Changed a bit form the original draft, plus about 1000 extra words! Woohoo!
-
There were several things Peter Pete Peterson had not expected from Death.
First, he had not expected Death to be a woman. Yet underneath the frayed black robe that floated about her and seemed to melt into the night, she was most definitely female. The girdle that seemed to be made of human femurs, the earrings made from molars, and the presence of blood red lipstick supported this.
Second, given that Death was female, he had not expected her to be attractive. Yet despite the maggots in her pin-straight inky locks, and the way she hunched over herself like there was a great burden on her back or something heavy hanging from her neck, and the fact that she was easily eight feet tall, Death was definitely beautiful. The artful structure of her heart-shaped face, the perfect clarity of her milk-white skin, and the spark of wisdom and wit in her red eyes supported this.
Third, given that Death was an attractive female, he had not expected her to be the single most frightening being he had ever encountered. Yet upon realizing that he was standing over his own bloody body and she was standing over his now faintly luminescent self, the rain not seeming to touch either of them, he had felt an intense fear for his very soul. The fact that he had attempted to wet himself, failed on account of being reduced to a faintly luminescent soul, and dived behind the nearest bush to trembled and curl into the fetal position supported this.
“Car crash in the rain on a dark mountain road,” Death droned. “Hardly original.”
Peter thought about raising his head and defending himself, but decided against it. Part of his mind was mildly annoyed he no longer possessed the power to urinate, but mostly he was just terrified. More terrified than that moment when he realized his car was doing somersaults down the side of the mountain, or when he realized he was standing over his body here, but most of the car and his legs were there.
“At least you died in an interesting position,” Death continued. “How did you manage to bring the steering wheel with you after your torso went out the door the tree took off?”
Ah, so that was how that happened. Some part of Peter wondered if Death had purposefully given that piece of exposition, but like the part that was fretting over urination, it was readily ignored by the rest of his mind.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Death’s voice was suddenly incredibly close, like she was standing right behind him again. He peeked through his fingers and promptly screamed.
She was standing right beside him, bent over so her face was inches from his, looking bored and impassive. Peter scurried away from her as quickly as possible. She followed with soundless steps.
“I suppose by now you’ve gathered what’s going on,” she said in monotone. “You died, obviously, and I’m here for your soul. What brand of afterlife would you like? Considering you were coming back from mass, I’m guessing you want to go to Heaven. But if you ask me, Valhalla would be much more exciting.” She paused and as he attempted to hastily climb a tree to get away from her. “But I don’t think you’d get along very well there, would you?” For the first time some semblance of an emotion besides boredom graced her voice, and unfortunately it was a mild sort of contempt.
Clinging to the branch that had brought him to eye level with Death, Peter realized his masculinity had been questioned, and he set about putting her straight. “I–I took k–karate in s–s–sixth grade,” he blubbered.
She blinked dispassionately at him.
“D–don’t you have other souls to reap?” he asked, hoping she would go away and leave him glued to his branch.
She very slowly cocked her head to the side without moving the muscles of her face in the slightest. “Even if it takes all night to deal with you, I can visit everyone else who dies all over the world in the same night.” She paused and then added in an equally detached manner, “I’m like Santa Claus.”
Peter wanted to cry,
“Well? Do you want Heaven or not?” She blinked again, slowly. “You’re not going to be one of those stupid people who regrets what he’s done and asks for Hell, are you?”
“Um,” said Peter quietly, “can I go back to being alive?”
Death stared at him for a very long time, then wordlessly raised her arm and pointed with a long, boney finger at the pile of metal that had once been his car and his disembodied legs still pressing the brake.
“Obviously not,” she said finally.
“Please?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“You’re a lovely woman,” he tried.
She said nothing to that, although the air of mild contempt was back.
“I promise to have a more interesting death next time,” he said, shifting himself from a cling position to a sitting position on the branch. This brought his head above Death’s, and she inclined her face to keep eye contact. She was still the most intimidating thing he could imagine.
“I fail to believe you’ll keep that promise,” she drawled. Peter noted the contempt was gone and decided to pursue this angle.
“No really, you just tell me when my time’s up, and I’ll do some sort of crazy suicide. Something really original no one’s done before.”
“Too much work. And you’ll probably screw up anyway,” she answered simply, and then reached for his head.
Peter shrieked and fell backward off the branch. It didn’t hurt, seeing as he was a faintly luminescent soul, and he was quickly on his feet and trying to run in any direction where Death wasn’t. Death was faster, though, and grabbed him firmly by the hair.
“Just tell me what type of afterlife you want, or I will eat your soul like you were an atheist,” she said calmly.
“I will give you a hundred original deaths!” Peter screamed desperately and futilely tried to pull away from Death’s iron grip.
Death actually raised her eyebrows at that, which had not happened in decades.
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
Peter stopped struggling physically and began a mental struggle to figure how exactly he could do that.
“Well, I, you see, I um,” he blabbered, “I’ll start a, uh, theatre group and–” She began pulling him toward her.
“I only deal with real deaths,” she intoned boredly. “And suicides get old fast.”
“I’ll– I’ll–I’ll–” Peter mentally rifled through his brain. The parts concerned with urination and exposition where kicked aside, and he found a dark sort of corner where he had bottled up all the sinful thoughts his weekly trips to church had banned.
“I… I will c–commit one hundred original murders,” he said frantically, eyes darting around the gloomy and dripping forest as if a better idea might emerge from behind a tree, but the words were out already and all he could think about was how the smell emanating from Death reminded him of road kill or maybe his dead goldfish after he’d overfed it, and he just wanted to get as far away from her as possible.
Death removed her hand from his hair and the corners of her mouth were raised an almost microscopic amount.
“Deal,” she said.
They had then hashed out the details of the argument. Peter was to commit one hundred murders that Death deemed entertaining, with a permissible rest period of no more than 365 days between each one. In return, Death would prolong his life. In theory, Peter could add one hundred years to his life, but Death cautioned him that it was highly unlikely every death would be judged acceptable and he’d either have to commit more than one murder a year or fail and die. If Peter successfully did one hundred original murders, Death would leave him alone until he happened to drive off another mountain, die of old age, contract a horrible new disease, etc. If he failed, Death would reap his soul, and possibly eat it too, no matter what afterlife he preferred.
Then Death left him alone at the base of the mountain, wondering how to get back into his mutilated body.
He started by removing his legs from the car and dragging them over to where his torso was. He pried the steering wheel out of his body’s literal death grip and went off to find a missing chunk of skull. It took him about an hour’s worth of searching to find it, and after clumsily sticking it back to his head and pressing the base of his torso up against his legs, he sat down next to his corpse and pondered what to do next.
