it,” I tell him. “It wouldn't make sense to you unless you've seen Him.”

“That's not what truth is, though. Nobody sees the truth. All we can do is think about what we see and try to logic out what the truth is.”

“All you can do,” I say, “because you haven't seen the Truth.”

I hear him sigh. “At least tell me what it's a truth about,” he says. “God? The world? Humanity?”

“Everything,” I tell him. “Everything that's ever existed, and everything that will ever exist.”

“So what's the truth like? Is it beautiful?”

“Beyond anything you can imagine.”

“Then it's not the truth,” he says. “Truth is never pretty. It's always messy and complicated.”

“You're true,” I tell him, “and you're beautiful.”

“Your eyes were beautiful,” he says. “Blue like a lake covered in ice.”

“A sacrifice,” I say. “Something lost, for something gained. The Truth is so much better than my eyes could ever be.”

–

“He's afraid,” I tell the Messenger. “He thinks there's something wrong with me. Something wrong! I feel so complete, but he completes me too. He always has. If I lose him over this . . .”

The Messenger coos at me in a language I don't understand. A tentacle softly pats my head, dripping thick liquid into my hair. I lose myself in the Truth, and all is right with the world again.

–

“I think he hacks your brain,” Bobby tells me. “There's something in your brain that goes 'I've seen the Truth!' It doesn't matter whether what you saw is really true or not.”

“But it is true!” I say. “How do you not get that?”

“Because lying is easy,” he says. “It's hard to solve problems in government, but it's easy for some fresh-faced politician to convince people he'll solve problems. It's hard to run a business, but you can convince venture capitalists you'll be the next big thing and waste their money. I don't think anyone can know the truth about everything, but lying about the truth? Anyone can do that.”

“I can't believe that,” I tell him. “The Truth is more real to me than anything else in the world. I could believe anything is wrong, as long as it's not the Truth.”

“That's what scares me,” he says softly.

–

He doesn't leave a note when he goes to see the Messenger. Thinking back later, I can only guess why he went. Maybe he wanted to do some kind of a test, or maybe he just wanted to understand what was in my head.

I don't realize anything is wrong until I hear the siren.

Brain bleeding, they tell me. Dead before they even got there. The raw, unfiltered Truth met my husband's disbelieving mind, and it killed him.

–

There are some things you just can't do when you're blind. But there's a neighbor who worries about her son. She doesn't understand why he keeps going to see the Messenger. So she puts together the components for me, and she keeps him home that day.

I don't bother hiding it, holding it in my left hand and my cane in my right hand. Everyone who would see it is blind anyway, except the Messenger Himself. And I don't think he'll recognize what it does.

I don't know how mortal He is. Maybe I won't even hurt Him. But I need to try, and at close range, you don't need that many pounds of explosive to kill someone.

I still believe, and I can't hate Him for enlightening me. But I don't think the Truth is meant for this world. Today, I'll leave the world alongside it.