A door sat in front of her. It was clean. No vines crawled on it. No dust sat on it. It was a spotless marble door that now sat slightly ajar.

She, Julia, was writhing on the ground. Groans escaped her lips while thoughts of what was circulated in what was left of her mind.

Long before, it was just Julia and her girlfriend, Janice. Unlike Julia, Janice struggled to even accept that she might want a girlfriend in the first place. Julia was gifted with a soft extended family—the kind that might ask you once what you were up to over Thanksgiving, but then go back to eating. Janice had the kind of family that prayed for about as long as they ate.

One day, Julia had found sanctuary in the study of the parents of whoever’s house she was drinking in at the time. She had situated herself between the walls of towering oak bookshelves and the curious knicknacks in the glass case beside her. She snuggled into the leather armchair and began helping herself to scotch.

Janice stumbled in and didn’t see Julia. Julia caught notice of Janice’s waist far before Janice even turned around. And, oh my, was it a shock when Janice heard a voice over her a large glass of whatever happened to be floating around. Julia’s toenails almost stood up straight when Janice accepted the scotch and the armchair next to her.

There was almost no conversation as, after a few comments here or there, Julia, fueled by lust and others, sat squarely on Janice’s lap, and allowed things to proceed from there.

They met Jeremiah one night around a populated and ill-managed bonfire. Julia, placing down her increasingly warm plastic cup, sauntered over to him, eager to introduce Janice to this tall stranger. Janice forgot most of the interaction as Jeremiah’s succulent voice drowned her out for around twenty minutes before she went to get another drink. Julia didn’t follow her.

Janice watched as this incredible beauty began to place his hand on Julia’s shoulder as she laughed. And yet, it was not Jealousy that grew in her, but excitement and gladness that the young woman she loved was able to experience something as magical as Jeremiah’s touch.

I will now give you two versions of the same story. However, against everything you might assume, both stories are true and should be treated as such.

There was one day when, instead of leaving on my usual isolatory escapades, I had agreed to accompany an acquaintance to a house party in a local neighborhood. I picked up this acquaintance around nine o’clock, and we opened the front door at nine thirty. We were perhaps the twentieth arrival. Somebody had either bought or stolen a speaker large enough to fit in a deshelved bookcase. The music had become nothing more than vicious rattling, joining the heavy laughter, yelps, and moans coming from all corners of the place. Within moments, I found myself alone. To ease that pain, I positioned myself squarely on the couch.

After a time, a girl sat down next to me. Her eyes were wide, her hair was brown, and her mouth small. I could smell the bottle before she handed it to me—a thin smell that ripped through the air and smuggled its way into the ridges on one’s tongue. Her shirt had quite a dip to it. Made of lace and fairly deserved confidence, it covered what it needed to and nothing more. She swung her legs around and up onto my lap. I raised my arms to keep her from hitting the bottle. She stopped me mid-air.

“Stay like that,” she interjected. “I want to see your arms.”

I did as I was told.

“Now,” she asked, “what are you drinking?”

“Nothing,” I said, putting my arms down. “I’m driving.”

“Nothing at all? My god, how do you cope?”

I felt that properly answering this question might reduce any possibility of further interaction.

“I mean,” she continued, speaking as if to herself, “as you can see, these drinks usually help me find guys I want to fool around with.”

“Fool around with?” I asked.

“Yes, of course! Am I not batting my eyelashes enough?”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to do it some more,” I said, smiling more and leaning forward.

“Oh god!” She exclaimed as she pushed me back.

She then swung herself upright such that she was straddling me, sitting on my lap. Her lips met mine and did not part for nearly too long. I closed my eyes so all I felt was that swirling, moist flesh inside of me, and the vibrations coming from far away. Eventually breaking free, she whispered to me: “There’s a spare bedroom in the back.”

I looked at her with gaping eyes before whispering back, “Don’t you think I ought to at least know your name?”

“Maggy,” she whispered back. “Very pleased to meet you.”

As I went to introduce myself in turn, Maggy placed a finger on my lips, saying,
“I don’t need to know.”

We wandered to the second floor, away from the clusters of people and into a drab bedroom. There was nothing on the walls or in the closet besides soft yellow paint. The bed was centered on the back wall with dark blue sheets. The room held only the bed, and only enough room to get in and out of it.

Maggy placed a hand on my shoulder and, with a small, firm push, sat me on the edge of the bed with her.

“Arms up,” she said to me.

I did as I was told. She removed my shirt, staring the whole time at the back wall.

Maggy passed me fully onto the bed. I lay on my back while she stroked my chest with her polished nails. The hair on my arms stood straight, and the room started to blur as I fell into a trance. She removed what was left of my clothing, but stayed away—just close enough for me to feel her breath on my neck. She took my hand and moved it down. My hand, lacking hers, followed the rhythm of her breath while she stared down, smiling like a mother putting her child to bed. She didn’t touch me once, nor did I touch her.

“Good,” she whispered to me.

Her face doubled, then tripled, then disappeared altogether as I kept the beat. As her breathing increased in speed, so did I. Swirls of placidity filled my head, and I forgot where I was. Her chest rose, supported by wire, but her eyes held my attention for the longest. Aggressive, lonely things that sat restlessly in her skull.

“Keep going,” she breathed again.

Falling fully into my bliss, the feeling surged, then waned again, leaving me far too conscious of her presence. Like a ghost, she lay a soft kiss on my forehead. Maggy turned away and pulled out her phone. I saw her add a single tally mark to a list of others. Then, without turning back, she left the room.

In my shame, I put on my clothes and bolted from the house. Climbing into the car, I flattened the gas pedal, peeled out, and made my way into the suffocating dark. And, my God, it was dark. Within moments, I found myself in places of the landscape rarely explored by others. I passed a bay that smelled of algae and was surrounded by reeds. Before long, I found myself at a bridge spanning out into the great nothing.

It was snowing gently, like ash falling. The white of the snow contrasted with the light from the bridge, ascending to the heavens. The suspension above me, the only structure visible in the sky. The rest was abyss. Slowing down, so as not to be swallowed whole, I went to turn around, but noticed the streams of cars flowing underneath. Climbing out, I leaned on the guardrail. I watched for several moments, finally breathing real air from the sky and letting it drift onto the ground below. The car passed, vanishing as they went, making room for new drivers. New people. New lives. I would never know them, but I knew they were there, and their presence comforted me.

Like a mirage over a lake, the blonde girl appeared before me, made from the shimmering fog. I was unafraid this time. The blonde girl stared into the highway below us.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

She continued to stare.

“What is your name?”

She looked up at me, smiling the smile that only comes from great mystery.

“Do you see what is below us?” She asked.

“I do,” I replied.

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” She asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s so easy. Straightforward. Cars drive back and forth and back and forth, and never stop until they die.”

I stayed silent.

“That is,” she continued, looking at me, “if they die at all.”

Then, the blonde girl came closer.

“Imagine that,” the blonde girl said, “driving up and down that route forever. Surrounded by all those lights, always moving. I wonder why.”

She paused.

“I wonder what happens when everything stops.”

Like the last wave of high tide, the last of the red lights ran into the distance and disappeared, leaving only the stench of the abyss behind them.

“Isn’t that better?” The blonde girl asked.

I, too, now gazed at the highway sitting down below. Though there was nothing there, it felt familiar. Not that I had been there before, but as if I ought to have been there at that present moment.

Then she left.

Here is the other version of the story. I, out of respect for the reader, have left out the details that are the same.

Maggy and I entered a room. The room was a soft, pleasant yellow, reminiscent of a nursery. The bed was large and soft, with thin, linen sheets that made for an enjoyable nap on a spring day. There was a window, slightly open, with a soft breeze blowing through. Maggy sat for a moment, looking at the window as the curtains blew gently in the wind. She didn’t move while sitting, engaged entirely in whatever it was she was watching. It was almost as if the sun shone into the room, just for a moment. The way it would in late afternoon on a summer’s day. I went over and closed the window and curtains, and the day turned back to night.

Maggy positioned herself on the bed, legs closed tightly, hands clasped. I said nothing as I climbed on top of her, and she reached up gingerly to caress my face. I swatted at it, and she withdrew it. Her hand then moved down my body. My hands were placed on either side of her head, supporting me as I leaned over her. I could smell the alcohol wafting from her lips. Suddenly, she grabbed my hips, pulling me down onto her. I collapsed as she wrapped her arms around me, eyes wide, unmoving but breathing heavily. In a flash, I saw the blonde girl across Maggy’s face. Then, oddly enough, I saw my passenger’s face. His lonely eyes were unmistakable. Rubbing my eyes, I managed to sit up, and the room came back to normal.