He wondered if he should do anything to keep his various pieces from falling back apart and, more importantly, how he should go about repossessing his body. Did he have to somehow crawl in through the ear? Would that bit of skull just fall off again if he did? Were parts of his brain also missing? Should he be looking for them? Did brain melt in the rain?
Eventually, his simply laid down on top of his body and hoped he would eventually sink back into it. Either this was the correct course of action or fate took pity on him (the latter being more likely), because when he sat up some fifteen minutes later, he was completely intact, legs and torso and skull piece and body and soul and all.
He immediately regretted not waiting for the rain to stop to attempt this.
Shivering, he rummaged through what was left of his car, and to his distress found that his cell phone was just as smashed. Wanting to cry again, he crawled into a part of the backseat that hadn’t been completely destroyed and tried to go to sleep.
When he awoke, the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and he found he had gained the ability to urinate. After relieving himself, he paced the area his car had cleared when it had crashed into it. He had no idea where he was. He could follow the path of destruction is car had carved back up to the road, but some places were awfully steep and he didn’t want to risk falling and meeting up with Death again. He could wait here until someone realized he was missing and a search party came for him, but who knew how long that would take. He sat down on what had once been his passenger’s seat and tried to visualize a map of the area and figure out if there were any nearby roads or trails that wouldn’t require ascending a cliff to reach.
After several hours of trying, he still couldn’t visualize anything useful. He glimpsed something brown and fury moving in the distance and immediately concluded it was a bear. It was, in fact, a deer, but although it wasn’t nearly as frightening as Death, it could very well deliver him to Death, so he took off toward the mountain side.
He slipped four times climbing up, but considering the ground was damp, Peter considered this a job well done.
Three cars passed before one stopped for his outstretched thumb. The man who stopped was driving a pick-up truck with slaughtered pigs in the back, and he was missing his two front teeth. Unnerved by the corpses in the back (did Death come for animals too?), Peter polite asked to borrow a phone and didn’t mention anything about climbing in the death-soaked vehicle. Surprising, the man did have a cell phone, and so Peter found himself calling his mother.
“Hello, Mom, it’s me,” he said. The pig-man snorted. This man was calling his mommy?
“Peter! You didn’t pick up your phone! I called you twice last night, and three times this morning, and what do you do? You ignore me. And you never visit. Peter, you’re–”
“Mom, listen, my car went off the road at STREET NAME–”
“–It’s not like you live far away–”
“Mom, I nearly DIED.” She paused. The pig-man seemed more impressed. Peter explained what happened, minus the bit about making a deal with Death and having to put his body back together, and all the while his mother was speechless and the pig-man’s eyes grew steadily wider.
“Oh, Peter-baby…” his mother breathed when he was done. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom, barely a scratch,” he said. “Could you come pick me up?”
“I’ll give you a ride,” the pig-man offered enthusiastically. Peter ignored him and explained to his mother where he was.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
100 Original Murders~
This is what happens when I'm waiting for my laundry to be done.
--
There were several things Peter Pete Peterson had not expected from Death.
First, he had not expected Death to be a woman. Yet underneath the frayed black robe that floated about her and seemed to melt into the night, she was most definitely female. The girdle that seemed to be made of human femurs, the earrings made from molars, and the presence of blood red lipstick supported this.
Second, given that Death was female, he had not expected her to be attractive. Yet despite the maggots in her pin-straight inky locks, and the way she hunched over herself like there was a great burden on her back or something heavy hanging from her neck, and the fact that she was easily eight feet tall, Death was definitely beautiful. The artful structure of her heart-shaped face, the perfect clarity of her milk-white skin, and the spark of wisdom and wit in her red eyes supported this.
Third, given that Death was an attractive female, he had not expected her to be the single most frightening being he had ever encountered. Yet upon realizing that he was standing over his own bloody body and she was standing over his now faintly luminescent self, the rain not seeming to touch either of them, he had felt an intense fear for his very soul. The fact that he had attempted to wet himself, failed on account of being reduced to a faintly luminescent soul, and dived behind the nearest bush to trembled and curl into the fetal position supported this.
“Car crash in the rain on a dark mountain road,” Death droned. “Hardly original.”
Peter thought about raising his head and defending himself, but decided against it. Part of his mind was mildly annoyed he no longer possessed the power to urinated, but mostly he was just terrified. More terrified than that moment when he realized his car was doing somersaults down the side of the mountain, or when he realized he was standing over his body here, but most of the car and his legs were there.
“At least you died in an interesting position,” Death continued. “How did you manage to bring the steering wheel with you after your torso went out the door the tree took off?”
Ah, so that was how that happened. Some part of Peter wondered if Death had purposefully given that piece of exposition, but like the part that was fretting over urination, it was readily ignored by the rest of his mind.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Death’s voice was suddenly incredibly close, like she was standing right behind him again. He peeked through his fingers and promptly screamed.
She was standing right beside him, bent over so her face was inches from his, looking bored and impassive. Peter scurried away from her as quickly as possible. She followed with soundless steps.
“I suppose by now you’ve gathered what’s going on,” she said in monotone. “You died, obviously, and I’m here for your soul. What brand of afterlife would you like? Considering you were coming back from mass, I’m guessing you want to go to Heaven. But if you ask me, Valhalla would be much more exciting.” She paused and as he attempted to hastily climb a tree to get away from her. “But I don’t think you’d get along well there, would you?” For the first time some semblance of an emotion besides boredom graced her voice, and unfortunately it was a mild sort of contempt.
Clinging to the branch that had brought him to eye level with Death, Peter realized his masculinity had been questioned, and he set about putting her straight. “I–I took k–karate in s–s–sixth grade,” he blubbered.
She blinked dispassionately at him.
“D–don’t you have other souls to reap?” he asked, hoping she would go away and leave him glued to his branch.
She very slowly cocked her head to the side without moving her face in the slightest. “Even if it takes all night to deal with you, I can visit everyone else who dies all over the world in the same night.” She paused and then added in an equally detached manner, “I’m like Santa Claus.”
Peter wanted to cry,
“Well? Do you want Heaven or not?” She blinked again, slowly. “You’re not going to be one of those stupid people who regrets what he’s done and asks for Hell, are you?”
“Um,” said Peter quietly, “can I go back to being alive?”
Death stared at him for a very long time, then wordlessly raised her arm and pointed with a long, boney finger at the pile of metal that had once been his car and his disembodied legs still pressing the brake.
