I would like to make you understand who Johnathan Abblepot is, but I don't know where to start.
There are too many things to say about him. Too many to understand. Maybe you don't like mysteries, maybe you are a guy who loves to see things in the light of the sun, to define their outlines, because this way you always know what to do. Well, you'd be better stripping off of your certainties, because sometimes it doesn't happen the way you think.
It's Sunday morning, look around. Can you see the town waking up? Can you see the people who start leaving the house to go to Mass, dressed as best they can, without overdoing it. Do you see them?
There is nothing special about Vestavia Hills, it is a town like any other. Nothing more, nothing less.
If you look up, the colour of lead makes it clear that even this day could be similar to a thousand others that people here have already seen. A red streak, however unnatural, marks the sky; it's almost like a tear of blood, almost a wound that hurts. You can almost hear the thunder in the distance, even if this time they have gravity, a sound that makes you uncomfortable. Who knows what it is?
Look at the first small family who is not far from you. They too are heading towards the church. The man wears a distinct black suit, a little creased. The wife is half a step behind him, she wears a wide skirt with folds, which does not make it clear if her legs are slender and toned or worn out by time; the woman is still quite young, she seems pretty. She holds a child by the hand, his hair combed neatly and with long socks on; he looks like the son worthy of his parents.
All three, now, turn to look at you, and you realize that the deepening of their eyes frightens you: in those dark orbits, you cannot distinguish a trace of feelings; no curiosity, no irreverence, much less cordiality. It is difficult even to recognize the eyes, because they look like small dark caves.
"Emma! Don't stare at people!" says the man, also shaking you off from that vision, which now it finally turns into a natural scene.
"Sorry, dear, I don't know what got into me," replies his wife, who has finally returned to being a person with eyes.
Then the woman adds to her son: "Joshua, don't stare at people, he's not polite."
The child still lingers a moment to look at her, but thank God now he too has nothing strange.
What's wrong with you?
Maybe you slept poorly.
Last night too?
It happens to you now and then.
Rub your eyes, look away, and try to regain a demeanor.
The red wound in the clouds has not yet disappeared.
The air gets heavy. You can breathe well, without gasping, but you realize that something is wrong; it feels like breathing in metal, metal with a little rust. The breath almost becomes flavored in the mouth; it is disgusting.
As you approach the church, the number of people on the street increases. Now it is as if no one can see you. Even your mere bodily presence does not seem evident. You are an impalpable being in a crowd that appears made up of ghosts. They are like machines that walk without consistency. The women, with their long skirts down to the ground, seem to float.
Here is the church.
The building is beautiful: it would convey ease and a sense of peace, on a day different from this.
Now it's overwhelming.
No, maybe it's not overwhelming, because it attracts you.
It is undoubtedly an attraction that you feel, partly because of the crowd now even more numerous, partly because of an irrational curiosity, which tells you that something will happen there.
The church certainly attracts you, but it also intimidates you, like when your father lifted his shirt to start pulling the belt out of his pants. It is subtle anxiety at the beginning because you always hope that something painful will not happen. Still, then, slowly, the concern grows, until it becomes terror, the terror of certainty.
A rumbling, almost like a thousand hornets, comes from inside the building.
Now you would like to know who I am.
Before entering, you need to know, you think.
Nothing will change for you.
I'm not the one who brought it here; you don't need a name to blame for what you're doing.
Maybe you slept poorly last night too, I repeat it. And that's why you are cranky.
Reverend Johnathan Abblepot is almost about to start the function. You'd better hurry.
Inside the church, everyone is seated graciously. It is an army of pious people, who will move in unison at the mere nod of their reverend. Slaughter souls blissfully waiting to be dissected and condemned by a few words.
Take a seat. It is not convenient to stand; here on the left.
You wanted to know who Johnathan Abblepot is, right?
How can I explain it to you? It is not easy to explain something to those who think they already know, to those who probably, deep down, already know.
Johnathan Abblepot is a name that someone knew well, a name that lost its consistency when that man was gone, to gain something else more... unique.
