Golem

[01.08.01] » by Noah Bayens

He giggled. The dolls burned so easily. It wasn’t the destruction of them that pleased him; the colors, the textures flying from his hands, catching and holding the doll as it dissolved into a brilliant black and red wind. The red danced over another doll, recreating the glory again. It was so beautiful.

His glazed over eyes led him on, down the stairs, where more dolls waited. He was aware of others such as him, others caught in the moment of sheer ecstasy, others who found the beauty in the dolls.

His regressed into a non-existent childhood. He vaguely remembered his family. A distant father . . . he had a father? He didn’t remember. He should have a father. Yes. Yes, he should have a father.

An alien word escaped his lips. The plosives rolled out, hard sounding.

"K . . . "

More dolls had gathered around him, different than the others. They burned beautifully too. Dolls, dolls, dolls, golems . . . The word hung in his mind. Golem. What is a golem? He asked of himself. Are they dolls, too? Do they burn beautifully?

Suspended at his fingertip was a spark, the thick leather gloves creaking as the finger bent to meet it. Is that what the lights are? Sparks? He questioned these new . . . alien . . . thoughts. The lone spark flew from his finger, unbidden, growing into a conflagration, burning the doll. Why?

Why are the dolls burning for me? A cold, hard thought spoke to him. Because they are beautiful. They are there for you. They are there for your pleasure. Are you not pleased? Do they not please you? Burn them. Burn.

Why?

They are for you.

Why?

They are for you. THEY ARE FOR YOU.

Why? Why? Why why why why why?

New sensations crept to him. He felt the weight—weight? this . . . heaviness?—of the heavy cloak on his shoulders, the brimmed hat upon his head. The smell. Dear gods, the smell. Seared flesh littered the pavement before him where dolls . . . dolls stood before. The smell. He remembered that smell. Dolls made that smell.

They are there for your pleasure.

The hissing of superheated air filled his ears. Yes, he had ears. I can hear, he thought. The thought hung in his mind. I can hear.

He could hear the syllabant hiss of the others around him. "Ki . . . Kill . . . " they demanded. Dolls can’t die, he thought. Dolls aren’t alive. Dolls can’t be killed. They can’t. They can’t. They . . .

They are beautiful.

A fellow being was burning dolls next to him. The doll screamed in terror, in pain. Singed hair and crackling flesh assaulted his mind. Red life force—blood, yes, blood—welled up through the flesh, creating a blasphemy. It’s not alive. It can’t be alive. Why is it alive?

Are you not pleased?

A small sniff reached him. He looked around. It was a doll. Water leaked from it. It was . . . crying.

He shuffled towards it. A sparked perched on the pinnacle of his finger, preparing for the leap, the explosion.

He shouldn’t kill. He should stop. He should . . . not kill. Dolls die. Dolls are alive. Dolls die. Dolls, dolls, dolls, golem.

He hesitated, then the spark flew.

The warm glow pleased him.

Do they not please you?

He giggled.