“Obviously not,” she said finally.
“Please?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“You’re a lovely woman,” he tried.
She said nothing to that, although the air of mild contempt was back.
“I promise to have a more interesting death next time,” he said, shifting himself from a cling position to a sitting position on the branch. This brought his head above Death’s, and she inclined her face to keep eye contact. She was still the most intimidating thing he could imagine.
“I fail to believe you’ll keep that promise,” she drawled. Peter noted the contempt was gone and decided to pursue this angle.
“No really, you just tell me when my time’s up, and I’ll do some sort of crazy suicide. Something really original no one’s done before.”
“Too much work,” she answered simply, and then reached for his head.
Peter shrieked and fell backward off the branch. It didn’t hurt, seeing as he was a faintly luminescent soul, and he was quickly on his feet and trying to run in any direction where Death wasn’t. Death was faster, though, and grabbed him firmly by the hair.
“Just tell me what type of afterlife you want, or I will eat your soul like you were an atheist,” she said calmly.
“I will give you a hundred original deaths!” Peter screamed desperately and futilely tried to pull away from Death’s iron grip.
Death actually raised her eyebrows at that, which had not happened in decades.
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
Peter stopped struggling physically and began a mental struggle to figure how exactly he could do that.
“Well, I, you see, I um,” he blabbered, “I’ll start a, uh, theatre group and–” She began pulling him toward her.
“I only deal with real deaths,” she intoned boredly. “And suicides get old fast.”
“I’ll– I’ll–I’ll–” Peter mentally rifled through his brain. The parts concerned with urination and exposition where kicked aside, and he found a dark sort of corner where he had bottled up all the sinfully thoughts his weekly trips to church had banned.
“I will commit one hundred original murders,” he said.
Death removed her hand from his hair and the corners of her mouth were raised an almost microscopic amount.
“Deal,” she said.
--
There were several things Peter Pete Peterson had not expected from Death.
First, he had not expected Death to be a woman. Yet underneath the frayed black robe that floated about her and seemed to melt into the night, she was most definitely female. The girdle that seemed to be made of human femurs, the earrings made from molars, and the presence of blood red lipstick supported this.
Second, given that Death was female, he had not expected her to be attractive. Yet despite the maggots in her pin-straight inky locks, and the way she hunched over herself like there was a great burden on her back or something heavy hanging from her neck, and the fact that she was easily eight feet tall, Death was definitely beautiful. The artful structure of her heart-shaped face, the perfect clarity of her milk-white skin, and the spark of wisdom and wit in her red eyes supported this.
Third, given that Death was an attractive female, he had not expected her to be the single most frightening being he had ever encountered. Yet upon realizing that he was standing over his own bloody body and she was standing over his now faintly luminescent self, the rain not seeming to touch either of them, he had felt an intense fear for his very soul. The fact that he had attempted to wet himself, failed on account of being reduced to a faintly luminescent soul, and dived behind the nearest bush to trembled and curl into the fetal position supported this.
“Car crash in the rain on a dark mountain road,” Death droned. “Hardly original.”
Peter thought about raising his head and defending himself, but decided against it. Part of his mind was mildly annoyed he no longer possessed the power to urinated, but mostly he was just terrified. More terrified than that moment when he realized his car was doing somersaults down the side of the mountain, or when he realized he was standing over his body here, but most of the car and his legs were there.
“At least you died in an interesting position,” Death continued. “How did you manage to bring the steering wheel with you after your torso went out the door the tree took off?”
Ah, so that was how that happened. Some part of Peter wondered if Death had purposefully given that piece of exposition, but like the part that was fretting over urination, it was readily ignored by the rest of his mind.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Death’s voice was suddenly incredibly close, like she was standing right behind him again. He peeked through his fingers and promptly screamed.
She was standing right beside him, bent over so her face was inches from his, looking bored and impassive. Peter scurried away from her as quickly as possible. She followed with soundless steps.
“I suppose by now you’ve gathered what’s going on,” she said in monotone. “You died, obviously, and I’m here for your soul. What brand of afterlife would you like? Considering you were coming back from mass, I’m guessing you want to go to Heaven. But if you ask me, Valhalla would be much more exciting.” She paused and as he attempted to hastily climb a tree to get away from her. “But I don’t think you’d get along well there, would you?” For the first time some semblance of an emotion besides boredom graced her voice, and unfortunately it was a mild sort of contempt.
Clinging to the branch that had brought him to eye level with Death, Peter realized his masculinity had been questioned, and he set about putting her straight. “I–I took k–karate in s–s–sixth grade,” he blubbered.
She blinked dispassionately at him.
“D–don’t you have other souls to reap?” he asked, hoping she would go away and leave him glued to his branch.
She very slowly cocked her head to the side without moving her face in the slightest. “Even if it takes all night to deal with you, I can visit everyone else who dies all over the world in the same night.” She paused and then added in an equally detached manner, “I’m like Santa Claus.”
Peter wanted to cry,
“Well? Do you want Heaven or not?” She blinked again, slowly. “You’re not going to be one of those stupid people who regrets what he’s done and asks for Hell, are you?”
“Um,” said Peter quietly, “can I go back to being alive?”
Death stared at him for a very long time, then wordlessly raised her arm and pointed with a long, boney finger at the pile of metal that had once been his car and his disembodied legs still pressing the brake.
“Obviously not,” she said finally.
“Please?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“You’re a lovely woman,” he tried.
She said nothing to that, although the air of mild contempt was back.
“I promise to have a more interesting death next time,” he said, shifting himself from a cling position to a sitting position on the branch. This brought his head above Death’s, and she inclined her face to keep eye contact. She was still the most intimidating thing he could imagine.
“I fail to believe you’ll keep that promise,” she drawled. Peter noted the contempt was gone and decided to pursue this angle.
“No really, you just tell me when my time’s up, and I’ll do some sort of crazy suicide. Something really original no one’s done before.”
“Too much work,” she answered simply, and then reached for his head.
Peter shrieked and fell backward off the branch. It didn’t hurt, seeing as he was a faintly luminescent soul, and he was quickly on his feet and trying to run in any direction where Death wasn’t. Death was faster, though, and grabbed him firmly by the hair.
“Just tell me what type of afterlife you want, or I will eat your soul like you were an atheist,” she said calmly.
“I will give you a hundred original deaths!” Peter screamed desperately and futilely tried to pull away from Death’s iron grip.
Death actually raised her eyebrows at that, which had not happened in decades.
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked.
Peter stopped struggling physically and began a mental struggle to figure how exactly he could do that.
