That year was hard for him. It took him by his soul and shattered his existence. That year made him realize that he had lived all his life in lies. Lying in lies. Washing in lies. Sleeping in lies. Even his collar was a lie. Intact and clean lie.
He started to believe he was unlucky.
He thought, if he had to suffer, why change the tormentors? If the previous tormentor was as cruel as the next one, why did he move on? And who on earth moves on with one tormentor to another? Walli does. But he isn’t a stupid being, mind you.
That was all fine though. Suffering is a way to excellence. To Prophethood. He believed he was Nietzsche’s’ Übermensch already. And he believed he should proclaim prophethood. Soon. A Prophet who will denounce all religions. ‘O my dear villagers! I hereby decree myself the Prophet of none. To undo. All your beliefs. I hereby order you all, to fire the townhall, and roam around it, until you are all exhausted, and are ready to jump in the fire, so that no one – no Prophet – in times to come may come to give you warnings of hellfire.”
Would that proclamation be enough for the whole village to save it from hellfire? He guessed. He always guessed.
However, there was one among the whole village he never wanted to suffer. Here or hereafter or whatever is after that. He knew sufferings are irrationally divided and they cannot be imported or exported but he wanted to inhale all her sufferings. He wished he could. Inhale. Her. Sufferings.
He knew, she would suffer with all her sufferings she brought from skies for herself. He thought, why not burn down the whole village under a direct command of a new Prophet? The finality of sufferings must be in suffering. In fire. In hellfire.
But he missed the point. He always misses the point. He was her suffering. Enhancing the domain of suffering of the Prophethood to the entire village was based on a wrong analogy. Only he needed to be burned alive. He. Was. Her. Suffering.
The only dot constant in his life was her. And he, like a moth, was roaming around her. Without seeing her. Without meeting her. Without talking to her. He was her suffering, and she was the fire he was circling around.
So, he must die. Like a moth. Wandering. Tired. Exhausted to death. Happily.
The point is, there was no point. Wrong decisions to ignite a chain reaction of suffering. And see, here is he. As restless as ever. As alone as the first betrayal. Punished without the original sin.
Or maybe, He was the villain of his own story. Or the story of the entire village.
The fire was ready. Townhall was ready to be destroyed. He bent down and looked in the fire. The reflection of fire in his eyes was the reflection of fire outside and the universe was in a dilemma about the real fire. Herein. Within.
Up till now you thought this was in the imagination of Walli. No. He proclaimed.
“O’ Spectators of all the sins and all the evils and all the pains and sufferings! Remember that I happened to be Prophet with the shortest time period. Because she happened to be my story. And if I am a failure, a villain, I denounce the prophethood, and I give myself to this fire.”
For the utmost love. To the unity. In another life of Walli’s journey.