It was then I felt the pressure for the first time. It was soft at first. A squeezing on my spinal cord that seemed to climb its way toward my brain. My God, the pain became too much to handle. I lost my bearings, almost falling out of the bed. Maggy murmured something akin to an apology, but I was already out of the door before she could finish. I floundered my way through the crowds of people out to the blank suburban street. I found my car, and, in my fear, drove away.

I eventually arrived at the same bridge. But this time, I did not see the girl, nor did I see so many cars underneath. Instead, I looked down over the bridge. The wind had cooled, and the night felt like a light bedsheet folded over my exhausted body. Light came from the bridge, projected up into the sky. I could see every particle in the air, illuminated and flying aimlessly. Below, I managed to see another light, accompanied by some shouting and cries for help. There was a group of people, dressed in all black, circling another figure on the ground. The person on the ground was curled in a tight ball as one of the figures in black seemed to laugh. He kept touching his victim with the tip of his shoe, as if he were a piece of waste on the ground too disgusting to handle. Then the pain started again, and I closed my eyes, wincing. When I opened my eyes, they were gone.

I felt as if I was bleeding out, as if my blood was pooling around me. I looked around for any sign, but they were long gone. Before I left, I heard the roar of a motorcycle, and a single figure raced from one end of the highway to the other, and then out of my sight.

One day, on a ride home, I passed the entrance to my neighborhood. I kept driving as far as I could go without stopping. Eventually, I reached a stretch of land beyond any major road. No painted lines. No road signs. The area was poorly kept, and my tires thumped along, trying to hold themselves together. The usual thick lines of trees cleared at my sides, and I looked out over the flickering red ocean, coming to rest as the sun set. There was a small shoulder by the road. I pulled over there and climbed out of my car.

The sea was still as I climbed the small dune and sat, gazing out into the horizon. Waves quivered on the shore, and, with my back turned to the small turnoff, I melted into the outside world. My heartbeat synced with the waves, and my breathing became shallow. I felt my shoulders drop. I felt the red horizon crawl into my skin. The universe ebbed and flowed with me as I stood. I fell and never stopped.

The red sun slid under the earth, as if under a comforter, shimmering like divinity as it fell. I looked out beyond the sea, imagining what far-away lands might be there. I felt the sand, crumbling under my hands as I shifted them across the shore. Climbing down from the dune, I removed my shoes and allowed the gentle foam to caress me, bringing me into its loving clutch. Far down the beach, to either side of me, large, white lifeguard stands were laid down far from the sea—remnants of the day’s occupation. No one was left on this cold night.

I sat down on the shore, trying to remember my name. A wind blew into me, blocked only by my jacket. It seemed like a warning shot. Like it was showing me a hint of what it could do before it eventually tore me apart. Although my feet were exposed, I buried them in the sand so that I was protected on all sides. I could finally relax, without fear, into a state of hopeful disintegration. Finally at ease, I drove home.

I would return to that beach occasionally to sit and watch the sea. Every night, I would feel a pull from deep within my chest, calling me in the direction of the waves. In the beginning, I was able to put it off for days at a time. I would go once every week, when I found time. But as the weeks passed, I went more and more. I missed dinner and plans with friends. I missed hours of sleep sometimes, just staring out. There were some days when the waves seemed to tower above, only revealed through lightning strikes that shook in the distance. I would watch, waiting for them to crush me and wash me away, but they never did. I stopped thinking about the girl as much. The waves started to occupy that part of my mind. It was only when I started to see her shimmering ghost in the waves that I really got intrigued.

She would be just below the surface, floating with her arms crossed across her chest—never moving, always breathing in shallow gasps. Sometimes she was walking under the water, searching for something. Other times, she was still falling. I saw my passenger walking on the clouds, feet as heavy as lead. He was looking to jump as well. The waves washed over my bare feet as my toes sank into wet sand. I was terrified. I was fascinated.

I once woke up on that beach shore. It was evening and dark. The clouds covered any potential light from the moon. The waves had doubled in size, and I had been woken up by a splash of salt water in my mouth. There was a storm out at sea. Every few minutes, the ocean lit up with a flash of lightning. I scrambled for my shoes, checked the time, then crawled back into my car to drive home.

After such a rash night on the beach, I steered as far from it as possible. I spent my nights at home and my days in the city as far inland as possible. My shoes had sand stuck in their creases for several weeks. It fell out as I walked, trailing behind me on rougher ground.

Though at the time I did not realize it, this is when I was officially doomed. Perhaps the storm was an omen of some kind, but, to my knowledge, time rarely gives signs of its machinations. Rather, it operates, and we are left to interpret and add meaning to what occurs when it best suits us. If we looked beyond our anesthetized facades, what we would find would overwhelm our very spirits.

A knight rode into town one morning, when the sun flew high and grazed the crowds on the newly paved roads. He rode in softly and slowly, parting the clusters of shoppers, walkers, and mothers with their children in sun-shielded prams. The knight moved across the stony paths, casting an enormous shadow as he went.

His horse was limp with slime and dirt, crusted over its hair and coat, like armor. Its reins were torn and twisted loosely around the knight’s hardened fingers. The knight leaned forward, hunched and breathing with an arm across his lap. A single fold of chainmail cascaded lazily over his chest and shimmered in the light of day.

The knight called out to the townsfolk, “Have you seen my friend? Have you? Or anyone, other than myself, who has come back?”

“Back?” They called back in return. “Back from what?” Shocked and confused whispers wove their way through the crowd.

“The war,” the knight replied. “Or at least a battle.”

A young man, dressed in delicate linens, unstained and unworn, approached the knight with his hands clasped behind his back.

“We have seen no one,” the young man said. “We would know too, for we are an observant town.” The people murmured in agreement.

“Are you sure?” Asked the knight.

“Yes, of course,” the young man replied.

“You must be sure,” the knight insisted.

“Yes, yes,” the young man said again, “if anyone were here, we would have seen him.”

“How sure are you?” The knight asked.

“Very,” the young man replied.

In a moment, the knight drew a blade from his side, burdened with blood and earth, and held the point steadily to the young man’s throat.

“How sure are you?” The knight asked again.

The town had ceased its breathing.

The young man raised his hands above his head and, with a wavering voice, he said, “I’m fairly certain. We all would have seen.”

“And if you didn’t?” The knight asked.

“Then we didn’t. But if you want to know absolutely for certain, the most observant woman in our town spends her days on that hill.” The young man pointed far behind him towards the rolling greens and flowered spots. “The people here can agree that she, out of all of us, sees the most.” The townsfolk nodded in agreement.

“And I can find her up there?” The knight asked.

“Yes, of course.” The young man replied.

So, the knight pulled back his blade, handing the young man a glassy look. With the flick of his wrist and a sharp kick with his boot, the knight trodded towards the hills as sullenly as he came.

Among high weeds, rustling grass, and insects in the air, the knight climbed slowly on his horse and heaved with every step. The hills were round in the bright blue sky and sat firmly, rooted as trees to the ground. The knight felt a gentle breeze at his back that beckoned him over the lush fields.

After a time, the knight came over the crest of a hill and saw a young woman sitting in a shaded spot with her back to him. She was dressed in finer linens than the young man's, which flowed loosely over her silken frame and flew in the wind, never quite touching her body. She stared listlessly into the distance, painting slowly on a canvas, with a large book folded delicately over her lap. Her hair danced in the golden wind until it stopped to rest lightly on her back and shoulders, and then started its dance again.

The knight called out to her. “Are you the woman the townspeople told me about? The woman who sees everything?”

“I try only to see what is important in this life,” the woman replied without turning around.

“Then have you seen my friend? Or anyone else who has come back?”

“Back?” The woman asked.

“From the war,” the knight replied.

“War is such a silly thing,” the woman said. “Why do we kill each other? Can we not live in peace– reading, writing, painting, singing? The world is far too beautiful for war.”

“But have you seen my friend?” The knight asked again.

“I have seen the forest, and I have seen the sky. I have seen the birds, and I have seen the sun. And see,” the woman gestured toward her canvas, “I have recorded it all here.” The woman turned to look at the knight, her eyes soft as hay. “This is what life really is,” she said.

The knight breathed in. He looked at the forest and the sky. At the birds and the sun. He looked at her painting, which must have taken hours if not days. After a moment, he replied, “If only it were that simple.”

