A prognosis befits itself unto me subtly, one I play no part in, and one that, truthfully, holds its merit in naught but judgement and worship of Humanity. It reads that I, as child, am perceived only as untoward by my compatriots, and that I, as man, am perceived not as such at all; not that they see me as a child, insolent and wailing, no, but that they see me not as man, never as man. Perhaps such an ailment is bespoken of my own evils.

    I see a pure soul, radiant and white, and this soul is dressed in the regalia of royalty and richness. It is dressed in deep purples, blood-red burgundies, and it is dark in its virtue. I see such a pure soul, radiant and white, and remove its gowns with a clawed hand. I tear its seams, and it feels only comparable to tearing through my own skin. Its beautiful vestments are no more than scraps of cloth, now, and I discard them on the ground. I grope the pure soul with mine. Not sexually, and most certainly not personally, but just my very Being and existence seeps into its newfound cracks, torn from the hands attached to arms attached to my essence.

    I think my life’s purpose is to pervert. I think I am perversion itself. I am a pestilence that seeps into the kindest of ears, rotting from the inside, a bark that has been poisoned from its reckoning, and from it only grows wilted apples filled with mealworms and insects. Sometimes I feel that I twist this perversion by its weak neck and feel it anguish beneath me, and in this moment, it speaks to me as a soft woman. ‘Let go,’ she will say, and ‘let go,’ she will repeat. I will always listen. Sometimes she morphs into a man. Her supple neck becomes tough and muscular. I grip it tighter. He still whispers the same, a sultry seductress, he is her.

    The evil in my soul is maybe born within, but the evil outside of Eden goads me, too. The animals once alluring and chirping, birds that would fly and nestle upon my shoulder as if it were a nest, doe that would present their young to me as if I were their god, they are now wild; wild and untamable, barbaric, they are animal, animal in a way unfamiliar to them before—it is disconcerting. It is my punishment, I am aware, yet such an acceptance of guilt does nothing to alleviate the brevity of it, nor its sentence. Befallen upon me for my own misdeeds, whether those misdeeds I wrought upon all just from my birth, maybe my soul, immortal, is that of the ultimate sinner—such things make no difference in the face of Divine justice. Or at least, I think that is what this is. What else could grant me such—no, what else could berate me with such force and strength if not divine jurisdiction, and the Will of God? What else? What else, what else is there? Nothing! Nothing!

    Moeira is having a cup of coffee. She speaks to Roderigo about her day. She has recently been widowed; her husband, a poor postman, and herself an assistant to some local firm or whatever else. She made more money, and her husband held no such shame in this admittance. He had a heart attack. I know this because Moeira is so very loud; she tells her girlfriends her innermost private thoughts that she then declares to the world in earnest. Bless her soul. But truly I don’t think she cares. I think she declares such things so loudly and proudly because she wants to be seen, wants the acknowledgement, wants a new husband that is a not-husband. Anyway, her coffee is getting cold, probably. Roderigo looks as if he is attending a memorial. He looks more upset than her. Yet I am compelled to believe that is because of her droning tone.

    Perversion, Perversion, that is my soul. My Divinity is of hell, and I follow Satan’s theology as I praise God in utterings that never quite reach the clouds.

    Moeira bites into a scone. I didn’t know she had a scone with her. Suddenly there is one, alongside an unassuming plate.

    Sometimes when I pray to God, I think that my whispers reach the devil instead. That can be the only explanation for all my misfortunes. There is nothing I can possibly think of that I have done to be cursèd with such a mind. O I wish to be like Moeira, even if it means a dead husband, and with a mind just as dead and bereft of thought I would be no more than a happy pig, still I wish. Poor Moeira.