Elmer de Los Santos was the first patient of the Hospital de San Pedro in Antigua when it first opened in 1663. At seventeen, he is still but a child, as he has not aged a minute since the day of his sixth birthday. And on that wonderful day all those years ago, the only things he could do were color within the lines and write stories of mythic dreams. Now, here he is, eleven years later, sitting in his wheelchair, drooling out of the left side of his mouth and wailing like a wounded animal, writing the next chapter in the endless story he has been writing since his sixth birthday, writing it just for me. In it, worlds are destroyed and created, creatures emerge to play from the darkest depths of the seas, from the highest heavens, where God himself sits upon his copper throne of lies and laughs at all those below him. Empires rise and fall, people fall in love and fall out of it with the same melancholy, and through it all the simple touch of childishness, writing of the highest irony and the most optimistic nihilism. "Daddy said yesterday that everybody dies but that's okay because if they were good in life, their name will be written in Illyin." Yesterday for him, the Eve of his sixth birthday, before the world stopped spinning and the child writer breathed his first immortal breath. |