Lovely Violent Things: A Dark Romance (Hollow’s Row 2)
Lovely Violent Things: Chapter 1

KALLUM: TWO YEARS AGO

“We are our own god.” I open my arms wide and pan the fifteen ascending rows of college students and alumni. I even spot two professors in the far back.

“Or,” I say, running my hand down my black cashmere tie as I leisurely circle the lectern, “we are gods. Is there a difference?”

Hands of eager students shoot up. I don’t call on anyone to answer; it’s a rhetorical question, and one that’s been posited over since the dawn of conscious humanity. If the great thinkers of antiquity didn’t have an empirical, definitive answer, then none of these ass-kissing nitwits will either.

There’s no way any one person in the course of a forty-five-minute class, or a whole textbook, or even a fucking lifetime, can summarize over three thousand years of belief systems and schools of thought, and how our modern interpretation of it was formed.

So as I stand here, looking out over the sea of lost students, knowing they’ll likely glean nothing significant from my class, I cherry-pick the details of history in halfhearted hope they’ll form a semblance of their own opinion.

Maybe that’s almost worth my time.

A series of blackboards line the wall behind me. A projection screen is mounted between two glass block windows that have been blacked out to keep the interior of the lecture hall dim for slides.

I drift in front of the large desk and nod to Ryder, my assistant professor, to change the slide on my laptop. The image on the screen flips to a diagram of Jung’s analysis on esoteric Hermetic Tradition. I loathe having to fall back on Jungian doctrines for discussions, but his analysis is more sound in comparison to Nietzsche—but only because Jung didn’t have the balls to actually practice what he preached.

Philosophy is a discipline in study. Questioning. Thought. Theory. Metaphysics. Morality. And more thought and study and questioning until the end of fucking time itself.

It’s a rare breed of philosophy scholar who gets off the regurgitating merry-go-round and actually jumps into the abyss of the psyche. Becoming stark raving mad. Should Nietzsche be respected for his self-sacrifice, or pitied?

That’s an existential question for another lecture.

But what it does leave behind is a trail of greedy scholarly leeches ready to make names for themselves off that sacrifice. One such bloodsucker:

“Carl Jung,” I say, pointing to the screen, “was considerate enough to provide a diagram for his interpreted process of self-deification into the Higher Self.” I move to stand in front of the lectern. “Or really, the very root of which is shamanism. As so many of the modernist fail to attribute their acclaim, we can do that for them.”

A collective laugh travels around the hall. I’m not intentionally funny. Snide and mocking, yes. Smug and egotistical? Oh, fucking absolutely. I’ve earned my notorious reputation. Unlike my peers, all striving, quite pathetically, to immortalize themselves by reinventing the philosophy wheel, I’ve already established myself in academia.

Reaching one’s zenith too soon, however, leaves a long, boring trek back down the mountain.

“Jung coined his path to ascension into the Higher Self, that which has been labeled many things over the centuries—Aion, hen to pan, all is one, self-deification, Mind of God—as ‘Individuation’.” I point to the top level of the diagram on the screen.

“Every great thinker has to have their own terminology to stand apart,” I continue, “but the destination remains the same: the path to the intellectual enlightened plane of existence, the coveted philosopher’s stone where our crude base thought process is transmuted into creative genius.” I prop my elbow on the lectern. “In essence, where we get the answer to our question; we are god, an enlightened consciousness which possesses the cosmic understanding of all things to create our will within the universe.”

I pause to allow some of my speech to seep in past late-night parties and alcohol fueled one-night stands.

“Jung’s psychological process of dividing the self from the conscious and unconscious parts, like every other concept of similar theory, remains challenged, his method incomplete and never proven.” I cock an eyebrow. “His process,” I repeat with an underscore. “Otherwise known as some strange, abstract method through Gnostic belief systems and spiritual alchemy that, truly, no one has any fucking clue what any of it means.”

Another round of laughter.

I glance down at my hand, at the freshly inked symbols on my skin, feeling the weight of my recent sabbatical heavy on my conscience. I bury my hand in my pocket, run my tongue over the ridge of my teeth, then face my audience.

“But, it’s not what a man writes when he’s had time to form and censor his thoughts. It’s what he says, that which can be swept away by a sudden wind and questioned if it ever existed.” I walk a path across the front of the hall. “Jung posed the question: who has fully realized that history is not contained in thick books but lives in our very blood.”