“Well, I, you see, I um,” he blabbered, “I’ll start a, uh, theatre group and–” She began pulling him toward her.
“I only deal with real deaths,” she intoned boredly. “And suicides get old fast.”
“I’ll– I’ll–I’ll–” Peter mentally rifled through his brain. The parts concerned with urination and exposition where kicked aside, and he found a dark sort of corner where he had bottled up all the sinfully thoughts his weekly trips to church had banned.
“I will commit one hundred original murders,” he said.
Death removed her hand from his hair and the corners of her mouth were raised an almost microscopic amount.
“Deal,” she said.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Party thang
IV.
The first people to show up were a group of boys from our high school. They were raising seniors, but they weren’t very attractive. Catherine flirted with them anyway while Alexa sulked on that same couch which we still hadn’t covered because she wouldn’t move.
Then Dan showed up with his older sister Amy, who was taking a year off after getting straight Cs her year of college. She looked around, realized no one was her age, or even really knew her that well, and flopped down on the couch as far away from Alexa as she could get. She stayed there until later when a group of guys and one girl who she apparently knew showed up and she went to dance with them in the space where the massive dining table had been.
By that time there were almost as many people in the house as during one of Catherine’s mother’s holiday gatherings, and we knew almost all of them at least by face.. It wasn’t until way later that people we didn’t know started showing up, which was good, because they brought more alcohol and we were running out.
I’d only been drinking enough to maintain a mild buzz up until then, and I decided to go all out. I could see weird black scum on the walls, and sticky puddles of beer everywhere, and I didn’t want to have to think about cleaning it until later, so I kicked back as many as I thought I could handle without vomiting.
V.
I don’t remember how we ended up in the bathroom together. I don’t remember who started it. I just remember his pretty blue eyes, and his hands all over me, and grabbing onto his neck and pulling him closer, and him pressing me against the sink and the back of my dress getting all wet.
I think he told me he thought I was beautiful, but maybe I misheard his drunken mumblings, and maybe my inebriated mind was just telling me what I wanted to hear. But in any case, my dress was ruined anyway, and so I took it off for him, and he took off his pants, and tile floor was cold because Catherine and I had taken out the rug, and as we rolled around on it someone started pounding on the door saying they had to go, whoever was in there should hurry up, but I knew there were other bathrooms, and I hit my head against the base of the toilet twice but I didn’t care because he was warm and he thought I was sexy and it felt good.
And when we were done he pulled his pants back on and left, and I relocked the door behind him, found a towel and went to sleep naked in the bathtub.
VI.
Catherine woke me up, kicking and screaming at the door.
“If you die, you better not have the balls to do it in my bathroom!”
I groaned and rolled over. Everything hurt. “Cat,” I moaned. “Can I borrow some clothes?”
“What for?” She demanded. She sounded pissed. I wondered what time it was, and what had happened since I’d locked myself in this little room.
“I had a bad night,” I whimpered. She sighed and I heard her footsteps heading away.
I curled up in the bathtub. It was damp, and I was cold, but it was dark and quiet. I thought about turning on the faucet and filling my makeshift bed with warm water, but even the thought of the roar of running water made my head throb. I thought I should get up and dry off and get warm that way, but it seemed my whole body was sore. So I stayed with the towel wrapped around my hips and my face pressed against the chilly tub floor until Catherine came back and knocked softly on the door.
“Are you alright in there?” She asked. She sounded worried now.
“I’m okay,” I called back. “Just… just I have a hangover from hell.”
She giggled. “Well, I brought you some clothes. I’ll leave them out here.”
She left, and I spent ten minutes gathering up the willpower to drag myself out of the tub. I stood unsteadily and tried to look at myself in the mirror, but it was too dark and I wasn’t even sure the square thing on the wall I was looking at was a mirror.
I stumbled over to the door, nearly tripped on the crumpled remains of my dress and opened the door a crack. I winced and the beam of light that shown in from the outside and I squeezed by eyes shut. I squatted and felt around on the floor and the base of the door until I found the pile of clothes Catherine left me.
I dressed in the dark, and then threw myself into the light of the day outside the windowless bathroom. My head exploded in pain, and I staggered around the house until I found Catherine mopping in the kitchen. She took one look at me, dropped her mop and came running over.
“Holy shit!” she yelled. I cringed and rubbed at my temples. “Sorry,” she whispered. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a bad night.”
I nodded dully. But I hadn’t had a bad night. It had been fun, up until the point where I passed out in the bathtub. It was the aftermath I regretted.
“What time is it?” I muttered.
“’Bout eleven,” Catherine answered. “Would you like some aspirin?” I nodded. She went off and I sat down on an unmopped section of the floor and put my head between my knees. A few minutes later she returned and thrust some pills and a glass of water in the face. I swallowed the pills dry, chugged the water, and then curled up on her kitchen floor and tried to go back to sleep.
It was sticky, and after a while she started vacuuming one of the other rooms. I wanted to cry at the headache it caused me, but instead I crawled up the stairs to her room and climbed into her bed. I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I became aware of my surroundings, it was dark. My dress was folded on Catherine’s night stand, and my wallet, keys and cell phone were on top. I didn’t even remember where I’d left them the night before.
I had seven missed calls and two angry text messages from my mother. I had told her I’d be home by 3:00 at the latest. It was 8:30. I still hurt all over, but my headache and dwindled to a dull throb. I gathered my stuff and stomped down the stairs.
Catherine was watching TV in the living room on the couch Alexa had refused to get off of. There were three bulging trash bags propped against the couch.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked up and smiled. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
She shrugged. “Hey, you helped me get out of that house by the lake with the attic, remember?” I grinned. I knew exactly what she went; she had been unbelievably wasted.
“My mom’s super pissed,” I said. “I should go. I’ll take the trash out on my way, okay?”
“That’s what it’s here for,” she replied and waved at the bags. “Drive safe.”
“I will,” I said and, shifted my possessions around in the arms so I could grab the bags. The dress and my oversized wallet went under my armpit; my keys and cell phone went in the pockets of the pair of Catherine’s jeans I was wearing. I grabbed the trash bags and headed for the door.
“Bring back my clothes tomorrow,” Catherine called after me. “We still have tons of crap to clean up.”
“See you,” I said, not even turning around. Cleaning would be a pain.
But I still didn’t regret anything I’d done that night.
--
HAHAHA, YOU SAY THAT NOW, UNNAMED FEMALE CHARACTER, YOU SAY THAT NOW...
The first people to show up were a group of boys from our high school. They were raising seniors, but they weren’t very attractive. Catherine flirted with them anyway while Alexa sulked on that same couch which we still hadn’t covered because she wouldn’t move.