And so the knight left, traveling over the hills to find the next town and continue his search, for there was no one here who could help him.

I lived just off of Route One—a large highway running directly through the country that cut through forests, hills, and several small towns. I only ever traveled north and south using Route One. It was the highway I knew the best, and there was comfort in traveling the same route day after day, week after week. All I knew for sure about the other highways was that they ran into parts of the landscape that were rarely explored. My imagination told me that the only footprints ever found on those other roads were the tracks of people who had the unfortunate luck to break down there.

I only ever drove up and down by myself. In the lines of suburban houses at the south end of Route One, you could usually find people in their front yards, mowing the lawn, or riding bikes in monotonous loops around the neighborhood. In a land of calorie counters and speed walkers, I liked to drive north to the city and see people there. The ride home was always easier. No one wanted to go south unless they already lived there, so I never took anyone.

My drives home were blurs of sunset and rundown guardrails. My favorite part was about halfway through the trip, when I would come to the top of a tall hill, and, at the peak, I would see all of the lights of the cars like red stars, flashing in the evening dark. Other than that, everything was a passing green sign overhead.

Once, somebody joined me, but he had to be strapped loosely to the backseat. He was projectile vomiting—likely an unfortunate side effect of the laced marijuana he had taken at a dark bus stop. A friend had called and asked for a pick-up. He was stoned as well, but found an excuse to leave as soon as I suggested filing a police report against whoever sold them the drugs. I was on my way to the hospital when he finally lost consciousness. I tried one last time to call the paramedics, but with no reception, I doubled my speed and kept driving.

When I came to the bridge that spanned the river, I heard a perfectly alert voice tell me to stop from the backseat. Looking into the rearview mirror, I saw my passenger sitting at full attention, breathing normally. After a protest or two, I pulled onto the shoulder, and he clambered out of the car. The night was warm and lively. Airplanes flew and flashed above, as the lights from the bridge illuminated the settling dust in the air. The river crashed into the rocks on the horizon. I couldn’t see the chaos, but I could feel it. The water sprayed into the air, wetting the rails of the bridge and my hair. It was as if it were raining from somewhere deep within the earth. Looking up, I saw the moon and the stars waiting in the sky, complicit in the night’s events. Their twinkling seemed almost like blinking.

My passenger stood, hands on the railing, looking out over the river. His eyes had closed again, but he stayed standing this time. The river reflected only a quivering mirror of the bridge and the black sky. If I looked close enough, I could see my own warped face staring up at me from down below. My passenger pulled out his wallet and removed a small photo from the small pocket. It was a girl. She was small with big cheeks and straight blonde hair. I could only make out the broad details, illuminated by the blue light of the bridge. I came closer to see the picture more clearly. My passenger moved away. After a few moments, he tore the picture up and threw it into the river.

Then he walked off. I called out to try to get him back into the car. He disappeared into the night.

I told all of this to a different friend of mine over lunch one day. We had stopped by a bagel shop on a sunny Saturday morning. We sat at a window seat, watching the city streets bustle on their day off. I spoke over the casual cacophony of conversation behind me. My friend replied through a mouthful of egg and cheese, saying only, “Damn, that’s crazy.”

“I know it’s crazy. I was there.” I continued, “Do you have any idea who this guy is?”

“No idea.”

“None at all?”

My friend stopped chewing. “I am supposed to keep track of all the junkies around here?”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I just want to know if, based on what I told you about him, you may have had some idea of where to start.”

“No clue.”

I put down my bagel.

“What about the girl?” I asked.

“What girl?”

“The one in the picture.”

“What about her?”

I leaned forward.

“Do you know her?”

“I know a lot of girls like that,” my friend said, still unbothered.

I finally raised my voice, just a touch.

“Were you listening to me?”

My friend finally finished his breakfast, put his hands up, gesturing to the passing crowd who were as indifferent as he was.

“I’ve told you everything. I really don’t know anything here.”

And that was that.

Nothing had come of my attempts to find my passenger. All I had done was ask here and there if anyone knew someone like that. I couldn’t blame anyone for blowing me off. I would have too.

My break came one day while I was at a gas station. I had stopped inside to get some food for the road when I caught the back of a newspaper. The cashier had spread it wide over his lap, reading the sports section. Right in the middle of the page, almost taunting me, was the picture of a girl with straight blonde hair and big cheeks. It was the obituaries. I rushed to buy a newspaper for myself.

She was pretty young when she jumped. I didn’t bother doing the math. Nothing seemed particularly surprising. She had a normal life, as far as lives go. Suburban house. Decent education. A sweet boyfriend. It didn’t go into it, but the family added brief details of her suicide along with the suicide hotline number. They seemed like decent people. The paragraph didn’t give enough to be sure, but I could put it together.

I imagined her on that bridge, looking down into that river, just as I had the other night. I could see that dark sky reflected up at her. She would look out, unable to see where the sky began and the water ended. Maybe she would see her reflection staring back, probably crying. Then she would let go and fall into the abyss and never stop. I imagine it was cold.

I drove back down Route One that afternoon. The sun was just starting to set, and cars lined the roads in a grid. Traffic moved at a constant speed. I was wedged comfortably between two cars, waiting for my exit. I passed through the small towns and shopping strips that lined the sides of the highway. Cars crept from parking lots, joining the great procession home. Geese flew in triangles above the lines. Signs passed in rhythmic monotony. I couldn’t stop thinking about the newspaper in my passenger seat. As I drove, I rolled down my windows and listened desperately for an unfamiliar sound. None came. So, I went back to thinking about that girl.

I wasn’t sad or even disturbed. Though I certainly acknowledged and appreciated the tragedy of it, my soul was moved in another direction. I couldn’t help but replace her face with mine. The wind from the open car window matched the wind from the top of the bridge, and I felt gravity pull me down. I didn’t want to die. Far from it. I wanted to keep falling, forever. Feel the rush of wind against me and the shock of finally leaving solid ground. This longing pushed and trampled any feeling of sadness I may have otherwise felt. I finished my ride home that night, unable to let go of what I read that day.

These images flashed through my mind as I went about my days. I drove, day after day, up and down those roads. Street after street, sign after sign, everything as it was. I stopped listening to music entirely. My trips consisted of me sitting, listening to the roaring wind or the honks of traffic around me. My hands loosened on the wheel as I dared myself to, one day, let go. I didn’t.

Three youths lay alert and undreaming in soggy tents. They had not anticipated the storm. Footsteps had crashed by throughout the night. Bears are native to this area. So are wolves and coyotes. The thin canvas is good for blocking rain, but not for the hungry tearing of wild animals.

The trees are unforgiving. The group had searched for a clearing for many hours, but found nothing. The leader had eventually called bedtime at a place where the trees thinned slightly. Each tent is thoroughly separated from the others. The navigator and the carrier lay awake, yes, but far away.

Inside his tent, the leader holds a razor to his wrist. He quivers and tenses his arm. It turns to stone, unmoving. He slows his breathing, trying again to move. The leader gasps and switches hands. This arm tenses too. He sits up and pounds on the moist earth. His legs shake in the anticipation of ultimate release. His skin crawls with thousands of hungry ants. They laugh at him. Tears well up in his eyes. The rain starts again, patting the top of the leader’s tent. Thunder claps. His head echoes the cries of nature. Lightning strikes. The leader drops his razor and, in a rush, bursts out into the rain.

Nothing is there. The trees watch only from a distance. The glowing embers won’t survive the storm. Smells of sickness and mold rise to great heights, spanning the treetops. The leader is caught amidst the scurrying winds. Rustling builds in the floor beneath him. He feels the earth shake as his knees give out from under him. The leader feels nothing but the mud under his legs.

Like the expanding abyss, a shadow forms behind the leader. Jagged and feathered, it unfurls—snarling. It blinks many times as the leader clutches his chest. Turning, the leader sees the thing. Angelic in silhouette, it is biblical. It spans the entirety of the canopy above it. The robe it wears could be made from nothing at all. The leader runs.

He tears through the wetness, watching the same tree pass every second. And, when he looks to see if he has made it out alive, he finds the angel staring from its same perch. He scrambles as fast as he can. The leader hears a voice ring out.

“I thought you wanted to die,” it says. “What is there to be afraid of now?”

“I’ve seen your claws,” the leader cries in response.

“They’re only about as sharp as a razor,” the angel replies.