The laughter and chatter quiets, silence stretching in prelude for a deeper punchline.

I spent majority of my life inside classrooms like this, studying the same philosophies that have been studied for centuries, believing I was discovering a profound wisdom. Zealous, rebellious, the bad boy of academia, my dissertation on resolving philosophical arguments acclaimed, my name already renowned before I embarked on a career within a university.

Then one trip to Cairo to research the origin of Egyptian shamanism linked to the earliest known texts of the Hermetica changed my course.

As seekers of knowledge, we ask the universe to reveal itself.

But once you see, you can never unsee.

“What does this mean?” I ask of the class.

This time, no hands go up. I let my gaze roam over the students in search of someone worthy. A girl with a cute pout twirls a length of her dark hair around her finger in a seductive manner as she begs with her eyes to pick her.

She’s not the first to try to capture my attention.

It’s the eyes. They love the unique blue and green smoldering intensity, and mistakenly attribute my passion as lust. My classroom is not where I hunt for prey.

When I’m hungry, I eat. Pick Me girl would run away in terror if I showed her what I need in order to get off. My tastes have always been particular. But it’s like with any drug, the more you use, the harder it is to achieve the same high.

Moving on, I point to a twenty-something guy in an expensive, stylish button-down in the front row. “What does this mean to you?”

His smile is cocky. He reminds me of myself ten years ago, and I have no doubt he’ll say something witty to get a reaction from the other students.

“That I wasted a lot of money on textbooks for this course?” he says.

On cue, laughter circles the hall, and I praise his cleverness with a wry smile. “Your wardrobe states your parents can afford it.”

His arrogant smile falls as his peers carry on laughing. This time, at him. A psychologist somewhere would infer I’m lashing out at the things I detest about myself. Affluent, absent family. The question of whether privilege greased the wheels of my career.

And this is why I detest psychology.

We don’t get the choice of where we originate from; but everything after is all choice.

There was a time when I looked in the mirror and saw my father’s eyes—but I found a way to never have to see them again.

I turn toward the lectern and look at Ryder, giving him the cue to change the slide. “This weekend, your assignment is to contemplate Jung’s—”

“I’m curious what it means to you, Professor Locke.”

The question comes from the back of the lecture hall, a distinguished voice obviously not belonging to a student. I face the class and search the rows, replaceing the source standing.

“Professor Wellington,” I say, crossing my arms. “I didn’t realize you’d come to sit in on my lecture.”

Percy is new to the university. I’ve yet to have a formal introduction to him, but I’ve heard the scandalous rumors as to why he had to transfer institutions. Authority issues. Countless absences. Marriage and drinking problems. Nothing so dire he’d lose tenure, but then he wouldn’t be here if that was the case.

The dean had arranged a meeting for us to discuss a joint project for the upcoming commencement ceremony, which I expertly avoided.

I don’t play well with faculty.

Wellington rakes a hand through his thinning blond hair, a self-assured smile creasing his features. “Lecture? Did I miss it?” He chuckles. “I’ve heard such praise for the astounding Professor Locke, I had hoped to be impressed.”

The proverbial glove smack to the face. I offended him when I refused to consult on the project. Now he’s here, in my territory, to issue an intellectual challenge and humiliate me. In academia, it’s sadly the only way the stuffy, tweed-and-sweater vest-wearing intellectuals dual to the death.

Tension threads the air of the hall as I move to the front of the room and accept the challenge. “History is not contained in thick books, but lives in our very blood,” I repeat Jung’s assertion. “History is written by people, perspectives. Biased opinions. Our guiding intuition to discern history based on the actions and violence of the past should determine how we choose to pursue the future.” I shrug. “If you want to get philosophical on the subject.”

As laughter erupts to diffuse the tense atmosphere, I hold Wellington’s narrowed gaze, waiting for his rebuttal.

I’ll give him a minute. While in Cairo, I had cemented my viewpoint. I won’t be swayed. What I found in Egypt wasn’t divine inspiration or insight to a profound wisdom. It was nothing rousing or enlightening at all.

It was the damn simplicity of how tragically basic we are.

Upon that realization, I decided there is a difference between pondering life and living it.

