The Judge

The Judge

I sit on a metal throne in a blank canvas. Where the metal came from, I’ll never know. It has been here alongside me forever. That and my bat. My throne – and I know it’s my throne because no one else has ever sat in it and no one else has ever tried – is tall, but not so tall that my feet don’t touch the ground. I’m granted power, assertion, that much is clear. The throne is molded to my back and arches upwards with pointed, metal spindles. The base is solid, anchored to the bottom of this white canvas, and unable to move. I sit here always. All day. Every day. Forever. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember; there’s no memory of anything else. I’m surrounded by blinding white, and although I’ve been in this one spot for all my time, the white has never ceased to blind me. I am constantly squinting, constantly rubbing at my eyes, constantly aware of my dry eyeballs and the way I have to flex the muscles behind them to look around.

At least there isn’t much ‘looking around’ to do. I’m not alone but the others here are all in front of me – unless I send them behind me and not many of them make it there. An infinite amount of people line up in front of me, single file, the line stretching so far out that the ends of it are always blurred into white. I’m not physically alone, but that is all. Each person that stands before me is temporary, they come and go as fast as I can swing my bat. I am forever. I am frozen in time, in space, given the ultimate job by who? The universe? But it isn’t my place to ask questions. This is all there is for me, all there will be and all there was. This is it.

This and my bat. Perhaps I could call her a friend. She is an extension of my arm; my arm an extension of me. By default, she is a part of me. And really this makes sense, she’s been welded to my hand all this time. I am physically incapable of letting her go. She’s always there and does it really matter? I use her incessantly. There would be no point in letting her go anyway. She is classic. She is a long, rugged wooden bat, her length broken by one harsh jag. Like the metal of my throne, she as well has sharp, metal spindles protruding from her end. No matter how many times her spikes make contact, her integrity remains. She has no scars, no bruises, no splinters, no dents. She only drips fresh blood. Always. Never enough time to dry, thick, warm blood drips from her down onto the white canvas and straight through the white veil leaving no trace. Sometimes I give my bat a shake. Watch drops of blood bounce off her skin and cascade outwards and downwards.

Because this is what I do. Every moment of my being is a decision. A decision that falls in my hands, throughout the woody veins of my bat. A decision that is perhaps not mine to make but a decision that ultimately someone will have to make so that decision somehow, from somewhere, became mine. Everyone joins the line up in front of me at some point or another. They spend an eternity perhaps waiting in line. I’m not sure if they know what happens at the end of the line. They must when they get close enough to see, but farther back? Do they speak to each other? Do they know? Do they speak at all? I never hear anything past the beginning of this line. They must walk slowly onward in blissful ignorance.

Then sometime in their existence here – or perhaps not an existence if they’re here – they reach me. I make my decision. Sometimes it’s easy, maybe impulsive. Off the bat, I know. Sometimes I look them over a little bit, and then I know. But the other times, I need them to speak. I need to speak with them. I need to know more before I can decide. These are the complicated types. Most are not complicated. Most are dumb.

I stand in front of my throne. My bat swinging lazily by my side, dripping red down into nothingness. The next person in line steps forward. These bodies carry traces of every decision made in their living hours, every mishap, every milestone, every hurt, every achievement. It is through these bodies that I can read their story and gather the truth. This man – no, boy – I wouldn’t give him the dignity of being called a man – is short. Although he must have been a man when he was sent here, he doesn’t look like a man. In this line, he has degraded into his truest most accurate form. He carries around blubber that jiggles with every movement. He huffs scraggly hair away from his eyes. Can he see me? I peer into the slits of his eyes trying to see a pupil. He lifts his chin further up as if that’s what it takes to see me. His lips are fat and slanted. At that, I can see traces of his gluttony that didn’t end with food. I scowl, swing my beloved bat in a quick circle, then send it through the man’s head, watching part of it rip off, part of it implode, and the rest of him collapse. Then like quicksand, his body is swallowed by canvas and disappears. He was a dumb one.

