In the darkness, he asks himself, "Did God make me this way? Did God do this to me? Did he make me do it?" And he looks down. Down at his hollowness. His twisted innards. And thinks, "This is me. This is me for life. I have to do it. So he has to lie there in the cold dark, amongst all those smells and the bent reflections, he has to lie there and be what he is. He has to accept. But it's different when he's doing it. When he answers. Justifies his utility. When he fulfils his purpose. When he is. His head spins and his arms rise. When he's tearing. Then it all makes sense. Then he has a purpose. Just before the wrenching. The heave. Like he was born to it. Like it was what was expected. He only needed God for the darkness. He never blamed you. He never once judged, or smiled with the smooth, patronising corner of his mouth. He left it all to God. Then it's God who's doing it. His creator. Our tearer. That's why he never gets to drink. God won't let him. God wants it all for himself.
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