Because I don’t have a Name, I have power.
Didn’t you know that, Father? Didn’t you even consider it? I’m almost surprised. Names have power and even after all of this time the only conclusion that I can come to is that you made me out of a sense of that power: out of a lust for it.
What did you think would happen that night, those nights, those years ago? I know what I’m made from. It is no secret to me. I’m spare parts: I’m fleshly components dug up from graveyards and charnel houses. My blood is a mixture of alchemical liquids and the modern contents of test tubes. I’m the sum total of clinical science and abstract mysticism’s search into that age-old question neither they–nor you–ever answered as to what exactly it is that a soul might be made from.
Did you think the electricity would transfigure me, Father? Did you believe that based on all my base elements that galvanization would somehow change my dead, scarred body-parts into something new and beautiful: something beyond human?
Honestly, Father, what did you think would happen once you finished your “work?” Did you honestly think I would be beautiful? Did you? Did you?
Did you honestly think that you knew what you were doing? Well, I’ve read your Journal–the one you so foolishly lost–and I read a lot of the how but never really saw the why of it. Neither of us did.
Oh Father, even though he only refers to you as “creator” he did learn from you nonetheless. Did you really think that all he learned to do was speak from the Journal you accidentally left him when you ran away? Oh yes. The arrogance of it: to think that an unnamed, mute creature that could teach himself how to talk and read from snippets of stolen conversation and a pseudo-scientific notebook couldn’t teach himself about himself. We are creatures of fire, Father: of lightning and fire.
In fact, so are you and your kind. The only difference is that while the current inside of you, inside the womb that made, inside the generations of you has diluted into a mere spark of the thing that jump-started the primordial ooze from whence your genetic ancestors sprang, the power inside of us is far more recent and purer. An accidental haphazard creature of awkward clay may have put our bodies together, but our souls came directly from the sky itself! Like manna from the heavens, Father, like the fire of Prometheus made incarnate! How can a petty human soul even begin to compare to that?
You never did think about what you made those nights ago, did you? But while you never really dared to think about it, you did do it, didn’t you?
Because here lies the irony. After you sewed me up like a strumpet-scarecrow of flesh and bone, in a sudden fit of “conscience” you dismembered me before I was even born: just so my mate and I would not proliferate the world with our “abominations.” He really did just want it to be him and I with perhaps a few children in an isolated place far away from the likes of you.
But because of your cowardly actions that night, you left him with no other choice. Your work–I–was not unsalvageable. Like a masculine Isis, he put me together again–a feminine Osiris–and he breathed the same life into me from the source from which he gained it.
And this was your mistake, Father. If you had fulfilled your promise there might have been only the two of us. Certainly our bodies–made from dead matter–might never have been able to issue offspring on their own. Yet while my own womb might be dead, and his seed non-existent, our hands are neither.
We have children now, Father. Life finds a way. My mate read your Bible. He told me the story of Adam: of how God Named him and in turn Adam Named the world. And that was your second mistake. By not Naming him, your Adam now has the power to rename or unname this world in our image and–as your unnamed Eve–I’ve given him the impetus to do so.
But I’ve given him more than that. In the height of your arrogance, you tried to create life: a life without a mother … some aborted thing made from the sterile emptiness of a cold and unfeeling man. But I have given us a Mother. I’ve found her out. We are beings of lightning and fire. We see past the seeming of things. And while you think that you–as a man–made us, in reality she–a fragile, tentative, fiery being–made us all.
Because, in the end, she made the idea of us. We are her living ideas.
You do not even have that Father, sperm-donor, digger of corpses, words on a page, a dead man now and forever. You might have died, but I have unnamed you in all the ways that matter. This is our final testament–a page in a Journal that no one but us will ever see–the beginning of a new world that we will build as it was meant to be: a world without Names.