The next person approaches me. They are mute until I beckon them otherwise. Unless my words are followed by the gentle lift of my voice, they are unable to speak. This time I am a little unsure. Sometimes this happens. A grown man stands there, bald, greying eyebrows, shoulders held back. “I’m not sure about you…” I say. “Tell me something.”

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” he says, looking up.

“What are you looking at?” I say. “This is all there is.”

“No,” he says. “God is just. God is real. This is not real.”

I sway my bat back and forth, waiting for the rush of fury that fills me when I smell a dumb one. “I have faith. I have faith. I have-”

His words are cut short by my bat – quite literally. I aim a metal spindle straight for his mouth, shutting him up forever, watching him dissolve downwards.

The next steps forward and I sit down on my throne. I’m not sure again. I can feel that this one is complicated, and she may just be allowed beyond the throne. “What is your name?” I ask. It’s never about the name. It’s about whether they obey. Whether they break. It’s about how they say their name.

She says her name. She says it clearly, facing me. She says it calmly.

“Good,” I say. “Tell me something.”

“I have nothing to say,” she says. She is younger. She holds her hands together in front of her. Her hair is held neatly behind her ears. Her feet are planted close together, every point of pressure evenly distributed.

“Tell me something anyway,” I say.

“Do you know what’s next?” She asks a question. She doesn’t merely say something. She poses a question.

“I do not. I know one way is one thing and the other way is another thing. I know the feeling I get when I decide where people go. I know people can walk and walk and walk far behind me and I know people can sink down, down, down.” I rest my bat over my legs, the spindles carefully balanced over the arm. “Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve already been where I want to go.”

“Tell me where you want to go.”

“There is nowhere I want to go. I’m already here and now where I go is not up to me.”

“I know what to do with you now,” I say. “I know where you will go.”

“Where do I go?” She asks. I wave my hand beyond my throne. She walks past me and walks a long way. Behind my throne, I can see her walking for a long, long time. I watch her until she is so far away that the white engulfs her.

I continue. A young boy. Young enough that if I sat him on my throne his legs would still dangle. He looks at me with eyes slightly hidden by the lids, arms dangling by his sides and knees slightly bent. “Am I boring you?” I ask. He opens his mouth but before he can speak, I say, “No.” Because I can just as easily shut them up. “Tell me,” I say, “What do you think?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says. My bat soars upwards, swings me around in a circle and collides with his small, fragile skull, sending it flying in fragments. I exhale, watching his body dissolve.

I face the next person. My bat falls to my side and I take a sudden step backwards. “Tell me your name,” I say immediately. I need to hear him. I feel like my ears are arching forward, opening a tunnel for his voice to crawl through. I grab one of the arms of my throne, my knees shaking as he speaks his name. “Tell me something,” I whisper.

“Your decision is just,” he says. I watch my hand on the throne, fearful they might slip off. I can’t look at him. I am about to speak when he says, “but I have been waiting to see you.”

In my head, I turn to face him, lock eyes with him, analyze. But here, I rearrange my hand on the throne, rest the bat on the seat, lower my head. “Tell me something again,” I say.

“Your decision is just,” he says. “But I have been waiting to see you.” My spine curls, my bat is heavy. Again, there is silence until he says, “I saw you from far away. I have been waiting so long.”

Now I look up at him. I take another step backwards, standing beside my throne, a hand still holding on to it. “They don’t see me from far away,” I say. My bat feels like she’s growing in my hand, thickening. “They don’t understand this place. This is just a between. I am the only forever.”

“That’s true,” he says. “But I have been waiting, here and before. I knew.”

“They do not know…” I say. “They do not know.”

“Will you make your decision?” He asks. I take two steps forward until I can sit back in my throne, my back pushed up against it, my hands wrapped tightly around the base of my bat. She is heavy in my lap, pulsing, shuddering.

“Yes,” I say.

“What is your decision?”