The leader moves on. Images have flashed through his mind all night. He sees himself, as he has every second, sitting in his childhood room, being read to by his father. He sees his mother taking care of him when he was sick, at home from school. The leader sees his first kiss, his first love, his first home. And then, like a brick to the head, he sees the one image they all always lead to: Nothing. Not even blackness. Pure and utter absence. This one lingers. It stays for years before, finally, the leader sees the Angel, now directly in front of him.

The world stops. The leader gasps for air.

“You know why I am here,” it says to the leader.

“Get away from me,” the leader says, cowering.

“You know why I am here,” the Angel continues. “So you know that I cannot leave you.”

The leader cannot look forward. The Angel’s figure makes a hole in the sky, and it is unbearable.

“I’ll do it,” the leader says.

The Angel reaches, grabs a finger, and yanks, removing a fingernail. It glistens, reflecting the slow light of the moon. It is sharp. The Angel extends it to the leader. The leader shakes, face contorting before responding.

“Why are you here now?”

The Angel stays quiet.

“Why now? When was the last time we met?”

“It’s been a while,” the Angel replies.

“Was it Daniel’s wedding?”

The Angel stays quiet.

“Was it my birthday?”

The Angel stays quiet.

“Are you just going to stand there? I liked the beginning. With the music.”

“I enjoyed that as well,” the Angel replies.

“So where’s the trumpet? Are you done playing for me? Now that I’m all grown up, I don’t need a lullaby?”

The Angel reaches into its robe.

“What?” The leader continues. “Did you finally bring the trumpet?”

The Angel produces a piece of paper, folded neatly.

“What’s that?”

“This,” the Angel says, “is Daniel’s note.”

The leader freezes.

“I would like to read it to you,” the Angel says.

“Why?” The leader asks.

The Angel doesn’t respond.

“Why?” The leader asks again.

“May I please read it to you?” The Angel says.

The leader pauses, then turns his back on the Angel. The leader sees into the forest. He cannot see the campsite anymore. In its absence, the images start again. To combat them, the Angel begins.

“Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wanted to fly. He would watch movies, read comic books, and dream about being able to touch the stars. The little boy would run around and around the house with a blanket tied around his neck as a cape and jump from furniture, hoping with all of his heart that, one day, he wouldn’t have to come back down. One day, his mother found him on top of the shed, ready to jump down.

‘Come down,’ she called up.

But the little boy didn’t want to. But he also didn’t want to get in trouble. So, the little boy did as he was told. He came down. He jumped. The boy’s mother, though reaching, could not catch him in time. The little boy landed on a big rock and broke his ankle. It snapped clean through, bone jutting out. However, although the little boy was in relentless pain and his mother was worried sick, he couldn’t let go of that feeling—that feeling of being weightless.

In the ambulance, he felt it. In the hospital, he felt it. Driving home, he felt it. But now, he was in a cast and could not jump from anything, no matter how hard he tried. So, one night, he sat in his room, and he prayed. The little boy prayed harder than he ever had before for the ability to fly. That night, his prayer was answered.

When the little boy woke up the next morning, he found that he could float up and down at will if he thought hard enough. Ecstatic, he called and showed his parents, who were confused but ultimately amazed. Now, instead of walking on a broken ankle, the little boy could float wherever he wanted. He could feel the wind whenever he wanted. He could go wherever he wanted.”

“I know the rest,” the leader interjects.

The Angel continues.

“However, over time, the little boy forgot what the ground felt like. When he went to the doctor, the doctor said his weightlessness had made the ankle heal incorrectly. He could either get another surgery or simply never walk. The boy, desperate for the feeling of soft grass and warm concrete, pleaded to his parents to get the surgery. But, as it was, they simply didn’t have the money.

So, the little boy became more depressed as he got more detached from the world. The little boy found himself spending more and more time in the air. He forgot what it was like to take a drive with his father. He forgot what it was like to take a walk with his mother. As the months went on, the little boy spent all of his time in the air, only coming down to take some food and water when he could, then going back.

Before long, the little boy couldn’t tell the difference between himself and the wind. He was one with the air. The little boy finally understood the freedom of flying. And, so, as anyone would, he flew up as high as he could—so high he couldn’t breathe—and never came down.”

The Angel stopped. The rain had stopped, too. The leader took a moment before responding.

“What does that have to do with why you’re here?”

“It was on Daniel’s mind before he tried it,” the Angel said. “I wondered if it might resonate.”

The leader turns back around.

“What do you care anyway? You’re here for the same purpose.”

“I am not,” the Angel says.

“You said it yourself.”

“I’m not taking you for myself.”

The Angel had shrunk itself to match the leader’s height.

“Well then,” the leader says, “go ahead.”

The Angel doesn’t move.

“You know you have to want it,” the Angel says.

“I do want it.”

“No,” the Angel says, “you want to die.”

The Angel seizes the leader by the wrist. The leader’s skin crawls with a fiery ice that sends ripples through his skin—like electricity, rocketing through him.

“Does that feel like death to you?” The Angel whispers.

“No,” the leader replies.

“So,” the Angel asks, backing off, “do you want it or not?”

The leader thinks briefly of the sensation. It was somewhere between comforting and disturbing. Otherworldly in nature. Kind, but not quite pleasurable.

“Do you know what I think of often?” The leader asks.

The Angel doesn’t respond.

“I’m not being clever,” the leader continues. “I’m actually asking. Do you know?”

The Angel shakes its head.

“I think of the first time we met. I mean, you were so small. As small as I was. Do you remember that?”

“Of course,” the Angel replies.

“I think of lying there, staring at the underside of my top bunk. All of those wood slats with all of those dramatic shadows. And I remember feeling that stuffed rabbit under my arm. What was its name? Anywa—”

“Hopper,” the Angel says.

“Hopper. Right. I felt Hopper under my arm. Then, I look over to the ceiling, and I see this little shadow of a small person, blowing what seems to be a trumpet. Now, of course, I’ve been having nightmares for the last year or so, so I’m just waiting for this thing to grow teeth. And, sure enough, it does. And claws at that. But the music gets louder, and it’s sweet music. It’s comforting. So the shadow floats closer, and I’m looking around for the thing itself, but nothing comes. The shadow keeps getting closer. Eventually, it’s so close that it’s almost on top of me. And I can’t believe it—I can feel it. And even though it had those claws and teeth like all of those other nightmares, this one seemed ok. I was scared, for sure. I mean, look at you. But at least I was okay being scared.”

The Angel doesn’t respond.

“So now what?” The leader asks.

“It’s still up to you,” The Angel replies.

The leader pauses again.

“Do you know where Hopper is?”

The Angel shakes his head.

“Do you know I still have nightmares?”

The Angel shakes his head.

“Oh yeah, but it’s not claws now or anything. I go to sleep, see absolutely nothing, and wake up in a cold sweat. I’m not sure if that’s a nightmare in the most technical sense, but it’s unpleasant nonetheless.”

There air stops between the two as the leader finally works up the courage to look directly at the Angel.

“So,” the leader begins, “Where the hell were you?”

The Angel beckons the leader forward. The leader doesn’t move.

“It’s my turn again,” the Angel starts. “Did Daniel tell you why he was unable to go through with it?”

The leader doesn’t move.

“Well,” the Angel continues, “let me tell you now. Daniel was bleeding out on the floor, and I showed up, just as I do for you. I gave him the same offer, and he refused, choosing instead to die. So, before he finally lost consciousness forever, I gave him a small gift: I showed him Heaven, and I showed him Hell—”

“I don’t want to know,” the leader interrupts.

“Good,” the Angel replies, “I’m not going to tell you. Tell me, though, if you can think of one similarity between heaven and hell, as Daniel saw it, what do you think it would be?”

The leader looks away, thinking. He cannot come up with a good answer, so he looks back at the Angel, guilty.

“The similarity,” the Angel says, “is that, upon arriving at both places, Daniel is alive.”

“So, it doesn’t matter then?”

The leader stares at the Angel, unmoving.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” the Angel replies.

Both figures hear rustling in the distance. The navigator and the carrier have noticed their missing leader. They’re calling his name. The leader tenses, shaking. He turns to leave the Angel. The voices are getting closer by the second.

“This is the last time I will see you,” the Angel says.

The leader stops, back still turned to the Angel.

“This is your final decision.”

“You’re leaving?” The leader asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The Angel doesn’t respond.

“Okay,” says the leader, “okay, fine. Fine, then go ahead.”

The Angel doesn’t move. The calls for the leader get even louder.

“What is your choice?” Asks the Angel.

“My choice?” Asks the leader.

