Free Where the Birds Hide at Night by Gareth Wiles Page A

said.
    â€˜You’re talking gibberish.’
    â€˜Alex, Alex! Your mind is so closed to that which it once harnessed. You are one of The Great Collective, a towering immortal who once ruled almighty over all of existence. Your connection to The Space allowed endless pleasure and knowledge; do not let your current self forget that.’ And now, Reaping Icon looked behind Alex. But, he would not turn to look at what Reaping Icon could see. ‘It is coming, It is almost with us in spite of Its closing at the hands of Peter Smith. Ease your resistance, Alex, It is The Space as controlled by me – by Us!’
    For the first time since Reaping Icon’s presence in his life, Alex felt an inseparable bond with him and could not clear his mind of the man. If he
was
a man. He seemed both a man
and
everything else that was not a man – just what Alex equally thought of himself. He could feel Reaping Icon drawing closer and closer, fulfilling a dreadful ageless bond as they united in mind. Reaping Icon had come from him, just as he had come from all of The Great Collective, but now he returned singularly to Alex. He, and he alone, now had to contend with Reaping Icon. No longer was Reaping Icon playing around in his training ground and requesting the pitiful damaged beings he had done for his games; he was enacting his ultimate desire and returning to bodily form with Alex as the host. He consumed Alex’s mind, gushing freely into it like a vast storm rushing into an exposed cavernous recess. Alex was completely free from fight, completely free from the undiluted strength of his original self so many generations ago. They, as united discoverers of The Space, had played supreme with their bestowed gifts. But, to what avail? The Great Collective had been delivered the tragedy of self-renewing immortality and that endless cursed cycle of complete re-birth. It had taken away the desire to exist, because they knew they always
would
exist. More and more angry and confused had they become with their battle to remember their prior lives, that the manifestation of this growing hatred for life itself had now returned and decided upon bodily form. Reaping Icon, seizing Alex’s shell as his own, casting aside all those memories of the immediate life Alex was living, was here to destroy all of Life itself. And, The Space had created all of this – It had given The Great Collective the sickness of eternal re-birth, an eternal roundabout of loss. Reaping Icon was everybody, and everybody was he – he was the summation of humanity, just as when he’d embodied poor Darren Aubrey as the Judge or thrown Peter Smith into the depths of depravity. That all the hate, all the pain, could so easily come to fruition and take Alex right now was testament to Life’s wicked and ceaseless routine. There had been no end to the cruelty since existence had been sparked, and to all intents and purposes it now appeared as though Life would get its just desserts. Reaping Icon was the end result of The Space’s opening up to humanity, and the ugly conclusion was no surprise. The Great Collective had treated The Space’s “gift” as a sick, sick travesty, and the shit had most certainly hit the fan.
    Alex focused his mind on the guard who had just locked his cell door, drawing him back. He returned, his whole self completely at Alex’s mercy as he unlocked and opened the door, standing aside for Alex to stroll out. ‘Take me to Wayne Richards,’ he said to the guard.
    * * *
    Richards just laughed and stayed sitting when his cell door opened and Alex stepped in.
    â€˜Hey, honey,’ Alex cooed, coming straight to Richards and placing his hand on the top of his head. The rapist convulsed and choked in agony and terror as Alex kept watch from above, his hand drawing all the life out. There wasn’t much life to speak of, but Alex nonetheless wanted to take it away from the vile little shit. And