His majesty the Devil

Before my death or my madness, Or the wasting of my hands From exhaustion, The innermost stirrings of my soul, My memories, All my illusions, And my dreams, I shall spill my bereaved soul upon the paper, So that a wretch may read it years and years from now, So he may know that one, even more wretched than he, once lived in this world, And swore—despite the brutality of disease, pain, and sleeplessness, And despite poverty—to live. For they Shall remain—when every feature of my face vanishes, Every rib of mine, And the worms consume my heart to the very depths— Memoirs. — Al-Sayyab “Some of the psychological theories and hypotheses within this novel are grounded in and inspired by the psychological insights compiled in Tom Butler-Bowdon’s works, serving as an external source to simplify and articulate the concepts explored herein.” 1 "Man is often apprehensive, anxious, or hesitant to raise issues that might bring upon him suspicion and mental alienation, contrary to the nature of the environment and traditions in which he was raised—especially since they govern him until his dying breath, for he does not live alone in this world. But... where is the escape? One must inevitably draw closer to the issues that touch his free mind, which amounts to a form of self-flagellation by delving into subjects that ceaselessly haunt his thoughts since childhood and drive the engine of his intellect.   Slavery… an eternal chain ever since man became conscious of his physical strength and, later, his mental capacity, beginning to tame and enslave every creature over which he held power. It shall remain until the end of the world, regardless of varying methods and behaviors. Yet, it manifests in diverse forms and shapes, evolving over time and through the shifting tides of events—such as emotion, politics, employment, and a myriad of other paths. Even among children, slavery is practiced upon dolls and those junior in age and strength, taking the form of possession. Indeed, possession and subjugation are undoubtedly instinctive psychological diseases that came into existence with the dawn of humanity.   Since ancient times, the notion of sovereignty and supreme rule has dominated human societies then—and just as well today, there is no difference—wherein there existed only two classes: masters and slaves. This epitomizes the hideousness and savagery of man reducing his fellow man to a slave. Then subsequently, with the dawn of religions, we witness them all adopting the very same paradigm regarding the Divine! When religion—with all its varying titles, figures, and paths—tells us of the existence of a Master on high, to whom we owe servitude by compulsion with no choice of our own, and that He sits upon a throne borne by angels, we discern a clear policy mirroring those masters above the throne. So, pray tell, who stole the script from the other in this scene of servitude: man or the Divine? Or is it that human perceptions are what painted the Divine in this very image, following the creature's imagination in the garb of the Creator—much like how the giraffe, in its vision of its Lord, would imagine Him possessed of a long neck, or the hawk supposing its God flaps His wings across the horizons of the sky? Verily, did man project upon his Lord, despite those essential and existential differences, those very images upon which he had subsisted and grown familiar?   Good does not always triumph; the negation of this maxim is a firmly rooted dogma for those who are less resourceful than the powerful and capable, and we invariably find them in the lower strata—the partisans of God are the oppressed, awaiting for God Himself to deliver them. For as long as can be remembered, good and evil have lacked a scale; their perception varies from one person to another. For thousands of years, philosophy, religion, and tradition have striven to confine good and evil within specific masks, guiding the human animal toward applied—practical—morality according to their visions, ensuring he does not harm his fellow human beings first, and the rest of creation second. This, despite the fact that refraining from harm can entail its own disadvantages—relative to pragmatism—for what you perceive as good may well be evil to others. There have been strenuous efforts to renew laws alongside the evolution of events, powers, and interests. Science cannot resolve all the complexities and problems whose materials cannot possibly be extracted and placed in an analytical laboratory; philosophy, too, has not settled for ages upon guiding humanity through the formulation of theories, the explanation of logic, and the comprehension of the intellect. Likewise, religion—after resorting to philosophy and all other possible sciences—has failed to establish a firm methodology regarding the ethics of right and wrong, and the principle of good and evil. For in the final analysis, the ugliest evil ever discovered is man's discovery of the evil within himself and what he is capable of doing. The child is nothing but wool on a lean goat that has not yet fattened; the moment he becomes acquainted with the bliss of his physical and psychological instincts, chasing after his desires, the goat grows plump and ripe for slaughter and roasting. Verily, man always believes in need, and helping others is nothing but an internal lust or a need within his own self that brings him peace regarding what he thinks of or desires—even if he tells no one of his deeds, devoid of pride or ostentation. It is simply a comforting sensation when one finds himself to be the source of provision for another. More evil still is when the instruments of the intellect are mobilized to exploit it in supporting his desires toward everything he does, and formulating his intellectual justifications for his angelic deeds.   Man is a predatory animal, akin to his fellow creatures; the sole divergence lies in his medium of defense, which is consciousness or perception. As for right and wrong, they are a watchful eye derived from the environment, sanctioned by one person and subsequently ratified by others should they agree upon it. Philosophies, laws, and beliefs thus emerge to regulate and scrutinize this very act—be it evil or good—whereupon punishment or reward is duly instituted."   