My name is Jim and I am the Antichrist.

You may be sitting there thinking, “Oh, this guy’s cool, he’s so hardcore and evil and shit” but that just isn’t the case. I’m not the type of guy you hear about when people mention the Antichrist. I’m not all pentagrams and inverted crossed. I don’t have a “666” birthmark, although I did have a mole removed that some folks used to say looked like Tchaikovsky. I don’t even wear black that often. Sure, I have a couple suits, and a big black overcoat I wear when it’s really cold out, but so do lots of people. So if you’re expecting I’m some Marilyn Manson-esque crazy-looking dude, I’m not. I try to look nice when I go out. I am 250 pounds with balding grey hair and a droopy face. I live in a little house and I go to work every day.

I live my life just like anybody else, and one day I suspect I’ll die just like anybody else. At least I hope so.

You might still be thinking it’s cool to be the Antichrist. Well, yeah, I guess it would be if it really meant anything. I don’t have any special powers fueled by the fires of hell or anything. I’m just the Antichrist and that’s that. I’ve known my whole life. So has my family, and my friends, and many, many therapists.

See, when I was very young I just felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. Something was always missing. I kept to myself, I would cry at very small things. When we realized that I was the Antichrist, it didn’t make my psychologist very long to figure out what was wrong.

The trouble is there’s no God. And as there’s no God, there’s no Christ. And as there’s no Christ…

But here I am. Nobody can figure it out. By all standards, I shouldn’t exist. I’m an opposite of a nonentity. That type of thing doesn’t really work in a world where physics and reason are major factors. But reason and physics took a short break for one moment in time, and I guess I’m what leaked through.

An Antichrist to a nonexistent Christ.

And that’s why I never felt like I fit in. It’s because I don’t. My place in existence is moot. There’s no point to me. I’m not being melodramatic. I’m not striving for attention. Far from it. There’s just no reason to me. You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to wake up every morning knowing that you literally have no purpose in the world. It crushes you, every instant of every day.

I shouldn’t exist.

And yet, I do.

Oh, sure, I tried to kill myself. I tried it a number of times. But I could never really do it. I eventually gave up on suicide and decided to try and live my life as best as I can.

I got a job in a bookstore. I’ve worked there for twenty years. It’s not much, but it’s a living. I read a lot anyway, so it’s not a bad fit for me. Every once in a while somebody will come in who might recognize me from the occasional cable documentary. You know, the metal-heads or faux-Satanists who think it’s so “brutal” that I’m the Antichrist and want me to sign their demo-tape or drink their blood. Sometimes I’ll give them an autograph if they seem like sane enough people. They think it’s cool, and if it helps them get by, hey, why not? But never the blood stuff or anything. I very politely decline those offers. I don’t think those folks really understand that I’m a human. Yes, I’m the Antichrist, but I’m also human. I’m not a bad guy, I’ve got feelings, and I don’t particularly enjoy getting offers to host sacrifices or “drink a chalice of virgin blood”. In fact, a few times when the people proposing these things seemed a little too sincere about it, I’ve notified the authorities. I think it’s the least I can do, particularly if these folks claim to have been inspired by me.

That stuff really weighs on my conscience.

And while most of the people who approach me knowing who I am are Goths or metal-heads or whatnot, there are the very rare philosophers who think they know all the answers and want to know all about me because they think they can solve the mysteries of the universe through me. Honestly, sometimes they piss me off more than the blood-donors.

But once, just once, there was someone who actually seemed to genuinely care. I don’t know who he was. He didn’t stay around long enough for me to ask.

It was normal day, I was arranging books in the new arrivals display when I hear a man’s voice behind me ask, “Jim Smith?” and I turn around and there’s a tall man maybe a couple years younger than me with short, wild white hair and glasses, wearing a big black overcoat with a white dress-shirt and tie underneath.

I say, “Yes, can I help you?” and he steps forward and hugs me and he whispers, “I’m so sorry.” When he lets go and steps back he has a sad, concerned look on his face. He nods at me and walks out of the store.

Like I said, I don’t know who he was. But I felt like he understood. He could’ve been anybody, a crazy person, I don’t know. But it made me feel a little better for a little while.

And so, I keep going. I know there’s no purpose for me. And it’s still a terrible feeling, every day. But I push past it best I can and live my life for what it’s worth. It doesn’t feel like much, because it isn’t much, but I’ll live with it as long as I have to.

Hell, I’m too fat and going to die soon, probably.

"Poor Jim"

Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers


Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.

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