Wallypede Girl

Words can be an infected wound. Things are read that cannot be unread. They can injure, and fester.
For me, such words were delivered by a story, called Wallypede Girl. The title alone sufficed to betray its radically abominable character. It was a tale scraped from the filthiest sewers of Hell. You don’t need to know more than that. Believe me, really, you don’t. Thank all that is holy if you are spared. I pray you will not err as I have.

Looking back, my behavior is indecipherable to me. I watch a madman destroy himself. He picks up the slim volume whose vileness – he knows – has never been exceeded. As if craving damnation, he consumes it in one session. It took, perhaps, three hours.
I could not put it down, as the saying goes, though it explains nothing. Why – I now ask myself – did I continue to the end? Why proceed beyond the first hideous paragraph? I can make no sense of it. In any case, the private calamity was done. That was the first episode. I would never know ‘a good night’s sleep’ again.

In the next episode, I was introduced to the author, at a gallery opening.
“I’m sure you told me that you’d read one of her stories. What was it called?”
Chillingly, I knew. Please let it not be, I mumbled silently, in vain. It was, of course. Had it not been, this also would not be. The words were said. I will not willingly repeat them.
After the name was spoken I seemed to pass – for a moment – out of the world. Sensation collapsed into darkness and noise. A buzzing reached me as if from distant ruined galaxies.
“You’ve heard of it?” she was asking. “Maybe you’ve even read it?”
I stared at her dumbly, if not quite open-mouthed. It was meeting a monster.
“How did you think up something like that?” I asked, not really wanting to know.
“Oh, it just came to me,” she said. The breeziness of the reply was almost impossibly distressing. “Do you ever have that? You know, when things just arrive, and you’ve no idea from where?”
“It doesn’t worry you?”
“Strange visitors are my favorite things.”
My look of abhorrence cannot have been well-concealed. Her expression shifted through discomfort to amusement.
“You look as if you’ve seen a Wallypede girl.”
“Don’t say that,” I begged. “I mean, don’t joke about it. It’s not remotely funny.”
“Are you okay?”
“What you did was so wrong.” I had to say it. “If there was any justice in this universe, you’d be punished for it.”
“Jesus,” she said. She looked taken aback. “You don’t like it?”
Her appalling understatement shocked me to the core. For some moments it stripped me of the power of speech. Could she somehow not realize what she had done?
“Like it?” I stammered, groping for more. “You find it imaginable that I could have liked it?”
“Aren’t scary stories your thing?”
I searched her face for indications of mockery. We were trapped in a dialog of unanswered questions. “You think what you wrote was a scary story?”
“Wasn’t it?” Once again, her confusion seemed genuine.
“Was Auschwitz-Birkenau undesirable accommodation?”
“I don’t get your point.” Some evidence of irritation was creeping in.
This tilted my sense of existential devastation into fury. Did she dare pretend to injury, after what she had done? I closed my eyes, grasping for calm.
“We should probably drop it,” she said. “The topic seems to over-excite you.”
It’s not about me, I wanted to shriek, but I managed to restrain myself. My temples ached. Throbbing veins probably betrayed my condition. I took a deep breath.
“You can’t be evading your responsibility,” I said. “Nobody would try to shrug-off something at this scale, surely? It would look too cynical, and – frankly – almost psychopathic.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, openly annoyed now. “It’s a fucking story.”
“Oh is that all,” I replied, maximally accentuating the sarcasm. “For a moment there I thought it might – you know – actually matter.”
Despite its crudity, this response arrested her indignation in mid-flight. She seemed now to recognize something untenable about her position. The presumption of literary innocence visibly trembled.
“Who could it hurt?” she asked, in a shrunken voice. “It’s just a story.”
“Are you a Christian?” I asked.
She nodded, a little confusedly.
“So you think the Bible helps people, and perhaps even saves them?”
“It’s Jesus who saves people,” she said. “The Bible is only the Door to Him.”
I let only slip past. There was no need for it to get in the way. “So it’s a good door?”
“Of course,” she said.
Quietly, but firmly, I locked the trap. “Then you should be able to see the evil you’ve done, through simple inversion.”
It took her less than a second to see the connection. “No one could take Wallypede Girl as their Bible,” she protested. Her voice had risen, betraying hints of moral panic. She was beginning to imagine the horror of it. From the edge of anguished howl her words crashed back down to a hoarse whisper. “It would be monstrous.” As she explored the possibility, revulsion at her own thoughts spread glints of nightmare across her features. It seemed she might faint.
After some moments she regained composure. There was a deadness to her now, one I recognized – an installation of adamant despair. Elements of her expression were glazed with resignation to irreparable ruin. Laughter would not soon return, and when it did, it would be broken.
I could not quite pity her. She had ventured too deeply into the abyss for that.
The Hell of her own imaginings now claimed her.
“It was wrong,” she agreed, far too late.

