Raise Your Right Hand
Now
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
The bailiff, a shorter-than-average man, waits for my compliance before continuing. He is bald on top; a half circle of fine white hair hugs his pale, wrinkled head. A piece of toilet paper peeks out from his starched collar, a dot of blood in its center. A wave of Old Spice envelopes me as he approaches.
Less is more, pal!
I feel my arm come up, but two inches above my lap, invisible to the jury, the judge, and everyone in the courtroom, my blood runs cold. I stop moving.
I tell myself I am seeing things. I try blinking it away; but it refuses to leave. It continues to stand behind and to the left of the bailiff.
A demon. At least, that’s what I assume it is. I don’t know what it is. Language serves us most of the time. Most of the time, when we reach for a label (a noun), our brains retrieve the word in an instant. But there are times, like now, when language fails us. There are times when we come to the end of human knowledge, where language leaves us wanting more. A lot more.
The tall, skinny thing, covered in gray hair, stands behind the bailiff. Its hair is knotted; its lips are thin and pale; its eyes are black. It carries a large book that looks like a bible. I doubt it is the bible I grew up…
