Love And Zealotry

The alchemist chuckles to himself as he waits for his own creation to emerge out of its chamber. His feet tremble and shake in anticipation for what is to come, but for a few minutes, nothing happens. A part of him doesn’t want to jinx the whole ordeal by celebrating early but before he could stop, he already catches himself uncorking a flask hidden in his pocket. He gulps down half of the drink and corks it back into his pocket and went back to obsessively focusing on the rattling of his left foot. A few minutes pass and nothing still happens, so he fishes for the flask again. As he drinks, he can’t help but think of the old Irish song he hasn’t heard for what seemed to be a very long time. And so, he clicks and waits as he hums. Come guess me this riddle, what beats pipe and fiddle, What’s hotter than mustard and milder than cream? The door opens as he sees a woman in white come towards him with a smile on her face, but before she could open her mouth to speak, he sped past the woman and went inside the room where he sees a few more people in white. He looks around and sees an unconscious woman, lying on a bed, her hair in shambles and wet with her sweat. What best wets your whistle, what’s clearer than crystal, What’s sweeter than honey and stronger than steam? To the side of her is another woman in white that seems to be carrying something in a bundle of blankets. He can hear the sound of an incessant cry of a babe from the woman’s arms, so he made his way to it, clumsily stumbling onto a few of the tables. The woman who is carrying caught sight of him as he approaches and smiled, “Do you want to hold her?” she asked. The alchemist just nods as the woman placed the child close to his chest. He carefully held the girl in his arms with the most care he could muster as if it was more precious than any artifact he has held in his lifetime. What can make the lame walk, what can make the dumb talk, The elixir of life and philosopher’s stone He examines the baby’s appearance. His heart burst as he wonders how something so valuable can be so surprisingly, normal. There’s no birthmark or scar, no misplaced limb or organ, how it’s so similar to every other child that came into this world and yet, be so different. And what helped Mr. Brunnell to build the Thames Tunnel Wasn’t it poteen from old Inisowen He looks up to find a few of the people in white smiling at him. He can’t help but smile back at them, as he holds the baby in his arms. He kisses its forehead and finds himself subconsciously cradling the baby to sleep. He breathes deeply as he thought how much he wished things were different. If only this poor little thing in his arms wasn’t so precious. Too precious for its own good. He wouldn’t have to end its life. The alchemist kicks the table in front of him, causing a few of the people in the room to stumble onto the floor. The loud crash of metallic objects clanging onto the tiled floor left everyone in the room surprised as the alchemist used every last drop of his own vitality to attempt to run. He pushes and stumbles and gets back up, with the baby carelessly held by only one arm. So stick to the cratur’ the best thing in nature For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys He runs through a long white hallway with the baby in his arms as he sees a c***k of thunder illuminate the night through the building’s large glass windows. He can hear shouting from a distance towards where he came from as a few of the people in white tries to chase him. He can feel his feet get heavier with every step, cold sweat trickles on the side of her forehead. He skids and halts as he sees a few more people in white arrive from the other end of the hallway, blocking his path. He breathes heavily. “Every blessing is caused by an equal sacrifice, huh?” he almost laughs at himself as the phrase comes to him like an epiphany in his time of desperation. It is funny how he followed the same phrase for most of his life, and how it follows him now, even at the moment of his death. He looks to the window and sees the night sky that is covered by the thick black clouds of a storm. The heavy downpour of rain cascades the other side of the window, shining with their own different reflections every time a lightining strikes. Oh Lord, it’s no wonder, if lightning and thunder Were made from the plunder of poteen me boys He held the girl tightly in his arms as he braces himself, taking a couple of steps back. He can see the people in white running towards him, stumbling over each other as he leaped towards the glass window into the night. The window shattered as the curtains billow outward sending them both falling forty meters off the ground. It would’ve been an excellent sight. The view of the city, desperately fighting off the darkness of night with their tiny little lanterns and flickers of fire, while the rain mercilessly sweeps every glimmer of remaining firelight. It would’ve been a sight perfect for a man who is about to die. If not for the child in his arms who shares the same fate. If not, for its hopeless existence that will inevitably end up to something like this. A moment of utter hopelessness. Better to end it now, he thought. As he feels gravity pull him towards the Earth, he smiles and closes his eyes, choosing the nothingness under his eyelids as the last thing he sees before he dies.