November 22, 2019admin 13 Comments »
FILED UNDER :Fiction

13 Responses to this entry

  • 11:11 Says:

    anytime now.

    i’m fond of the turn your writing has taken lately. one cannot overstate the power of words—yet i trust you with them.

    [Reply]

    Posted on November 24th, 2019 at 1:40 am Reply | Quote
  • Jack Arcalon Says:

    Pain is when you have to do something.
    Pleasure is the freedom not to have to do something.
    There are infinitely more ways the former could happen.
    Therefore pain is greater.

    [Reply]

    Posted on November 24th, 2019 at 11:24 am Reply | Quote
  • bomag Says:

    Hmmm. The unthinkable in one generation becomes commonplace later.

    Sayyid Qutb was deeply scandalized by the dancing of young Americans in 1948.

    Today he would observe elementary students being taught the finer points of anal sex just before they line up for a daily dose of puberty blockers. Could he even process such information?

    [Reply]

    Posted on November 24th, 2019 at 5:35 pm Reply | Quote
  • John Hannon Says:

    Merry Cringemas everyone, Beelzebub bless us one and all.
    Yes we all know that this Christianity business is a load of old nonsense, but it does occasionally redeem itself by inspiring this sort of thing –
    https://youtu.be/IYpVGBSS65o
    Although, as Nick once said, he can never hear the words Angus Dei without thinking of mint sauce.

    [Reply]

    Posted on December 25th, 2019 at 5:44 am Reply | Quote
  • Vxxc Says:

    I’m just glad its not real.

    Welcome back.

    Ye shall see me no more on twitter I think.
    Every single vpn, fake google phone pseudo me is banned within 3 mins of sign up. Usually as soon as I follow you or Boet (our Boer merc friend). I give up.
    Other than Trump there’s not much to learn, and that he uses twitter to control media is learned by everyone but the media.

    [Reply]

    Posted on December 28th, 2019 at 7:12 pm Reply | Quote
  • John Hannon Says:

    The Cummings new year in British politics.
    When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro –
    https://youtu.be/xIwnds3khKo

    [Reply]

    Reginald Side Reply:

    That’s weird? It’s fandom – unalloyed but probably not unrequited by the look of things, and straight as a die.

    [Reply]

    John Hannon Reply:

    Just one and a half months in and already the Cummings plan to bring high performing spergs and weirdos into the heart of government is bearing entertaining fruit –
    https://youtu.be/AGaGFXYaUss

    [Reply]

    Posted on January 5th, 2020 at 7:01 am Reply | Quote
  • Clement Says:

    Acts 16:31, 1 Corinthians 15:1-8, 1 Peter 1:17-21, Revelation 22:18-19

    [Reply]

    Posted on January 6th, 2020 at 6:00 am Reply | Quote
  • J Smith Says:

    Did you ever wonder if you had erred by giving Gnon a name and an ostensive personality?

    [Reply]

    Posted on January 29th, 2020 at 3:17 am Reply | Quote
  • J Smith Says:

    @J Smith

    I didn’t read your stuff until like two years ago, but I remember being grossed out at people’s reactions to Gnon: gloating about how the impulsive, the dim, the unvirtuous, and probably the swarthy would ultimately be gnashed into aspic by the (literally!) sarcastic and implacable jaws of Gnon. They weren’t just cheering unneccessarily for darwinism–they were fawning over your freshly-named Asuric beastgod as though courting its favor.

    I am an earnest, jolly turbo-normie who likes reality intensely. I thought your cosmic slaughteryard essay was super-groovy and observably true. But although I recognized Gnon as essentially the same thing–the Dao in minor key–that didn’t stop me from feeling viscerally weird, like I’d been exposed to low-frequency infrasound. Skin prickling, eyes watering.

    To me, recognizing Gnon as a gloating, sardonic entity instead of an impartial process felt like being slapped across the soul. But for a while, until the Catholics got uneasy and started backing away from outright Gnon-worship, people were calling it “him” and sometimes even “Him.”

    Were you ever creeped out by readers’ reactions? Did you ever feel as though maybe you hadn’t just described natural law in an extra-spicy way, but had instead summoned/created a very grisly (and literally universal, inescapable, small-c catholic) egregoric entity that would always have existed, couldn’t be unmade, and would govern every aspect of everything, forever?

    [Reply]

    admin Reply:

    Destiny is not mocked.

    [Reply]

    Posted on January 29th, 2020 at 3:19 am Reply | Quote
  • going away Says:

    This is what a conversation with Darwin could look like.

    [Reply]

    Posted on February 26th, 2020 at 8:38 am Reply | Quote

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