Then Dan showed up with his older sister Amy, who was taking a year off after getting straight Cs her year of college. She looked around, realized no one was her age, or even really knew her that well, and flopped down on the couch as far away from Alexa as she could get. She stayed there until later when a group of guys and one girl who she apparently knew showed up and she went to dance with them in the space where the massive dining table had been.
By that time there were almost as many people in the house as during one of Catherine’s mother’s holiday gatherings, and we knew almost all of them at least by face.. It wasn’t until way later that people we didn’t know started showing up, which was good, because they brought more alcohol and we were running out.
I’d only been drinking enough to maintain a mild buzz up until then, and I decided to go all out. I could see weird black scum on the walls, and sticky puddles of beer everywhere, and I didn’t want to have to think about cleaning it until later, so I kicked back as many as I thought I could handle without vomiting.
V.
I don’t remember how we ended up in the bathroom together. I don’t remember who started it. I just remember his pretty blue eyes, and his hands all over me, and grabbing onto his neck and pulling him closer, and him pressing me against the sink and the back of my dress getting all wet.
I think he told me he thought I was beautiful, but maybe I misheard his drunken mumblings, and maybe my inebriated mind was just telling me what I wanted to hear. But in any case, my dress was ruined anyway, and so I took it off for him, and he took off his pants, and tile floor was cold because Catherine and I had taken out the rug, and as we rolled around on it someone started pounding on the door saying they had to go, whoever was in there should hurry up, but I knew there were other bathrooms, and I hit my head against the base of the toilet twice but I didn’t care because he was warm and he thought I was sexy and it felt good.
And when we were done he pulled his pants back on and left, and I relocked the door behind him, found a towel and went to sleep naked in the bathtub.
VI.
Catherine woke me up, kicking and screaming at the door.
“If you die, you better not have the balls to do it in my bathroom!”
I groaned and rolled over. Everything hurt. “Cat,” I moaned. “Can I borrow some clothes?”
“What for?” She demanded. She sounded pissed. I wondered what time it was, and what had happened since I’d locked myself in this little room.
“I had a bad night,” I whimpered. She sighed and I heard her footsteps heading away.
I curled up in the bathtub. It was damp, and I was cold, but it was dark and quiet. I thought about turning on the faucet and filling my makeshift bed with warm water, but even the thought of the roar of running water made my head throb. I thought I should get up and dry off and get warm that way, but it seemed my whole body was sore. So I stayed with the towel wrapped around my hips and my face pressed against the chilly tub floor until Catherine came back and knocked softly on the door.
“Are you alright in there?” She asked. She sounded worried now.
“I’m okay,” I called back. “Just… just I have a hangover from hell.”
She giggled. “Well, I brought you some clothes. I’ll leave them out here.”
She left, and I spent ten minutes gathering up the willpower to drag myself out of the tub. I stood unsteadily and tried to look at myself in the mirror, but it was too dark and I wasn’t even sure the square thing on the wall I was looking at was a mirror.
I stumbled over to the door, nearly tripped on the crumpled remains of my dress and opened the door a crack. I winced and the beam of light that shown in from the outside and I squeezed by eyes shut. I squatted and felt around on the floor and the base of the door until I found the pile of clothes Catherine left me.
I dressed in the dark, and then threw myself into the light of the day outside the windowless bathroom. My head exploded in pain, and I staggered around the house until I found Catherine mopping in the kitchen. She took one look at me, dropped her mop and came running over.
“Holy shit!” she yelled. I cringed and rubbed at my temples. “Sorry,” she whispered. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a bad night.”
I nodded dully. But I hadn’t had a bad night. It had been fun, up until the point where I passed out in the bathtub. It was the aftermath I regretted.
“What time is it?” I muttered.
“’Bout eleven,” Catherine answered. “Would you like some aspirin?” I nodded. She went off and I sat down on an unmopped section of the floor and put my head between my knees. A few minutes later she returned and thrust some pills and a glass of water in the face. I swallowed the pills dry, chugged the water, and then curled up on her kitchen floor and tried to go back to sleep.
It was sticky, and after a while she started vacuuming one of the other rooms. I wanted to cry at the headache it caused me, but instead I crawled up the stairs to her room and climbed into her bed. I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I became aware of my surroundings, it was dark. My dress was folded on Catherine’s night stand, and my wallet, keys and cell phone were on top. I didn’t even remember where I’d left them the night before.
I had seven missed calls and two angry text messages from my mother. I had told her I’d be home by 3:00 at the latest. It was 8:30. I still hurt all over, but my headache and dwindled to a dull throb. I gathered my stuff and stomped down the stairs.
Catherine was watching TV in the living room on the couch Alexa had refused to get off of. There were three bulging trash bags propped against the couch.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked up and smiled. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
She shrugged. “Hey, you helped me get out of that house by the lake with the attic, remember?” I grinned. I knew exactly what she went; she had been unbelievably wasted.
“My mom’s super pissed,” I said. “I should go. I’ll take the trash out on my way, okay?”
“That’s what it’s here for,” she replied and waved at the bags. “Drive safe.”
“I will,” I said and, shifted my possessions around in the arms so I could grab the bags. The dress and my oversized wallet went under my armpit; my keys and cell phone went in the pockets of the pair of Catherine’s jeans I was wearing. I grabbed the trash bags and headed for the door.
“Bring back my clothes tomorrow,” Catherine called after me. “We still have tons of crap to clean up.”
“See you,” I said, not even turning around. Cleaning would be a pain.
But I still didn’t regret anything I’d done that night.
--
HAHAHA, YOU SAY THAT NOW, UNNAMED FEMALE CHARACTER, YOU SAY THAT NOW...
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
THIS STYLE. Y/N?
Dearest Universe,
You seem to think you have a sense of humor. If you do, it sucks. Please get over yourself.
Sincerely,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you did not remember to set your alarm. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
Yours truly,
The Universe
To my beloved Universe,
Even if I had remembered to set my alarm, that power outage in the middle of the night fried my clock. Thanks for that. Also, not warning me my blow dryer was also ruined before I jumped in the shower? Brilliant. My boss was super impressed with my damp, frizzy hair.
Your bestest friend,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you never put back-up batteries in your clock as the packaging suggested. Furthermore, you were already in state of acceptable cleanliness upon awaking, thus making a shower unnecessary and an extra factor in your tardiness. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
My best regards,
The Universe
Oh Universe,
In the future, could you pretty please at least warn me my dog likes the taste of dress pants, leaving the only acceptable work clothes to be those crumpled in the laundry hamper and smelling of the gym clothes they’re piled on top of? It negated the ‘unnecessary’ shower, thank you very much.