The Angel opens its arms. In his torso, the leader can see nothing, once again. This time, however, it pulsates with a gentle warmth—not like the cold abyss he’s used to.

“And if I come with you,” the leader asks, “what then?”

“Why didn’t you ask Daniel?” The Angel asks. “After all, I’m the reason you can.”

The leader wipes his brow. He’s begun to sweat. He thinks of the razor, lying near his tent. He thinks of what would happen if he went back. That gentle sleep that would come from two smooth motions. That gentle sleep in that cold, cold tent. No dreams. No waking up in terror. Just rest in that tent. That cold tent. Unbearably cold.

The leader steps towards the Angel.

“Do you promise it’ll be okay?” Asks the leader.

The Angel, now back to the size of a tree, looks down at the leader.

“I promise,” the Angel.

One step at a time, the leader walks forward. As he comes, the Angel wraps him in. It is as it seemed. The leader sees nothing. There is no difference between his eyes being open and closed. But it is also warm. The leader relaxes as the last of the Angel wraps around him, and he falls completely. And yet, in that last second, the leader sees everything. All of nature in the forest that surrounds him. All of those whom he passed in his life. All of the stars in the sky and the insects on the ground. The greens, the blues, the reds, the yellows. Everything collapsed into one instance of nothing.

Nothing at all.

The navigator and the carrier were unsuccessful in their search. It had been over an hour and a half since they started, and they turned up with nothing. After a brief conversation, they decided it would be better to wait until the morning. They made their way back to the campsite, worried about their friend, and unsure of what to do the next morning. If they couldn’t get in touch with the rangers, they would have to turn back entirely.

Upon coming to the campsite, however, they heard noises coming from inside the leader’s tent. They were strange shuffling noises that sent shivers up the navigator’s spine. As such, the navigator sent the carrier over, given that he was the stronger of the two of them. The carrier crept with caution, managing to press an ear against the tent. The shuffling noises came and stopped. It was impossible to tell anything besides that there was something in the tent. The carrier moved slowly and, as quietly as possible, opened the tent partially to see inside. It was dark, so the carrier raised a flashlight and shone it on the figure inside.

It was the leader, wrapped in his sleeping bag. Under his arm, he held a small stuffed rabbit that he pressed against his face. He rolled and shuffled, dreaming of something comfortable.

Sighing in relief, the carrier told the navigator they could go to bed, and the two went to their own tents, leaving the leader to sleep peacefully for the first time in a long, long while

.

I have recently been plagued by a dream. One that never changes. Every time I wake up again, I remember it in excruciating detail, as if I were the artist who painted it.

I find myself standing in front of Christ Church Cathedral. The wind howls and whips around me as raindrops thud against my exposed head and hands. Surrounding flowers and bushes are ripped away. It stings. Any tree still rooted to the ground shakes with unease—perhaps indecision. That once-thriving garden, which lined the warm, moss-covered walls of this place, has now been trampled upwards into the wind. Scattered without form. Unrecognizable.

Surrounding the cathedral are other unimpressive buildings that disappear into the horizon. Some are already destroyed, and some are falling as I stand. I can hear the faint groans of the falling stone from a great distance, but I do not see it hit the ground. I am safe at this distance.

I then realize I have forgotten my coat. This neglect becomes ever more apparent with each scratch I suffer from the storm. Dirt in my eye, my shirt, my shoes. My muscles tense and shake. My will slows, and my reason stutters.

I get a glimpse of the several sections of stained glass that pave the walls. Their beauty entices me, fixing my feet to the ground. The articulate spires fire upwards into the swirling storm and stare bravely into heaven. I admire their delicate intricacies—their chiseled features and carved faces. I feel the ages of work and study fill my eyes as I stare at such a triumph.

Then, I hear the slow rumbling. First, a glass window is broken. Then another, and another, until shards of glass fly with the soil. I cover my face. My forearms are cut.

The first spire falls. I see it fall before I hear it. It’s an implosion. The stone plummets into itself. A silent cry. Then, loud and angry. The scream races toward me, forcing its way into my ears.

Then, the next spire falls, faster than the first, as its structural integrity is already shaken and cracked. I’m expecting the noise this time. The other spires fall in succession, and soon the entire roof of Christ Church Cathedral is nothing but a corpse rotting on the floor. The walls start to fall as the wind picks up. Larger and larger stones pummel the ground, each with a louder, deeper sound. In harmony, the wind whistles into my open wounds. Louder and louder. Stronger and stronger.

Soon, the wind carries large boulders, launching them pointedly at my head. I am not so arrogant as to think that I can survive a great stone to my skull. As I look up one more time, I see my options: leave or stay and be killed. I walk away so I’m not crushed.

Angels appeared outside Sally’s window. They were tall, faceless things, clad in flowing gray robes, colored like cobblestone. They breathed a song unsung and crept their fingers up, tapping on the fogged glass. Their gaze fell, hungry, on Sally’s bed.

Sally sat up, clutching the comforter with her small hands. Her grandmother had always told her, “Angels surround you and protect you wherever you go.” Sally never thought they would show themselves. Especially at this time of night. She could see their mouths move, salivating.

One of the angels wedged a fingernail under the window and opened it just enough for thousands of voices to come through in a whisper.

“We like your dancing,” they said. “Will you dance for us?”

Sally nodded.

Sally had taken a few years of ballet. She had always wanted to be a ballerina, like the one in her music box that had suddenly started winding itself in slow, painful circles.

“We heard you,” the angels continued. “And we want to see you dance.”

Sally kept staring out of the window. She saw a forest around her house, tinted by the large moon outside that covered the sky, and drifted forward, towards her window. A divine presence. The moon had grown closer to Sally’s window as the angels had stayed, pushing stars from its path.

An angel slammed Sally’s window.

“Dance!” They cried.

Slowly standing, with tears streaming down her face, Sally performed her dance. The one she had prepared for months with her teacher. She kept telling her dad about it. He had taken off work to see her recital. These angels were her first audience.

She twirled, twisted in her nightgown. Pointing her feet. Sweeping gestures filled the room. Sally made no sound. She kept her sobs to herself.

Luckily, the moon had seen the whole thing.

And he had liked it.

He gazed joyfully at her. The moon loved Sally’s dance. He was upset when it was over. Deeply upset.

Reaching through her window, through the crowded angels, the moon swept little Sally up in his arms, crooning as he went. Sally tried to grab the comforter. Her grip loosened under the moon’s tough pull. And as the moon drifted back to the stars, a ballerina sat in his arms.

The moon sang as he flew, repeating Sally’s words from earlier that night.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.”

The angels responded, comforting Sally, “We heard you. We want your dancing.”

Over and over.

Then they left.

He sat in front of his favorite statue. Glowing in the soft blue light from beneath the display, she stood as a goddess in the blacked-out hallway. Her silhouette cut a shape in the wall—black night against cold concrete.

He admired her body: her rounded hips, her supple legs, her tight core. Her rounded breasts that he could almost feel under his fingertips. He admired the clothes she wore. The gold around her neck and on the trim of her loose robe. He loved the halo around her head, painted to be pure sunlight. He loved her deep blue eyes.

As he gazed, his imagination wandered to far stretches of the world. To places outside of this dark gallery. He imagined a city of clouds, where she attended to him, bringing him plates of fresh fruit and sweets. She would hand them to him, praising his every feature, before stripping off her robe and interlocking herself with him. He could feel it happen as he sat there, fingers wild.

Then, he heard a tapping. Something light and delicate—a locomotive in his mind. One tap after another. He looked around the gallery, but saw nothing. No one came. No one moved. It was just him and the goddess. He drew his attention back to her, gazing once again into her brilliant eyes. Then he heard a breath.

“Help,” it said. The breath seemed to come from the statue’s mouth.

Hesitantly, he approached the goddess, ear to her chest. He heard the breathing again. “Help,” it said again.

“My god,” he thought. But it was unmistakable. Someone was breathing.

His fingers twitched in excitement. His hair stood on end. His breathing grew deeper. Stepping forward as if on ice, he knocked once on the statue.

It knocked back.

In a haze, heart pounding, he drew his shoulders back and, with a blow, cracked the statue’s face, right across the eye.

Over and over, he kept hitting. The crack grew wider every time. The breaths from inside the statue grew louder. Blood, red and thick, dripped down his hand from his palm. His arm ached, but he kept going. Until, at last, a piece broke off. Just that deep blue eye.

What he saw staring back was an unmistakably feminine eye, brown and doe-like. “Help,” she breathed again.