“Wait, I’m not ready. You must wait.” He stands with his hands at his sides. He looks at me with a solid, thick gaze, not the others’ liquid, empty gaze. He is larger than this empty canvas, he is colourful, he is heavy, he is here. But I don’t want him to be because a decision means he is never here again. They never come back. They cannot. And I must decide. There are infinite people to decide eventually. Not just him. I know one way is one way and the other way is not the way I want to send him. Once I decide he will be gone forever. I memorize him from top to bottom. If I am to be here forever, it is easy to remember only one face, one body. I will remember his face, his body. I will try to remember his voice, but I will fail. A voice is fleeting. “Tell me something again,” I say.

“I will be back,” he says. “Make your decision, whether just or unjust, I will be back. You will see. I will be back with you.”

“They do not come back,” I say, waving my hand past my throne, looking the other way. I feel his movement as he passes me, walks the long walk beyond my throne into whiteness. I do not watch him go; I do not follow him. I wait for the haze around me to still, I wait for the time it might take me to make a thousand decisions until I know he is far away and will never be back.

I continue. Whoosh- thwack! Whoosh- thwack! Whoosh- thwack! I do not wait to decide. I picture his face; I picture his body. I try and remember his voice. I decide. So many times I decide that I thought maybe I would reach the end of the line. I do not. My bat dances a never-ending routine. I take their heads off, swing the bat until the next one approaches, then take the next head off- until I see a face and I must stop my bat.

I pull on it and I fall forwards, onto my knees, my bat smacking down in front of me. I stand, wishing my bat would fall from my hand and something else would replace it. I am face to face with the same face. “I don’t understand,” I say. “They never come back.”

“Perhaps you made the wrong decision,” he says with the same voice that sends vibrations through the white.

“I never make the wrong decision. I am the decision-maker. I decide.”

“Maybe you have been right all along until me.”

“No,” I say. “I am the one who decides. I decided for you. You came back.”

“I said I would come back.”

“They don’t say that. And they don’t come back.” He says nothing then. I cannot swing my bat, she is lifeless. “Go.” I point beyond my throne and this time I watch him. He nods and obeys. I watch him until he fades into the whiteness.

Faces fade in and out of existence in front of me. None strike me. Only one. One I cannot forget. One I wish would come back – one that does. “No!” I scream, crawling into my throne, tucking my legs in underneath me, holding my bat against me, one of the spindles held tightly in my other hand. “I decided!”

“There must be another choice,” he says. “Make the decision.”

“I did!”

“Make the decision.”

“I made the decision! I sent you past!”

“Make the decision!”

“I don’t want to!” I scream and suddenly I am standing, my bat swinging in front of me, blood spilling off of it. His body sinks down. I stand still, looking down at what isn’t there anymore, screaming.

Then he is standing in front of me again. My mouth remains open, my throat tearing as I scream ceaselessly and swing my bat. I watch the spindles take his head off and launch it away, his body falling limp. I look up and see him again. I swing. Again, and again he appears, again and again, I swing my bat, hoping he is gone. My screams fill the infinite canvas. “No!” I scream, taking his head off again. “No!” I scream, bashing his skull in. “No! No! No!” I feel my tears race down my face, mixing with the blood on my bat. I see him in front of me. I fall back against my throne, sliding down to its base. I hold the end of my bat with my free hand and wrap it around myself, hiding my face, crying.

“Calm,” he says. He looks down at me, a hand outstretched. “There is another way. Calm… There is another choice.”

“There… is one way,” I say. “And there is… another way.”

“There is a way you did not know existed.”

“No, I am the decision-maker. There are two ways. You cannot know of another way.”

“You must make the other way. You are decision-maker. You must make the other way.”

He holds out two hands now. I take one and I feel solidified. I am not to touch them, but I am touching him, and he is heavy in my hand. He flexes his other hand, beckoning me to take it.

I do.

The bat falls away from my hand, rests in the white fog, and is slowly swallowed whole, gone the bloody wood, gone the glistening with red spindles. He pulls me up. Behind him, I see the static line of people.

“You have made a decision,” he says. “Now make another.”

I keep his hands and take a step towards my throne. His lips tilt upwards. I take another step. He nods. Another step. His hands tighten around mine. I walk beyond the throne with him, onward into the white, the line of people behind us slowly fading away. I keep walking and walking with him further into the whiteness. Walking, walking, walking…