Such a simple concept. So obvious once you see the writing on the wall. Yet I felt sublimely stupid for my oversight.

I’ve since deigned to spend the little precious time I have left on this rock in search of my muse. What immortalized the profound thinkers was their want. That driving, maddening desire to create.

And that won’t be achieved by becoming a footnote in someone’s textbook.

The professor takes a step down from the back row, making his way toward me. “Violence,” he echos. “That’s an interesting and telling perspective. What about the gift of enlightenment through the study of history? Doesn’t that stand to achieve and ensure a peaceful future? Shouldn’t we maintain our course of study in books and texts, passing knowledge down to future generations so they don’t leap into abysses ill prepared?” He glances around at the students, his smile knowing. “For argument’s sake.”

I look down at the lacquered floor and shake my head. Goddamn Nietzscheism always worms its way into any debate. Seems Wellington subscribes to the historian’s school of thought.

I return my gaze to replace him standing on the bottom step, positioning himself a foot above me. “I assume by your use of gift you’re referring to Jung’s idolization of Nietzsche,” I say, dodging the abyss reference altogether. “The core of Jung’s method into the Higher Self, the proposed gift of the Übermensch, the overman.” My amused expression falls. “Or what Nietzsche and every scholar who came before and after based their idealism on: the shaman’s Primal Man.”

He holds up a finger. “I think you’re considering the concept too literally. It’s an ideal, a goal, one that mankind is capable of achieving. Of course, it’s an arduous path to an enlightened mind, yet that is our way to peace. But only if we continue to study and learn from our predecessors.”

He’s a whole generation older than me, and it must really rankle his ego that I’ve professionally surpassed him by a light-year.

“Regardless, the concept is a fairy tale,” I say, and chuckle. “But more so, it’s a paradox. Despite such hope for an enlightened species, there can never be a peaceful future, Professor Wellington.” I take a step in his direction. “In the event this holistic, mystical divinity presented as a gift to the masses, based on the work of esoteric theorists, this state could only be achieved through a destructive force, such as a sacrifice. Or, self-sacrifice. Just as Jung’s alchemic theory stated, correct?” I eye him coolly. “Light cannot exist without the dark. Good cannot exist without evil. The totality. Ergo, peace cannot exist without violence.”

His smug expression loses its edge. “Ego of the philosopher is destructive all on its own.” His gaze drops to the tattoos peeking above my collar. “I replace it ironic you’re speaking out against Jung’s alchemic theory of delving into the collective unconscious, seeing as you’re a practitioner of other widely scrutinized, unverified practices.”

He’s referring to the rumors of my interest in the dark arts. Particularly, chaos magick.

I had more than one revelation in Egypt.

“Ah, professor, this is where I specialize.” I move closer to where he looms over me. “Let me explain a little more clearly. Jung used alchemical works and symbolism to further his unsound psychology endeavors. Which is exceedingly insulting to the very Western esoteric sects he founded his theories off of. Alchemy is not a vehicle for scholarly greatness. The Hermetica isn’t a spiritual or philosophical path to psychological gold. Although the pursuit of both reveals the greedy nature of desperate men staring into their insignificance.” Okay, maybe one abyss reference…

“I, unlike Jung, am not lifting an archaic belief to incorporate in my unprovable, bullshit theory,” I continue. “My endeavor for the muse is a personal practice. After thousands of years of pondering, we’re no more enlightened than our heathen ancestors dancing around fires. But they did start the trend. They’re the teachers we should still look to, not the hacks.”

Wellington says nothing as I give him a lengthy pause for his rebuttal.

“Besides,” I say, leaning my elbow on the lectern and wiggling my inked fingers, “women like the tattoos.” I smile smugly, earning a few whistles from the class.

Even a narcissist knows when to admit defeat. Wellington is something else, something far worse. I see it in his unblinking gaze, a sadistic hunger. Despite his declaration toward peace, there is a malicious need banked there that craves to destroy.

This primitive force resides in us all, is a part of our very atoms, but it’s the hypocrite which makes this force a dangerous one.

“I have no doubt your reputation has scored you plenty of trim, Professor Locke.” His smile borders on a sneer. “But how do you presume, then, by your astute observation, to imply that the idealism of the Primal Man to humankind isn’t in itself a rare treasure? After all, philosophy teaches us that it’s our ideals which make up our world. We are the creators.”