With a deep sigh, he stepped back. He looked at the eye in the statue, then at the piece of eye in his hand. After a moment, he put the piece back and turned his back to the statue. Echoing down the hall, he walked away to find some glue.

Introduction

In the early seventeenth century, Christopher Marlowe published perhaps his most famous work, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus—a retelling of the German Faust legend. Doctor Faustus, as Marlowe’s work is more commonly referred to, tells the story of the titular famed physician who, not content with his scientific knowledge, turns to the devil for otherworldly power. Much later, in 1915, Franz Kafka published his novella The Metamorphosis, which tells the story of Gregor Samsa, a salesman, who, one morning, finds himself transformed into a monstrous insect.

Although Doctor Faustus and The Metamorphosis contain many differences, both texts share a key element: monsters. Whether demons and the devil himself or through a large insect, both Doctor Faustus and The Metamorphosis show creatures so far from what is recognizably human that the instinctive category for such beings would be within the realm of the monstrous. Furthermore, both texts tell of protagonists who fall victim to monstrous forces. Faustus is damned to hell, while Gregor inhabits his own kind of hell: being transformed into a monster himself.

What Are Monsters?

In ancient myths, monsters were often a direct evil that a hero must conquer—signs of chaos and destruction that stood in contrast to human civilization. The word monster comes from the Latin monere, which means ‘to warn,’ and monstrare, which means ‘to demonstrate.’ Monsters function thus not only as representations of evil, but as deterrents and warnings against wickedness (Lawrence, 2015).

Consider Leviathan, a famous monster from the Bible. Leviathan is depicted as a gigantic sea serpent who will be slain by God and the righteous when the Messiah comes. Leviathan is one of many creatures in the Bible that represent chaos and destruction—two forces that ultimately lead to death. Besides perhaps an instinctive reaction, the first indication readers have of Leviathan’s monstrosity is its close relationship with water.

Throughout the Bible, water is consistently used to symbolize chaos, destruction, and death. Water destroys humanity in the Noah story. Water blocks Moses and the Israelites’ way as they run from the Egyptians. Stormy waters frighten the disciples when sailing with Jesus. According to Holy Scripture, only God can wield power over water. God saves Noah in the ark. God gives Moses the power to split the Red Sea. Jesus calms the storm (Heiser, 2018). In these stories, there is a consistent distinction between the chaos of water and the power God wields over it. As a sea serpent, Leviathan represents this chaos and takes its monstrous form (Baugher, 2025; Heiser, 2018).

Creatures, malevolent gods, and other such monstrosities follow this same basic formula. They are generally non-humans who thrive in and embody chaos, existing against order. Whether the monster is specifically Biblical or comes from any religious context, it introduces chaos and destruction into order and will pull any protagonist into a struggle with destructive chaos.

A contrast between chaos and order is difficult to completely map because concepts such as “order” and “chaos” may seem overwhelmingly large and vague. They can, however, be narrowed into some fundamental points that help to make them more accessible.

To start, there are certain impossibilities in the way the world functions. For example, anything slow cannot be fast. Slowness is inherently not fast. Slow and fast are, thus, mutually exclusive alternatives. Furthermore, any action that attempts to integrate slow and fast into mutual existence is an action that attempts a universal impossibility and is doomed to fail. Thus, opposing, mutually exclusive ideas such as fast and slow cannot be integrated into mutual existence because of the nature of their existence. There are certain logical limitations to all acts based on the state of that which is acted upon (Hoffman and Rosenkrantz, 2017).

Monstrosity is inevitably tied to chaos and demonstrates an attempt to break from order. Furthermore, attempts to integrate mutually exclusive alternatives are, in themselves, the most basic attempts to break from order. Thus, as these attempts introduce chaos into order, they are inherently monstrous acts.

Marlowe and Kafka both present protagonists who, in different ways, attempt to integrate two mutually exclusive ideas of their own identities. Whether it is Faustus, who attempts to be God, though he is merely a human, or Gregor, who accepts a system bent on enslaving him, both characters are doomed to monstrosity through the futility of their efforts.

Faustus

Any direct reference to Doctor Faustus must draw from its most authoritative version, as Doctor Faustus has been published in two texts: an A-text, published in 1604, and a B-text, published in 1616. In 1950, W. W. Greg, a well-established textual scholar, argued that the B-text is the text that more accurately reflects Marlowe’s original ideas and should be treated as the authoritative text of the two. However, since Greg’s original criticism, scholars have determined that his arguments work both for and against the B-text. Hence, scholars now seem to accept the A-text as the more authoritative text of the two (Keefer, 2006). As such, the following analysis of Doctor Faustus will be derived from the A-text and will be focused more on a comparison with The Metamorphosis and its monster, rather than on the different versions of the same monstrosity found in the B-text.

In his opening soliloquy, Faustus speaks of his desire for power, saying, “O, what a world of profit and delight, of power, of honor, of omnipotence, is promised to the studious artisan.”(Marlowe, 9) As Faustus is referring to himself as the “studious artisan” here, Marlowe makes it clear that Faustus believes himself deserving of divine power. The keyword from this passage is “omnipotence”. Firstly, it is the most powerful “promise” that Faustus lists. Secondly, the word “omnipotence” has specific theological connotations.

The three divine omni-attributes explored in theological thought are as follows: omnipotence, omnipresence, and omniscience. Although theologians throughout history have explored these characteristics—for example, Thomas Aquinas’s “Omnipotence Paradox”—they are also apparent in earlier writings, such as Epicurus’s Problem of Evil—a question that seeks to integrate evil and suffering with the omni-attributes (Tooley, 2015). This problem is perhaps the most famous challenge to the rational existence of God. It has been written about by authors such as C.S. Lewis, particularly on the topic of God’s omnipotence (Lewis, 1947, pp.14–24).

Thus, living in a primarily Christian context, Faustus is not only saying that he is promised total power, but also takes the extra step and suggests that he deserves power specifically equal to that of God.

Though Doctor Faustus does not provide a full definition of humanity, it becomes clear that a key component of humanity is that it is decidedly not Godliness. And, Faustus, although brilliant, is nothing more than human. There are divine powers in the world, and the question is not how Faustus will become equal to these forces, but rather which force he will bow to. Even with his supernatural powers, Faustus is beholden to his contract with Lucifer. Faustus’s power is not omnipotent but entirely conditional on what Lucifer granted him in the deal and what Lucifer wants in exchange for that power. At the end of the play, Faustus is still dragged to hell.

Faustus cannot deny his own humanity. This denial, however, is exactly what Faustus attempts to do in his contract with Lucifer. Although Faustus seems to have acquired divine power, he is still desperately human when faced with Lucifer. Furthermore, because he has denied it, Faustus is entirely unprepared when inevitably faced with his humanity.

Throughout the play, Faustus is called several times to repent and return to a Christian life, serving God. These calls culminate in a moment when an old man tells Faustus, “… an angel hovers o’er thy head.” (Marlowe, David Scott Kastan and Hunter, 2023, p. 48) The old man continues, saying that it is not too late for Faustus—that God will forgive his debt to the devil. However, as Faustus is about to repent, Mephistopheles appears and threatens Faustus for repenting, saying, “Revolt, or I’ll in piecemeal tear thy flesh.” (Marlowe, David Scott Kastan and Hunter, 2023, p. 49) In his fear, Faustus turns back to Lucifer, renewing his vow.

In recognizing his weakness relative to the forces of Hell, Faustus responds in fear, turning back to Lucifer, rather than turning to God, even though he knows that repentance will lead to his salvation. It is an automatic reaction, brought on by the sudden and startling revelation of his human weakness. Faustus is not being punished by God or even being tricked by the devil—who makes the terms of the agreement clear. Rather, Faustus has set forth on a journey, of which damnation is the inevitable destination.

Faustus understands that he has sold his soul to the devil and is thus damned, yet is utterly convinced that he will be saved from damnation. Even after Mephistopheles explains very clearly that Faustus will be dragged to hell and that Mephistopheles himself is evidence for hell’s existence, Faustus responds, “How? Now in hell? Nay, an this be hell, I’ll willingly be damned here.”(Marlowe, 25) Faustus cannot be both damned and saved. Yet Faustus arrogantly believes that he can be.

Again, Faustus attempts an impossibility. It is not that some divine force doesn’t allow Faustus to be both saved and damned–they are simply mutually exclusive states of being, making it intrinsically impossible to be both. Even God can’t save Faustus while Faustus is damned.