Wishing you a most lovely day,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you do not do your laundry on a regular basis. Perhaps you should make a schedule and keep your dog out of your bedroom while you’re at it. As I recall, you blamed me for his consumption of your running shoes as well. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
Respectfully yours,
The Universe
You seem to think you have a sense of humor. If you do, it sucks. Please get over yourself.
Sincerely,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you did not remember to set your alarm. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
Yours truly,
The Universe
To my beloved Universe,
Even if I had remembered to set my alarm, that power outage in the middle of the night fried my clock. Thanks for that. Also, not warning me my blow dryer was also ruined before I jumped in the shower? Brilliant. My boss was super impressed with my damp, frizzy hair.
Your bestest friend,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you never put back-up batteries in your clock as the packaging suggested. Furthermore, you were already in state of acceptable cleanliness upon awaking, thus making a shower unnecessary and an extra factor in your tardiness. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
My best regards,
The Universe
Oh Universe,
In the future, could you pretty please at least warn me my dog likes the taste of dress pants, leaving the only acceptable work clothes to be those crumpled in the laundry hamper and smelling of the gym clothes they’re piled on top of? It negated the ‘unnecessary’ shower, thank you very much.
Wishing you a most lovely day,
Jessamyn
Dear Jessamyn,
It is not my fault you do not do your laundry on a regular basis. Perhaps you should make a schedule and keep your dog out of your bedroom while you’re at it. As I recall, you blamed me for his consumption of your running shoes as well. Please take more personal responsibility in the future.
Respectfully yours,
The Universe
NATHAN ONCE MORE 8D
Nathan likes it when he gets blisters.
His new shoes for school pinched and he had one on the side of his big toe on his right foot. His mother put a band aid on it, and a few days later the pus had drained and it was a loose flap of dry skin clinging to the side of his toe like a leathery, deflated balloon.
He was sitting on his bed, reading a book on geography. He paused in the middle of a section on rivers in Africa and wrestled his right foot onto his lap and removed the sock. Then he leaned over and took the sock off his left foot too, so he wouldn’t be uneven.
His mother had safety-pinned the ends of his pillow cases closed because he was afraid the pillow would fall out while he was asleep. He removed one of the rusty pins and took it to his foot.
Even though the skin flap from the blister was still a part of him, he couldn’t feel the pin pass through it. He could see the red-brown of it, though, beneath his semitransparent and yellowing dead skin, and he wiggled it within the once-blister. He could see the pin moving beneath his skin, but he couldn’t feel it.
He left the safety pin in his blister and undid another one from his pillow case. He stuck it in his other big toe, and immediately felt a sharp pain. He pulled it out and a tiny drop of blood followed.
He removed the pin from his right foot too and put his socks back on. He’d have to go wash his foot soon, in case of infections. He wondered what would happen if he stuck a pin to his blister before his mother put a band aid on it.
The monkey bars at school always gave him blisters on his palms. He’d have to experiment soon before he developed calluses.
--
WHERE DO I GO WITH TINY DERANGED CHILD D8
His new shoes for school pinched and he had one on the side of his big toe on his right foot. His mother put a band aid on it, and a few days later the pus had drained and it was a loose flap of dry skin clinging to the side of his toe like a leathery, deflated balloon.
He was sitting on his bed, reading a book on geography. He paused in the middle of a section on rivers in Africa and wrestled his right foot onto his lap and removed the sock. Then he leaned over and took the sock off his left foot too, so he wouldn’t be uneven.
His mother had safety-pinned the ends of his pillow cases closed because he was afraid the pillow would fall out while he was asleep. He removed one of the rusty pins and took it to his foot.
Even though the skin flap from the blister was still a part of him, he couldn’t feel the pin pass through it. He could see the red-brown of it, though, beneath his semitransparent and yellowing dead skin, and he wiggled it within the once-blister. He could see the pin moving beneath his skin, but he couldn’t feel it.
He left the safety pin in his blister and undid another one from his pillow case. He stuck it in his other big toe, and immediately felt a sharp pain. He pulled it out and a tiny drop of blood followed.
He removed the pin from his right foot too and put his socks back on. He’d have to go wash his foot soon, in case of infections. He wondered what would happen if he stuck a pin to his blister before his mother put a band aid on it.
The monkey bars at school always gave him blisters on his palms. He’d have to experiment soon before he developed calluses.
--
WHERE DO I GO WITH TINY DERANGED CHILD D8
Monday, April 5, 2010
Catherine's Friend, scene-ish thing 3
PROOF READING DOESN'T EXIST IN MY WORLD.
-
Alexa hadn’t been in on the plan before, but early Friday afternoon she showed up with two brown paper grocery bags full of cheap beer. Catherine and I had never really liked her because she tried to dress like a rocker, but she was the one who had told our seventh grade class all the dirty details of sex and who’d gotten me a pack of cigarettes when I wanted to try smoking in ninth grade. So as long as she could bring alcohol, she could come help us host. That’s what we told her when she’d called about I flier we’d put up on her block.
“We thought we’d have an open bar here,” Catherine explained and gestured toward a collapsible table we’d set up off to the side in the living room. Alexa grunted in recognition and dropped her bags on the white plastic table.
“You’re house is even ritzier on the inside,” she said to Catherine, who blushed. I thought that was an awfully rude thing to say, and I told Alexa as much. She just shrugged it off.
“I’m just saying it’ll be a big deal if the house gets ruined, is all,” she answered. “Even if you have a ‘plan,’” – she made obnoxious quotation marks in the air with her fingers – “some shit is bound to get busted. You sure you want to open this thing up to the whole city?”
“Of course we do,” I snapped.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” Catherine countered.
“Because it’s stupid,” Alexa answered.
“Then why are you here?” I said. She glowered.
“I like a good party,” she admitted.
“Exactly,” Catherine said proudly and even stuck up her nose a little. Then without a word to Alexa went off into the kitchen to start pouring potato chips into bowls. We’d argued about it earlier– food wasn’t really necessary– but Catherine was afraid people would get hungry and go through her fridge, so we got the cheapest we could find.
I could see Alexa over in the sitting room, and she was lounging on the couch with her stupid combat boots on the coffee table.
“I don’t think she’s going to leave,” I said to Catherine.
“Shoot,” she said back as she opened a chip bag. “Should we kick her out?”
“We said she could come,” I said and passed her a serving bowl.