The man looked at the pink wall clock—"She is on her way." He gathered his papers and laid down his pen. "That is enough for today." He rose from his chair, circled around the desk and the chair, and touched the deskplate bearing the owner's name, Dr. Reem Nafl. He picked up another identification card beside it, belonging to the trainee, Helen. He stroked the card with his hand, pressed a kiss upon it, and returned it to its place. "I wish I could live my entire life in your office, girl." He headed toward the window, parting the curtain slightly to look toward the hospital gate, hoping to catch sight of her arriving; for passion is nothing but a growing greed, increasing every day toward what we desire to acquire more and more, without ever stopping at a single point. His passion and anticipation were disrupted by the voice of a nurse at the far end of the hallway near the garden, running in a panic toward the interior upon seeing a rat that had been hiding beneath the dirt in its burrow in one of the garden corners. He smiled, recalling a thinker's remark: "No group of mice has ever gathered and invented a mousetrap, yet man did precisely that when he produced his nuclear bomb for us." Two knocks on the door were enough to interrupt his thoughts and stretch his lips into a smile. "Come in," his voice rang out, before he returned his lips to their natural composure. Helen entered the office:  "Good morning, Professor..."   He looked at her, smiling while raising one of his eyebrows. Helen rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry, I always forget, Doctor."   He stepped toward her, leaving the chair designated for her:   "Please, Doctor."   She walked with slow steps to place her coat on the back of the chair and her bag on the clothes rack. She turned over one of the two white lab coats and placed them one after the other over the bag. The doctor drew the curtain shut, then sat on the left chair standing beside her. She looked into his eyes and his wretched condition:   "Have you been awake all night?"   "No, rather, I had a disturbing dream. I couldn't sleep after it, so I slipped into your office after asking the director's permission to do so."   "And what was it?"   He looked up at the ceiling of the room, toward the ceiling fan, recalling the details of what had visited him, but he quickly averted his gaze toward the bag:   "Are you afraid of theft, Doctor?"   "And who isn't? When you tell me why you are afraid of the light, I will tell you."   "I am not afraid of it; it merely strains my eyes."   "Yet you complain of nothing wrong with your eyes!"   "I don't know, that's just how it is with me."   "And I, too, am not afraid of theft, but I hold something precious of yours inside it, and I don't want you to catch a glimpse of it before its time."   "And why not now?"   "I don't know, that's just how it is."   She smiled, raising both of her eyebrows. The doctor looked at the coat, drifting away into a world of imagination and conjecture, while Helen flipped through his papers, reading some of what he had written as she recalled his request to use her office in her absence. The doctor remained lost in his probabilities regarding what lay behind the coat, inside the bag, scattering objects in a weightless space: a personal ID, car keys, house keys, lipstick, a body mist, a receipt, a notebook, a phone, a pen, and a dark, black void wherein he cast his speculations—a love letter, a wristwatch—no, no, his birthday is not near—a book on psychology, a travel invitation for both of us, no, that cannot be. He thought of stealing it, but how? "Are you thinking of stealing it?" Startled from his reverie by her question, all the objects crashed to the floor and vanished:   "What?"   "Are you thinking of stealing the bag?"   "And why would I?"   "Curiosity is the soul's guillotine, especially regarding what it holds."   "True, but I am not one to be possessed by curiosity."   "I know that; I am only teasing you."   She placed her hand over his papers, touching them slowly:   "I see you have returned to your research."   "Yes, I was away from it all of last week, and you know I find peace nowhere except in your place."   "I thank God that I am the cause of finding your serenity."   "Rather, even more than that."   "Are you still insistent on not putting your name on the research? Yes, I will choose a pseudonym or keep it simply under the title of 'The Doctor'."   "Do you hate your name to that extent?"   "No, rather, I hate my father, and I cannot accept anything from him. I shall kill him in my own way if I cannot reach him in the flesh."   "May God forgive your father."   "He will never forgive him; and even if God were to forgive him, I shall never forgive God."   Seeing the signs of gloom on his face and his eyebrows furrowing downward, Helen decided to restore the balance of his emotions:   "How long have you been working on your research?"   "For less than two months, approximately—specifically since your arrival here."   "Wonderful, that means I have inspired you a little."   A faint smile was enough to banish the anger from his face and rebalance his memory regarding what was roaming within the chambers of his skull of thoughts and recollections.   "Rather, even more than that."   "Then... as soon as you finish it, I shall receive something."   Her phone rang, prompting her to rush toward her bag while he repeated in his mind, "Rather, everything." His gaze followed Helen all the way to the bag, hoping to catch a glimpse of something hiding behind that dark space, which represented the black hole beginning to pull him toward it piece by piece. She answered the phone and then looked at him; he hurriedly stood up from his chair and walked outside, leaving the space for her to attend to her privacy.   The doctor looks at a young man at the far end of the corridor, examining him closely, leaning his body against the wall with signs of surveillance written across his features, sporting a thick mustache and a white coat over a sound athletic build, with a cobra head tattoo printed on the right side of the neck, just above the nape and beneath the chin. The doctor averted his gaze, saying, "The sins of the past are still chasing me." His feet grew tired due to the fracture in his right ankle joint in past years. He sat on one of the benches placed in the corridors, recalling Darwin's famous saying, "Weak animals never live alone." He looked around: no one was there. His imagination drifted into a world where no one existed except him; he thought of annihilating himself so that the world would remain as beautiful as it began. He had to destroy the last atom of evil, even if it were he himself and all alone. "The hardest thing for the human race to do is to know oneself and change it," he repeats the sentence with a smile, then adds, "Even if I am alone, Adler, I will try hard to be better than the one who made my world and placed me in it." He sees himself in life for the sake of his need, living to satisfy certain psychological drives.