In The Problem of Pain, C. S. Lewis writes the following: “It remains true that all things are possible with God: the intrinsic impossibilities are not things but nonentities. It is no more possible for God than for the weakest of His creatures to carry out both of two mutually exclusive alternatives; not because His power meets an obstacle, but because nonsense remains nonsense even when we talk it about God” (Lewis, 1947, pp.16). Because Faustus, rather than God, determines his damnation, God cannot save Faustus—as doing so would be intrinsically nonsensical.

In attempting to reject his humanity, Faustus blinds himself to the realities of nature and is shocked into a nightmare once his delusion is broken. He thus finds himself standing face to face with Mephistopheles, and his eventual fate is to join the legions of Hell. When Mephistopheles explains that he and the other demons are “Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, conspired against our God with Lucifer, and are for ever damned with Lucifer” (Marlowe, David Scott Kastan and Hunter, 2023, pp. 16-17), Mephistopheles refers to Lucifer’s attempt to undermine God’s position and become God himself. However, Lucifer ultimately fails because Lucifer simply isn’t God. Lucifer can never be God. Like Lucifer, Faustus denies himself in an attempt to be God and is damned with Lucifer, as he is perpetually in an unwinnable conflict.

For each fallen angel is a being attempting an impossibility: the rejection of their base existence. This rejection is what damns them–and what damns Faustus. Thus, in his attempt to become God, Faustus succeeds only in becoming Lucifer.

Gregor Samsa

Kafka begins The Metamorphosis with the following line: “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from restless dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect” (Kafka, 2025, p. 21). As strong an adjective as “monstrous” is bound to raise several questions around its placement. What about the insect is monstrous? What is the characteristic that takes a normal—though perhaps unattractive—insect and makes it a monster? These questions are difficult to answer, as Kafka begins his story post-metamorphosis. However, Kafka provides enough clues about Gregor’s former human life to accurately deduce Gregor’s source of monstrosity.

When Gregor first awakens and sees that he is an insect, his first thought is, naturally, “What has happened to me?” (Kafka, 2025, p. 21). His next thoughts are, “What if I were to sleep a little longer and forget all this foolishness” (Kafka, 2025, p. 21) and, presumably realizing that he has to leave for work, “Oh God,… what a strenuous profession I have chosen!” (Kafka, 2025, p. 22) As Gregor processes the situation, his concerns grow less about his current state as an insect and more about how it might influence his career.

Gregor’s preoccupation with his profession signals an alienation that pervades the entire story. Kafka, in his lifetime, witnessed the industrialization of the West and the rapid organization of the workforce. Factories were streamlined, and employees became uniform branches of their employing companies (Tarihi et al., 2024). In accordance with Marxist thought, Kafka saw employees removed from their identities and molded into servants for larger producers (Tarihi et al., 2024). Gregor, putting his role in the workforce before his dramatic transformation into a cockroach, mirrors the alienation of the working class—signaling Gregor’s isolation to come.

Further mirroring the powerlessness Kafka saw in the working class, from the beginning of the text, Gregor places himself as subservient to his employers and their faceless bureaucracy. He must wake up at the same time every day and go to work on the same train. Gregor then comes home by train—repeating this process day after day. He mentions some specific sacrifices he makes as a traveling salesman, such as “The menace of traveling, worrying about train connections, the irregular and bad meals, a stream of people that is constantly changing, never lasting, never becoming more cordial” (Kafka, 2025, p. 22). Gregor’s life is plagued by difficulties with the mundane—he has problems traveling and eating. Furthermore, though his profession as a salesman is inherently social, Gregor lacks human connection.

After Gregor awakens from restless dreams, not much changes—his troubles still mirror those in his daily, human life. Gregor still has trouble traveling, both because of the locked door to his room and his “many little legs” (Kafka, 2025, p. 35) that do not suit long walks—or even scuttles. If he did decide to go for a stroll, he would be chased off the streets. Gregor still eats disgusting food such as old cheese and rotting vegetables. And Gregor still lacks human connection, as his sister is the only member of his family who seems to have any tolerance for him, and only for so long. Gregor awoke from restless dreams to discover that he had been transformed into a monstrous insect—but had Gregor suddenly become an insect that night, or had he only just discovered who he already was?

Gregor’s existence before and after his discovery is not too different. His struggles are similar and share one fundamental quality: powerlessness. In this sense, Gregor’s transformation into a bureaucratic slave is the same as his transformation into a monstrous insect. Before the titular metamorphosis, Gregor had already become a cockroach in every way other than physical appearance.

Gregor’s new existence as an insect seems a direct reflection of his life as a salesman. However, all of the struggles that he faces as a salesman and that are reflected in Gregor’s metamorphosis seem more inflicted upon him than perpetuated by him. The difficult traveling, poor meals, and lack of human connection that Kafka mentions are occupational hazards. Thus, they are not necessarily created by Gregor but by a web of employers, consumers, and insurance agents. Furthermore, since his father’s business had failed, “Gregor’s only concern had been to do his utmost to enable his family to quickly forget the financial misfortune that had driven everyone to a state of complete hopelessness” (Kafka, 2025, p. 43). Gregor is not deviating from the norm, as Faustus did, but participating in what he believes to be the natural workings of the world. Whether or not he is correct, Gregor, driven by financial need and without realizing it, enters a system intent on squashing his freedom like the insect he eventually turns into. Ultimately, Gregor’s metamorphosis comes not from internal monstrous desires but from the monster that employs Gregor and possesses his environment.

Comparison

In both texts, each protagonist falls into the same existential trap that ultimately leads to his destruction, but in different ways. Faustus chooses destruction in his arrogance. He is presented with the consequences of his actions several times, and yet stays on his path. Faustus is not blind because his eyes are covered—Faustus is blind because his eyes are closed.

Gregor, on the other hand, is, in part, a victim of circumstance. Though Gregor believes he is doing his best to free his family from the shackles of poverty, he simply cannot grant himself and his family freedom in a system intent on keeping them in their place. Freedom and repression are mutually exclusive alternatives and cannot be integrated through Gregor’s efforts to be the family breadwinner. Though Gregor does not know he is choosing chaos and monstrosity, he nevertheless attempts to integrate two mutually exclusive alternatives, whether he knows it or not.

At first glance, insects, such as the one Gregor is described as, are often considered disgusting. These pests hide in dark places, make particularly unattractive scuttling noises, and seem, against all odds, persistently moist. One could compare Gregor to classic animal hybrid monsters, such as a centaur or mermaid (Asma, 2017). Though Gregor looks like an insect, he retains some form of consciousness, which seems human. Thus, though looking not quite like a classic hybrid, Gregor meets the criteria in that he is both cockroach and recognizably human– in spirit, at least.

Unlike Faustus, Gregor’s monstrosity is not reflective of a fractured soul attempting ascension, but rather of a broken system that strips its victims of power and of the passive compliance of a lowly salesman. Gregor certainly denies himself and his agency in favor of a larger system, leading to his transformation. However, like Faustus, Gregor’s ultimate transformation is determined by his rejection of his humanity, even if unintentional, and is triggered by external forces.

The key difference is this: Faustus, by the end of the text, is a monster trapped in a man’s body. His transformation is driven by his own ambition, and, as a consequence, Faustus is damned to hell. On the other hand, by the end of The Metamorphosis, Gregor is a human, trapped in a monster’s body—an appearance placed upon him by his external environment. However, ultimately, each protagonist has the integrity of his humanity undermined to the point of total collapse.

Integrity, in one aspect, refers to a way of living in congruence with the truth as one believes it to be. Faustus may have been secretive about his deal with Mephistopheles, but this is not what directly led to his destruction. Rather, this secrecy is a symptom of a disintegral life—a life most clearly marked by Faustus’ denial of the truth of his humanity. Faustus does not undermine his integrity by what he says, but by what he does.

Gregor, on the other hand, seems to live with integrity, especially compared to Faustus. He lives in a way congruent with his beliefs, wanting a good life for his family, so he takes a job as a salesman. The disintegration that Gregor falls victim to comes from the system that he operates in. The company that Gregor works for has created an environment that treats its employees as if they were insects. Furthermore, by treating human beings as insects, the bureaucratic system in place tries, again, to integrate two mutually exclusive alternatives. The people who support the system live as if human beings were insects, just as Faustus lives as if he were God. In submitting to the system, Gregor submits to his own disintegration.