“To the party.” Catherine dumped the entire bag into the bowl and stray chips went scattering across the counter. “We never said she could hang out before.”
“Well then you kick her out,” I said. “It’s your house.”
“I can hear you,” Alexa called from the sitting room.
Catherine blushed again and bent over the counter, focusing everything on picking up lost chips. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want to confront Alexa in a house that wasn’t mine. So we just stayed quiet and didn’t talk much for a while as we prepped the house for the party. Alexa eventually feel asleep on the couch, which we hadn’t covered yet. We decided we’d do it when the party started and Alexa would have to wake up.
-
Alexa hadn’t been in on the plan before, but early Friday afternoon she showed up with two brown paper grocery bags full of cheap beer. Catherine and I had never really liked her because she tried to dress like a rocker, but she was the one who had told our seventh grade class all the dirty details of sex and who’d gotten me a pack of cigarettes when I wanted to try smoking in ninth grade. So as long as she could bring alcohol, she could come help us host. That’s what we told her when she’d called about I flier we’d put up on her block.
“We thought we’d have an open bar here,” Catherine explained and gestured toward a collapsible table we’d set up off to the side in the living room. Alexa grunted in recognition and dropped her bags on the white plastic table.
“You’re house is even ritzier on the inside,” she said to Catherine, who blushed. I thought that was an awfully rude thing to say, and I told Alexa as much. She just shrugged it off.
“I’m just saying it’ll be a big deal if the house gets ruined, is all,” she answered. “Even if you have a ‘plan,’” – she made obnoxious quotation marks in the air with her fingers – “some shit is bound to get busted. You sure you want to open this thing up to the whole city?”
“Of course we do,” I snapped.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” Catherine countered.
“Because it’s stupid,” Alexa answered.
“Then why are you here?” I said. She glowered.
“I like a good party,” she admitted.
“Exactly,” Catherine said proudly and even stuck up her nose a little. Then without a word to Alexa went off into the kitchen to start pouring potato chips into bowls. We’d argued about it earlier– food wasn’t really necessary– but Catherine was afraid people would get hungry and go through her fridge, so we got the cheapest we could find.
I could see Alexa over in the sitting room, and she was lounging on the couch with her stupid combat boots on the coffee table.
“I don’t think she’s going to leave,” I said to Catherine.
“Shoot,” she said back as she opened a chip bag. “Should we kick her out?”
“We said she could come,” I said and passed her a serving bowl.
“To the party.” Catherine dumped the entire bag into the bowl and stray chips went scattering across the counter. “We never said she could hang out before.”
“Well then you kick her out,” I said. “It’s your house.”
“I can hear you,” Alexa called from the sitting room.
Catherine blushed again and bent over the counter, focusing everything on picking up lost chips. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want to confront Alexa in a house that wasn’t mine. So we just stayed quiet and didn’t talk much for a while as we prepped the house for the party. Alexa eventually feel asleep on the couch, which we hadn’t covered yet. We decided we’d do it when the party started and Alexa would have to wake up.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Meta-Broccoli 8D
Little rough around the edges. 60-70% trufax. Needs proofreading.
--
When I was a child, it never occurred to me that God was real. Church was just one of those silly things that other families did that my parents quietly ignored, like overcooking broccoli of taking away toys from disobedient children. Biblical stories were read to me between fairy tales, and I thought them one and the same. The lord was the fairy godmother: someone who always helped out the heroes and heroines of stories, but couldn’t come help YOU because they weren’t real.
Yet I’m sure it never occurred to any of my more religiously inclined friends that God could ever not be real. I’m sure they raised their eyebrows at my undercooked broccoli as much as I did at their overcooked broccoli, and I’m sure they thought it was odd my parents never punished my misbehaviors with more than a stern telling-off. I’m sure they understood the difference between God and a fairy godmother.
So while my friends where in church on Sunday mornings, my little heathen self went stomping around in the woods behind our house, getting covered in bug bites and tangling my hair in branches. I’d pretend I was a princess being chased by a troll, that I was a witch collecting ingredients for a potion to poison a princess, that I was on a quest from the king, that I was on a quest from God, that I was meeting a secret friend, that I was running from the Devil, that I was a wild forest-child raised by wolves.
Sunday afternoons I could usually find a friend to play with, fresh from brunch with their church-friends. We’d play the same games I’d played in the morning, and then after my friend went home my mother would serve me undercooked broccoli for dinner.
In first grade I made my first friend who wasn’t Southern Baptist. His name was Sam. He was Jewish. He wasn’t much different from everyone else, especially since his mother made overcooked broccoli too.
I knew how Sam’s mother cooked broccoli because I had him over for dinner once. We had broccoli because it was the only vegetable I would eat without a fuss, and he complained to me about it later.
“It was too crunchy,” he whined. “And it tasted too much like a salad.”
But he had eaten it anyway, which was more than I would have done.
When asked about my religion, I always said Christian because my friends were Christian and my grandmother had a picture of Jesus on the cross in her bedroom. We celebrated Christian holidays: we had presents on Christmas and chocolate rabbits on Easter. I had been to a handful of different churches with friends. I knew Christian kids’ songs. So through my childish logic, I was Christian, even if I thought God was the fairy godmother.
At some point I thought to ask questions. I asked my mother, “Why don’t we go to church like everyone else?”
We must have been driving somewhere, because I remember her suddenly becoming fixated with fiddling with something on the dashboard.
“Oh, well,” she answered vaguely. “Your father and I don’t really believe in those things. Did you remember a jacket?”
My father also claimed he didn’t believe in garlic salt or Windows brand computers, which obviously both existed, so I wasn’t sure what this answer meant. But I told her yes, I had my navy jacket tied around my waist, but did she really think I would need it?
But aside from the church thing, we did Christian things, so we must have been Christian. I told my friend Madeline as much when she accused me of being a fake Christian.
“You don’t even know the Christian song!” she yelled back.
“I know other songs!” I said back. “Like– like the one about Noah and his ark!”
“You don’t ever go to church,” she said.
“I’ve been with you to your church tons of times,” I snapped back. In reality, it was probably only three or four times, but I felt religion was something you had to defend strongly.
I left then, even though we were at my house. I went into the living room and pouted on the couch for a while, and Madeline eventually came out of my room and said she was hungry. We had crackers sitting on the kitchen floor and didn’t talk about church or Christianity for the rest of the day.
I don’t know what made me think of that conversation again, but one day I went to my mother and asked her what made someone a True Christian.
“Believing in Jesus,” she said right away.
“What about God?” I asked.
“They’re the same,” she said.