I pace a few steps, considering the question seriously. “Because history has proven most treasures have a dark and violent unearthing,” I say, sending my response outward for the students. “The monster of greed ultimately descends, gnarling humans into a disfigured beast of selfish gluttony and ego. We as individuals ascend to a higher, godlike power… Every one of us to become the judges of what is right and wrong, good and evil?” My chuckle is sardonic. “That is the very ruin of the cosmos. Society would collapse.”

I pause a moment, then: “Think of anything we create. Look around this room. This lectern—” I touch the wood stand “—first a tree had to be cut down, then carved, essentially destroyed, in order to create the podium. Yes, we are the creators—but our creations can only be born from violent acts.” I turn and direct my next statement toward Wellington. “There have already been enough narcissists in power over the years to prove this is not an idealism that will reward us peace.”

Eyebrows hiked, he says, “I admit, I’m impressed. You’ve made a compelling argument.” But he’s not yet ready to concede. “Another question, Professor Lock, if you don’t mind. I’m curious if there is no hope for a future of peace and harmony, and only out of destruction do we wield the ability to create, how do we then justify our continued existence on this planet? Is it a selfless or selfish act, should destroying oneself be the only means of defense?”

“I’m afraid that’s a question of morality, professor.” Checking the time on my watch, I measure my answer based on the two minutes left of class. “We’re part of a world that was conceived in a womb of violence. It’s only logical that when our chaotic nature threatens to destroy us, we should then turn to any means in answer, such as scapegoating, to reset the balance. It’s more than justifying our actions; it’s essential to our survival and our conscious. Oh, I apologize, our collective conscious as an intelligent species. Though I feel that’s a stretch for most of us.”

“I think you’ve won your argument, Professor Locke,” Wellington says, although his arrogant smile contrasts his words.

“Naturally.” I turn my gaze out over the classroom, addressing the students. “If you’re willing to destroy yourself in an act of violence, then and only then can you call yourself god. Otherwise, you’re just another uninspired scholar with unproven theories who idolizes a madman, but doesn’t have the conviction to test his methods.” I look at Wellington. “I think our history books labeled that a coward.”

There’s no mistaking the disdain etched in his severe features. He smooths his necktie down his sweater vest as he nods, then retreats up the steps. But before he exits the hall, he turns to address me one final time. “A thought to leave you with,” he says. “It’s a rather self-fulfilling prophecy, don’t you think, that we employ violence to defend ourselves from our own violence.” A condescending expression crosses his face. “If we are the creators, then by that design, we are the creators of our own doomsday. Quite the conundrum.”

I signal Ryder to close down the slides. “I suppose you’re right on that, Professor Wellington. We can only avoid catastrophe if we’re aware of the signs,” I say distractedly. “But what fucking fun the end of times would be.”

As the class responds with a collective laugh, a dark gleam ignites behind his eyes. “Of course. Bored, privileged philosophers would no longer have the luxury to ponder the muse.” He smiles arrogantly, his insult hitting its mark in my ego. “How very exciting to see how our future would evolve, as not every creation can be one of beauty like your lectern. Some are rather horrifying.”

He exits the lecture hall then, but I know this won’t be the last altercation I have with Percy Wellington.

I’ve made an enemy today.

As the room breaks into a ruckus of students hustling to escape, I pack away my course manuals in my leather satchel, some distracted thought still itching at the back of my mind.

“What a douchebag,” Ryder says as he hands me the laptop.

“Professional rivalry keeps you sharp.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll know you’ve made it in academia when you get your very own douchebag to heckle your lectures.”

His tight smile holds a menacing weight. “Not sure how you didn’t punch him,” he says. “I would have. I like the concept of taking it back to our primitive roots.”

I sling the leather strap over my shoulder. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” I halt at the door to say, “But if you do, record it and send it to me.”

As I walk the outside courtyard toward the parking lot, my thoughts churn deeper, the itch festering into an infection that digs beneath my skin.

…not every creation can be one of beauty…

Maybe not, but when beauty is created, it is always born from violence—that in itself is a horrifying reality to accept.

I’m proof of this. A beautiful creation fashioned by the sharpest blade of violent cruelty.

When my muse does arrive, she will come to me in this same, beautifully violent way.