The Creation of Man

Adam’s untold horror story

A serpent coils around my body as I lay by the river bank. Sunlight trickles between hefty fig leaves, dappling black scales with shadow. The serpent’s head is at my lips. Its split tongue flicks between my teeth and slips inside. I welcome it, choking, gagging, as it slips down my throat and into my being. Here, it slithers through intestine and vein. Flesh undulates at the surface as the serpent inside weaves between rib bones. A bone snaps in my body, scraping internal organs as the serpent grips the fragment and yanks it free.

I call to the Heavens to be delivered from this agony. God does not answer for he deplores my dealings with the serpent.

It ascends from the depths of hot bowel, pressing against my heart and lungs, stealing breath during the esophageal retreat back to earth. My incisors scrape against the serpent’s flesh. Scales loosen and fall to my tongue as two meters of snaking flesh exit my mouth.

I gasp for breath. Life-saving, glorious breath.

With a stabbing pain in my side, I raise hands to the clouds above, praising the Almighty. The sunlight wanes behind thickening clouds as God turns His back.

I worry not, for He does not carry vengeance in His heart as I do. Vengeance is born of the earth, not of Heaven.

At my feet, the serpent wretches. Convulsing, it spews from its unhinged jaw a bone. A curved white bone coated in my own blood. A piece of myself, not just flesh, but a rib—exactly what I need to create life.

The serpent, who only serves himself, awaits payment. A yellow songbird. The brightest and most pleasant voice in all of the garden—Eve’s favorite of God’s creations. Occasionally the songbirds fall from the nest, succumbing to the injuries of their broken bodies, and only then, is the serpent allowed to eat them. But today, in payment for retrieving a rib from my body, I pluck a healthy fledgling from the nest and turn it over to the slithering creature.

Emerald leaves rustle in reaction to the deal. Bruised clouds choke out the light above.

I clutch my disembodied bone in my fist and climb the river bank. With this part of myself, I will finally be able to create life. I’ll be an equal to Eve, and to God, once and for all.

 At the garden’s center, Eve pores over her scrolls. Her beauty surpasses all of the garden’s fruit. Black curls drape over slender shoulders, spilling to the grass where she reclines over her parchment. With a yellow feather dipped in berry’s ink, she scribes her story—a history of how she and I came into existence.

In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth…

My blood drips from the tip of extracted bone as I approach her. She who is God’s most favorable creation. She who was born from the heaven’s stardust and fruit of the earth. She who was gifted the knowledge of creation—an equal to God Himself. The scripture on those pages tells the story. A story I know well:

And God loved his creation of the heaven and earth so, he wished to share its beauty with another. From the dust of the heavens and the supple fruits of the earth, he forged a woman and named her Eve. And she was perfect. She was good. An equal to God in knowledge and love.

However, Eve was bound to the earth, so she asked God why she walked alone. God assured that she was not alone, but that He was with her, in the subtle whisper of the tree’s leaves and the rambling brook through the garden.

But Eve challenged God still. As the birds have each other, she too, wished for a partner. Someone to share the beauty of this earth.

And so God endowed upon Eve the ability to create life. She too could share the beauty of God’s creations with another, but must give up immortality to do so.

With God’s approval, Eve whispered to the garden serpent an arrangement. It slipped inside, coiling, twisting within her soul. From her womb and marrow, the serpent extracted a drop of her life force and delivered it to Eve’s hand. In payment of his service, Eve allowed the serpent to keep a fallen yellow bird she had been tending to. She mourned the loss of life, but new life would spring forth soon.

In the soft clay of the earth, she placed her life force, her blood, her tears, and her immortality, so another may enjoy the glory of life.

She forged a man and named him Adam.

They walked together in the Garden, and God was with them in the gentle hush of the wind and in the rolling thunder before the rain…

I stand behind Eve. The bloody sharp bone twists in my palm. She can create life, but denies me the right. She claims my intentions are selfish as the snake’s. From over her shoulder, I read her latest scripture.

But Adam is not ready. He wishes not to create for the sake of sharing God’s beauty. Instead, Adam desires power. He grows impatient, and speaks often to the serpent by the river bank…

An exodus of yellow birds from the trees seem to know my intentions. The fluttering golden wings against the gray and purple clouds bring Eve to her feet, outstretched arms embrace their beauty.

God speaks in a rumble of thunder—a warning, perhaps.

Eve drops her scrolls to the soft grass. Her eyes widen, all-loving, all-knowing. In them, I see my creator, my mother, my love… My inhibitor.

I thrust the bone into her belly. My dear Eve stumbles, but I catch her, lowering her to the ground. Blood spills, soaking into the soft green grasses.

I kneel beside her, stirring the bone dagger within her gut, scraping until there is nothing left. Starlight fades from Eve’s eyes and is blotted out by the reflection of gray, oppressive clouds.

Yellow birds turn black as pitch. Their song becomes a mournful dirge.

I back away from her lifeless body. What have I done?

I must act quickly. From clay, I carve her anew. Sculpting each limb, each curve to perfection. My rib, blood-soaked with Eve’s life force, presses into the soft sculpture.

I give of myself to make her new.

Gently, I touch my lips to my creation. Bitter wet clay lingers on my tongue. My tears soak into her clay form as I breathe life into a new Eve—my Eve. One who would now be a compliment to myself. One who will bear my children. Children who will sow the earth.

My creation opens her eyes. Eyes that are unknowing, lost, devoid of God’s knowledge. I wait for God to speak, to uncover my grisly truths. To punish me for what I have done. But the leaves are still. The thunder no longer carries his voice.

God is not vengeful, but he has abandoned earth. He abandoned Man.

I am weakened, now. Mortal among the earth and all of God’s creations.

I name her Eve, and before she can discover the remains of her predecessor, I send the new woman to explore the fruit of the garden. A raven screeches overhead, shedding a black feather that lands in the crimson pool of my rage. I must hide the evidence.

On the grass beside her body, lays Eve’s scrolls. Her account of the creation of life. Should my new Eve find these writings, she will abandon me as God has.

I need to craft a story. A lie.

I remove the pages which tell the story of Eve—God’s perfect creation. They are buried with her body, deep in the soil, never to be seen by our descendants’ eyes.

With the fallen raven feather soaked in Eve’s blood, I scratch onto the scrolls a new account: God’s most prized and perfect creation of Man.

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