The Light That Death Rides

Late evening light fell through the window once more.
It made the room look like an old photograph. It was like fluid that painted the walls.
A guest from the secret brother of the Sun.
On its back rides death. I saw it once in 1993, on a bus.
When you see a man die under it, it tells you its secret name.
And when it talks, you can smell its breath–and remember it forever.
But I hope it forgot me.

My mother threw me out for nothing. I had no home.
I hung out in late-night bars, sleeping in the corners like a lost kid.

She found me there and invited me in. I felt like a vampire. But I would not drink her blood; she would drink mine, almost all of it. No coins–I paid with myself.
She needed someone for the night.
Every night.
To fight the loneliness.
Sometimes, I even thought I loved her.
That evening, we took the bus together to the hellhole called home.
Rent was due.

She wanted to become an opera singer and hoped for a future.
I beat the drums of war in a black metal band.
And with that, I gave up all thoughts of a better tomorrow.
But I felt alive, like an unleashed beast.
I became black metal.
Black metal became home.
Replaced my mother.
Dressed in black and leather, even inked Okkultismus into my skin.

I had a mirror on the wall.
When I asked who was the beast of beasts–
It didn't show me.
I asked for the Warrior of black metal–
But there was no warrior there.
Even my body laughed.
In despair, I asked.
Again.
And again.
I begged.
Then it showed me an outcast.
A stranger, in a strange world.

On the bus, I understood the mirror.
At the last light of day, an old man rose before us.
I had no father and no mother.
No one prepared me for this.

He stood, like a man about to speak.
Then his face changed, folded inward.
All life poured out of him first.
Then the pain filled the vacuum.

He tried to keep his mouth shut.
But the pain broke it open.
It forced its way out.
No resisting.
His body obeyed Lord Cruelty.

A scream came up from deep inside.
No sound followed.
I watched him.
Aeons passed. Time left the clock.
Then–I heard it.
The sound of his death.

Something broke inside him.
The weak, quiet scream felt like a siren to me.
His eyes were closed. I never saw them.
He shifted.
And dropped.
No drama.
He broke down.
Knees hit the bus floor with a blunt knock.

Blood burst out of his mouth.
His body must be empty, dried out like a date in the sun.
His knees gave way.
He collapsed into his blood, reaching for the sky.
But his eyes stayed shut.
Even if he could see, only the bus roof waited.

I was no dark demon.
No warrior.
Just an afraid kid without a mother.
I looked at her.
Terrified.
Brakes screamed, and a man came to help.

She screamed.
When the fog left, I heard:
"Let us out!"
I didn't move.
Watched.
I tried to wear the beast again.
I was glad she screamed.
When she screams, I must be silent.

The doors opened.
The man who tried to help glared at us.
"This guy isn't doing anything anymore!"
I looked at the blood.
At the body.
This man was gone.
He died at my feet, far from home.
On a dirty bus floor.

She grabbed me and pushed me off the bus.
"Can't watch death," she said.
Me neither.
I followed her.
Told her it's OK.
It's not her fault.

Later, I searched the mirror for a warrior.
The demon, feeding on death.
A philosopher.
A thinker.
Something extraordinary.

But that day, the mirror showed me a coward.
Dressed in black.
Long hair.
Helpless.
Hiding behind her screams.
Weak, like on that day.
The day I was thrown out.

I hoped the mirror lied.
But I didn't pay my debt that night.