The Lives of Charles Hull
rating: -8+x

My father was a simple man and a damned fool.

When you’re confronted with a tidal wave, do you charge towards it, hoping that you can drive it back?
No, of course you don’t. You run. A tidal wave is a force of nature, and you’re just a puny little flesh blob. But you don’t understand that. Neither did he.

He was a good man, I suppose, by some standards. By others, he was a devil from hell. But I considered him to be decent enough. Took care of me, kept me fed, tried to keep me safe…He did all the things a father was supposed to do, technically.

I lived a nice childhood under his care. Whenever he would go abroad on a business trip or something, he always would always bring trinkets and such back for me to proudly display on my windowsill. He cared for his only son.

My illness was sudden, out of the blue. I was taken to ten different doctors all throughout Britain and France. Nothing worked. Suddenly, he was faced with the very real prospect that his only son might die. He sank into a deep depression, thinking himself a failure as a father. When he finally climbed out of it, though, it was with a steely determination.

And that's when the madman climbed out of his head.

I remember when things started to go wrong. He would stay up, late into the night, hunched over books, looking for something. Some days, he wouldn’t come home from the downtown library until three hours past midnight. This went on for around a year before, one day, he stopped. He seemed quite pleased with himself. I was only seven, so I of course did not comprehend this change in behaviour. My illness continued its slow progression, but it no longer seemed to weigh on him. He spoke excitedly about the coming summer, when he would take the whole family to Egypt with him for a tour of the archaeological sites. That trip was when he showed me that damned slab.

My father fancied himself a dealer of antiquities. In reality, he was little more than a glorified accountant, but he liked to pretend he had some knowledge of what he was buying and selling. But this thing, whatever it was, was out of his depth.

What he showed me was a dull grey tablet - about fifteen feet on each side - covered in the most complex inscriptions I’d ever seen. Numbers, math equations, hieroglyphics, everything. It hurt my head to look at it too closely. I felt like I was looking at something that should never have existed. He raved about how beautiful and magnificent it was, how he had bought it in Constantinople from the most respected dealers in the world. How it was an immaculate piece of history holding untold secrets about the world. He went on for a good five minutes, at least before he, maddened by some cosmic force or another, whipped out a chisel and carved the four words and two errant marks that have doomed me to this horrid existence.


He didn’t bother to consider that the laws of the universe might not wait for him to finish his sentence before dooming his son to a simultaneous omniversal existence. He also didn’t bother to think about what those two errant marks might have done. Instead, he charged right in and then pretended to act dumbfounded as his son’s mind and consciousness were stretched across the whole of meta-reality. His looks of concern, worry, and regret were meaningless before my eyes which now saw a thousand different reenactments of the same scene.

To this day, I have never forgiven him for making my life a fundamental law of meta-reality. The fact that I can change reality with my thoughts thanks to my father’s shitty handwriting only makes it worse - I can change the world, but I cannot change my own horrid predicament. And, worse, I am forever chased by foul, dull men who hate me for what have been forced to be. The ability to remove them from existence and fling their defiled corpses across the whole of time and space is my only solace, and it is one in which I take deep pleasure.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License