The Patron Saint of Broken Men

Note: The country's politics are a stone's throw away from being completely batshit crazy. So for a week, I will substitute one of my short stories. I'll preface this by warning you: it's not pro-God. Me and him/her/it have had our bouts over the year, but I'm pretty sure the majority of my problems are highly genetic. See my face/general disposition. I'm not particularly fond of this one (as a writer I feel this is one of the shitty ones you keep to yourself), but the last line: that is my opus.



"The bourbon tastes like dishwater."

The bartender stared him down, contemplating for a second how ludicrous the last statement was.

"Dishwater? That's certainly a new one."

He looked down to his glass and back to the bartender and stared hard. The taste just wasn't there; every drink was turning him down this road. All of the feeling had left his bones, and the senses had numbed. There was no pain, no hot, no cold. He smelled, tasted, and heard nothing. His voice spoke words but they were not his own. Only, the burning remained; the fire inside that could never be squelched.  But he'd made his decision and lied down on the tracks and let the train run over him. His non-existence was his only tie to reality.

God had failed him in his time of need, but no. There was no God that intervened and chose your path. A man chose it, and the choices that were not his belonged to fate, or genetics in his case. He was born too weak, too frail to handle the expectations thrust upon him. Where other men had looks or money to turn to, he was blessed only with his ability to understand, to comfort, to please, and to serve. But if there was a God, he had a sick sense of humor.

That is what he was born to do, unconditionally relinquish what made him human: his free will. He was God's pawn, and doing so reduced to two moves: sacrificial offerings or suicidal attacks. First, he gave God his ambition; traded it for a mere pittance of the happiness of another. Then, he gave away his pride; for God felt it was holding him back. Then, God demanded his love, but found that another had already stolen it. Thus, God was angry and rejected his son for his perfidy.

But the son acquiesced to God's every whim and found himself a miserable wreck of a man; he was broken and no one could understand why. The bartender so kindly asked, "Why?" Of course, she referred to the bourbon and not the man's problem.

"I gave away my life for the lives of us all."

Sure this was overly-dramatic, and completely ridiculous. Who was this man to compare his sacrifice to those that had come before him? Great men they were. Racists, philanderers, homophobes, popes: they were all scum. God had favored them, that's why they were saints. Not because they were lifted upon the shoulders of the damned, but because the damned believed they were worthy of such horrible acquiescence. No, this man believed he had done greater, given up all that was good for him so that others could live their lives unimpeded by his presence. He was a blip on the radar, not one worth considering and this was how his life was to work out.

Then, why was he so down? He knew this eventuality, even though his life had been wonderful for a short time, he always thought back to Malcolm Reynolds and Anara talking upon the Serenity.

"Mal, you don't have to die alone"
"Everybody dies alone."

 This was his fate; he was not a saint by any means, but he had a purpose. He was to live out his life as the sacrificial lamb, always giving everything as nothing was returned. Then, when he found himself at the gates, he would respond:

 "I have done all that you asked."

God would respond, "Not enough."

And as his glass of dishwater emptied, so did his soul. He was worse than dead, but still had many years to live. He was a ghost dominated by the emptiness inside him. A friend patted him on the back, and drunkenly shouted, "How are you, old man!"

God snickered; the drunk saw what he did, a man older than his years, older than the receding hairline, older than the liver that had seen a lifetime's degree of degradation, older than his weak heart. "I am nothing," the broken man responded and the drunk just laughed. He laughed because he was care-free; he had everything from a drink to money to love. And what was left for the stranger? Pity. He pitied the poor fool, alone upon the barstool which was his only support in this world. He had a wife, children, and a job; he drank away the doldrums of life. The stranger drank in its sorrow.

The stranger did have one gift left though. As he had nothing, he could give all he owned. God envied this. He had everything and could give nothing good. Suffering was his gift, ignorance was his advantage, and damnation was his weapon. There was only the system he created, bound by laws and only changeable on a mass scale. If humans neglected each other, he would make them care. If they hated each other, he would make them fight. If they loved each other, he would make them die. Marvelously he balanced the horrible perfection he had created in humanity.

The man continued out of the bar, and stumbled home. His brain washed with thoughts of what was, but it was all an illusion: tricks made to make him submissive, to abandon his will. He thought to that smile and saw the devil in it finally, but it was too late, the devil had his way. He found death a likely outcome, but not willing him to join do soon. So he walked and walked, constantly trying to wonder how he came here. He found an answer in the heavens. It was cruel, inevitable fate that led him here. Genetics, instincts, and habits all bred to make him life's sacrificial lamb.

As he laid down on the cold pavement, he knew what would happen to himself. He was to become a saint in his own right, a patron to all of those who like him were born without hope. Born to serve a God they did not know, and did not care for. They were created to bring happiness into this world and leave none for themselves and thusly God created balance. These men and women would die cold and alone without the rest of humanity, but in their wake would leave a warmth that God himself only had power to destroy. But he was not made to die like this; the cars never came and the man just laid staring up into the abyss of space and time.

There he found peace, for space shared his soul's great emptiness. The bourbon forced him back to Earth, back to the life he was familiar with, and he stood up again. But no longer did his feet work, he was dead except for his steady heart which cheated his soul. It still beat with the same vigor as it had for the man long ago when he was young, naive, and gifted. Now, he was sodden and broken and the heart kept him going, but not for him. He left his own good back in the past, and now was determined to find others for his was forsaken. Yet he still felt the burning, and it turned his insides to ash: hot and failing by the moment. Once everything had burned away he would be free, but that was never possible. Even the greatest flame leaves some ash, and that ash was his burden to carry forever.

God laughed at this; a broken man concerned with the past. The past to God was nothing. The gift of being infallible is even your mistakes are great victories. However, this was God's mistake. The stranger heard his laughter, for the only thing that remained for him was God. At that moment, God hesitated; his greatest admirer and his most loyal servant was lost. The inevitability of his fate at once became clear, and the stranger realized that he didn't give a fuck.

There was no God, but two Satans. Perhaps one disguised it better, but each had the same purpose: to destroy what made the stranger human. Whether the devil did it with a woman or God did it with indifference, each showed no concern for him, so why should he concern himself with the rest of man. Sheep didn't need a shepherd; they needed a wolf. And from that moment the stranger was no longer a saint, he was a sinner. He was not the patron saint for the broken; he was a man of sin and the one who would lead them to earthly happiness. When God judged them, they would respond:

"We acted with morality and righteousness and you cast us into oblivion. We expect you fully to respond the same, when we come to you as righteous men and women who acted upon good will as opposed to your will."

And in that way, hell was paved with the souls of good men, and the broken man walked alone as he was bound faithfully into the maws of fate. However, he had not created this feeling and therefore was unworthy of such worship. Being a good man, he relinquished all credit to the one who had broken him and represented the breaking that each and every one of us would experience. In that way, a women, not the stranger, became the patron saint of broken men. Who else would broken men pray to, but an unfeeling woman unconcerned with their prayers.