Conclusion

In keeping with the etymology of “monster,” Doctor Faustus and The Metamorphosis warn of and demonstrate the dangers of living without integrity. On one hand, as shown through Faustus, the rejection of integrity can be internal and lead to personal disintegration. On the other hand, as shown through Gregor, disintegration can come as a result of submission to dehumanizing external factors. However, ultimately, both paths lead to the same destination: the destruction of humanity and transformation into a monster.

Faustus’s monstrous transformation is driven by his own ambition. He is driven to the edge of his humanity by internal forces, which ultimately push him over the edge to fall with Lucifer. Gregor, on the other hand, lives a passive life, driven by his perceived responsibility to his family. Yet Gregor, as opposed to Faustus, is pushed into monstrosity by the monstrous civilization that monsters traditionally oppose. Ultimately, through their exploration of monstrosity in their protagonists, Doctor Faustus and The Metamorphosis serve as warnings of disintegration—both from the self and from external, powerful forces. Faustus and Gregor thus represent two unfortunate victims of this disintegration and demonstrate its consequence: joining the realm of monsters.

Bibliography

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Baugher, C. (2025). Yahweh’s Mastery Over Chaos. [online] Knowingthebible.net. Available at: https://www.knowingthebible.net/topical-studies/yahwehs-mastery-over-chaos [Accessed 17 Oct. 2025].

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If you have read any of my writing, then you would know about the almost supernatural Route 44. However, though it is not touched on so much on this page, Route 44 really only takes shape in contrast to Route 1.

In the story, Route 1 is the main highway that the protagonist travels on just about every day. It is the road that people forget about. The road that people take for granted. It is there every day, never changing at all. You can drive on it for hours, never even paying attention, and still end up at your intended destination.

Route 44 seems to be the exact opposite. It is chaotic—unpredictable. Though it works as just a straight line, it is somehow easy to get lost on. There are a few road signs and other telltale signs of a motorway, but it is mostly just asphalt that occupies a space. In a sense, Route 44 is so chaotic that it is more than just the road.

But neither road exists on its own.

Without chaos, order feels numb. Without order, chaos becomes destruction.

When a person moves between these worlds, the true expanse of experience comes to them in disorienting waves.

So, what do you think happens when a person is plunged directly into chaos they never knew existed? Do they ever return?

When I was younger, my father used to drive me everywhere. I didn’t live in a particularly walkable part of the world. So, most of my adventures existed through a car window. I would pass fields of corn, soybeans, and other various crops. I even used to play a game where I would count as many cows as possible, and then collect them as points. Although, however fun this may have been, the night drives were always the most memorable.

We would always visit my grandmother near the coast during the summer. Due to certain geological barriers, the small town where we lived at that time was prone to abnormal weather conditions. One moment, it would be a beautiful, sunny day with cotton-candy clouds. The next moment, it would be thundering—lightning careening from the sky. I remember very clearly driving home in one of these storms.

Everything seems bigger through the eyes of a child. And the night seems longer when you’re accustomed to being in bed by 8:00. Everything was loud and viciously bright all at the same time. And yet, I was in my car, able to observe the amazing things that took place outside of my window.

I imagine that a similar feeling is what draws divers to enter cages so they can see Great White Sharks up close. But, for us relatively normal people, I can best describe the feeling as falling asleep in a freezing cold room, and finding that, only under the comforter, the bed is pleasantly warm.

As I grew up and moved away, these roads were the things I thought about most. Perhaps it should have been my family, but I spoke with them almost every week. For whatever reason, those roads and highways seemed to be my home.

One of my best memories is still the night I had to drive an hour home at four o’clock in the morning, on an empty highway. Even on that night, at that time, however, there was still an accident, which I found as flashing lights, emanating from the nothingness.

For those of you who follow my writing, you might be able to tell where I get my inspiration from.

For me, these roads are not just about driving. They are not purely a societal function. They are, in fact, key pieces of myself. And still I keep changing, but the roads do not. This is because they are a canvas—blank stretches of space on which one can move forever, simply for the sake of moving. They are the conditions under which change occurs. A constant backdrop and companion.

The road exists for you, and only for you. The route you take will always be your own. No one else will see the trees dance in the same way. No one else will see the stars in the same way. The roads are your portals to the world.

Somewhere, someone is going to make a wrong turn or take a wrong exit. This may be frustrating. But, if it’s late enough at night (or early enough in the morning), this driver may find themself in a new part of the world. Thank God for that.

Warming my hands in my pocket, I felt the radio that Cecil gave me once again. I grabbed it from my pocket. I felt its weight in my hand and, without a second thought, I threw it into the dark. I would find her on my own. She would know that it was me and, perhaps more importantly, I would know that it was me. I continued on my way, diligent and confident in my seemingly heroic quest.

In a moment, my foot caught a hole in the ground, and I stumbled. I fell, arms outstretched, and felt a sharp pain in my wrist as I hit the dirt. My entire hand was hot, and my eyes blurred briefly from the pain. I sat, for a moment, in shock. Then, just in time to interrupt my rest, I saw the tall grass begin to move. I thought I was hallucinating, and perhaps I was, but I swear I could feel it wrap around my feet and legs. I tore at it, trying to break its grasp from me, but they overwhelmed me. So, I stood up and ran.

I dashed through the field, looking for a place to rest. I could feel the weeds at my heels, but I told myself that I couldn’t stop moving. Not here. But, as I was out of shape, my breath quickly left me, and I felt myself unable to run anymore. However, as I slowed, I no longer felt the grass grasping at my feet. As I looked down, I wondered if it had happened at all, and my confidence was shaken. Nevertheless, I continued, my wrist still throbbing at my side.

A barn grew from the distance as I waded through tall grass. Its walls were dark, and I was just able to make out its finer details through the red light glowing from out of the windows. It was about three stories tall, from what I could make out, and had no surrounding buildings. No stables, pens, or silos. Not even a driveway. Just a door, blocked by the never-ending wave of grass. I moved on, holding my arm limp by my side, hoping to regroup or find some help back to the highway.

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“I saw a kid die tonight,” I said.

She turned back to look at me.

“It’s a terrible thing,” the woman said, “though a hard thing to explain.”

“Please try,” I said.

“Well,” said the woman, now looking towards the ceiling while dropping a tea bag in and out of the mug, “it’s a game.”

“Is it?” I asked.

“Well, yes, technically. Though it’s not one I would ever want to play.”

The woman moved back toward the table, bringing me my cup of tea, and sitting opposite me with her mug clasped between her hands.

“They’ve been playing it as long as I’ve been here,” the woman continued. “Another one dies every week.”

“Why play it?”

It was about that time that I heard soft thumping coming from the ceiling over my head. I turned my head, looking out of the kitchen, and noticed a staircase leading to an elusive upper level. The woman in linens must have noticed my turn and slunk to her right, catching my gaze.

“More tea?” The woman asked.

“Do you have a dog?” I asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied.

She took the mug from in front of me and moved back toward the counter.

“Come here,” the woman beckoned. “I want to show you this.”

I rose from my chair and walked over to the counter. There was, as I walked, another loud bang from upstairs, like a cinder block hitting the ground. It was enough to distract the woman and make her jump. The teapot she held in her hands crashed to the floor, and her eyes became wild for a small moment. She floundered about, unable to make up her mind on whether she should clean up the shards of pottery and puddle of tea on the floor, or go and see what the noise was about.

“Excuse me a moment,” the woman said, gaining composure. “Would you mind cleaning this up?”

She pointed behind me.

“There are paper towels by the sink, and the broom is by the trash can.”

She moved up towards the stairs, and I walked to get the broom.

I stood there for a moment before beginning to sweep, trying to catch my breath. I had come here with an explicit purpose, I recounted to myself: find the Front-rider. And yet, in the midst of all the chaos, I had been thrust into a new kind of hell. I had almost forgotten about Her. Memories of hours ago enraptured me, and I was able to smile again. Cecil was still out there, so was she, and so was the Front-rider. I found some solace in the repetition of my actions—sweep, sweep, move, sweep.

Although looking down into a particularly large shard of pottery, I saw my faint reflection looking up at me. It seemed, however, like faint lines of chalk left behind after the blackboard had been erased. I was recognizable. But, I would have been more uncertain if there was anyone else in the room. Then I might have wondered if it was my reflection or theirs.

As I finished my task, I heard squabbling coming from upstairs. Voices came as squeaks, matched only by the soft beating of something pliable. I needed to leave, I remembered, and the woman in linens was the only adult I had met. My best chance out was only a floor above. I made my way to the stairs and began my climb.

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“Who’s that?” The green-eyed girl asked.

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