“I thought Jesus was the son of God,” I said.
“God is three people,” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
The following Sunday my mother took me to church with one of her coworkers. She said she wanted me to go to a Catholic church because that was how she’d been brought up, but Miss Jamie was Episcopalian, so that would have to do. So I went with Miss Jamie and came home with her and still not understanding.
I told Sam I thought maybe I wasn’t Christian.
“You do Christmas,” he said.
“But I don’t understand God and Jesus,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Neither do I.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re not Christian. We Christians need to get this.”
“So you’re Christian?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “That’s what everyone who’s not something else is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
I asked Madeline if she knew why God and Jesus were the same. She said, “God comes in three parts. Like an Oreo.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I told you you weren’t a true Christian,” she said.
One night when we had broccoli for dinner again, I asked my parents if we were Christian.
“Is this about church again?” My mother asked.
“Kind of,” I said back, pushing the broccoli around on my plate. “We’re not Jewish like Sam, and we’re not Muslim or Hindu like we learned about in Social Studies, so we have to be Christian, but we don’t go to church.”
“You don’t have to go to church to be Christian,” my father supplied. “Your grandma never goes to church, and she’s very religious.” My mother nodded in agreement.
“Because she has a picture of Jesus on the cross on the wall?” I asked.
“No,” said my father, “because she believes in Jesus and what he died for.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?” I asked. My parents exchanged glances and we quiet for a long time.
“No,” my mother said finally.
“Then we do we have Christmas?” I asked.
“You like Christmas,” my mother said.
“But why do we have it?” I persisted.
“Why do we have Thanksgiving?” my father countered.
“Because we’re thankful for what we have,” I said the way I said every Thanksgiving dinner.
“That’s why,” he said, and we went back to eating as was normal.
At night I wondered, Do I believe in Jesus?
And I had to say I didn’t, because Jesus was God and God was the fairy godmother and the fairy godmother isn’t real.
This thought frightened me. All my friends and their overcooked broccoli believed in something, Christian or Jewish or anything else. I did Christian things, but I wasn’t Christian. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in God and it felt as if I couldn’t bring myself to believe in gravity.
“You have no faith,” something in the back of my mind said. I pushed it away, and I spent years pretending I wasn’t completely godless because I wanted something to believe in.
In fifth grade, we had an exercise where everyone sat in a circle and we said what we believe in. I don’t remember the point of this, probably something about how beliefs shape us or how we are all different. Most people said God or Jesus. One person said Santa Claus as a joke, and we all laughed.
I almost said I believed in God, but I didn’t want to lie.
“I believe in the universe!” I announced proudly. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I meant by this, but no one questioned it. The teacher just nodded and turned to the next person. This excited me, because that must have meant this was an acceptable thing to believe in. The universe was real, and I could believe it would go on without believing in God.
Madeline believed in God and Jesus, Sam believed in God without Jesus, and I believed in the universe. We were friends, we liked the same games, we all believed in something. After all, broccoli is broccoli, no matter how you cook it.
--
When I was a child, it never occurred to me that God was real. Church was just one of those silly things that other families did that my parents quietly ignored, like overcooking broccoli of taking away toys from disobedient children. Biblical stories were read to me between fairy tales, and I thought them one and the same. The lord was the fairy godmother: someone who always helped out the heroes and heroines of stories, but couldn’t come help YOU because they weren’t real.
Yet I’m sure it never occurred to any of my more religiously inclined friends that God could ever not be real. I’m sure they raised their eyebrows at my undercooked broccoli as much as I did at their overcooked broccoli, and I’m sure they thought it was odd my parents never punished my misbehaviors with more than a stern telling-off. I’m sure they understood the difference between God and a fairy godmother.
So while my friends where in church on Sunday mornings, my little heathen self went stomping around in the woods behind our house, getting covered in bug bites and tangling my hair in branches. I’d pretend I was a princess being chased by a troll, that I was a witch collecting ingredients for a potion to poison a princess, that I was on a quest from the king, that I was on a quest from God, that I was meeting a secret friend, that I was running from the Devil, that I was a wild forest-child raised by wolves.
Sunday afternoons I could usually find a friend to play with, fresh from brunch with their church-friends. We’d play the same games I’d played in the morning, and then after my friend went home my mother would serve me undercooked broccoli for dinner.
In first grade I made my first friend who wasn’t Southern Baptist. His name was Sam. He was Jewish. He wasn’t much different from everyone else, especially since his mother made overcooked broccoli too.
I knew how Sam’s mother cooked broccoli because I had him over for dinner once. We had broccoli because it was the only vegetable I would eat without a fuss, and he complained to me about it later.
“It was too crunchy,” he whined. “And it tasted too much like a salad.”
But he had eaten it anyway, which was more than I would have done.
When asked about my religion, I always said Christian because my friends were Christian and my grandmother had a picture of Jesus on the cross in her bedroom. We celebrated Christian holidays: we had presents on Christmas and chocolate rabbits on Easter. I had been to a handful of different churches with friends. I knew Christian kids’ songs. So through my childish logic, I was Christian, even if I thought God was the fairy godmother.
At some point I thought to ask questions. I asked my mother, “Why don’t we go to church like everyone else?”
We must have been driving somewhere, because I remember her suddenly becoming fixated with fiddling with something on the dashboard.
“Oh, well,” she answered vaguely. “Your father and I don’t really believe in those things. Did you remember a jacket?”
My father also claimed he didn’t believe in garlic salt or Windows brand computers, which obviously both existed, so I wasn’t sure what this answer meant. But I told her yes, I had my navy jacket tied around my waist, but did she really think I would need it?
But aside from the church thing, we did Christian things, so we must have been Christian. I told my friend Madeline as much when she accused me of being a fake Christian.
“You don’t even know the Christian song!” she yelled back.
“I know other songs!” I said back. “Like– like the one about Noah and his ark!”
“You don’t ever go to church,” she said.
“I’ve been with you to your church tons of times,” I snapped back. In reality, it was probably only three or four times, but I felt religion was something you had to defend strongly.
I left then, even though we were at my house. I went into the living room and pouted on the couch for a while, and Madeline eventually came out of my room and said she was hungry. We had crackers sitting on the kitchen floor and didn’t talk about church or Christianity for the rest of the day.
I don’t know what made me think of that conversation again, but one day I went to my mother and asked her what made someone a True Christian.
“Believing in Jesus,” she said right away.
“What about God?” I asked.
“They’re the same,” she said.
“I thought Jesus was the son of God,” I said.
“God is three people,” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
The following Sunday my mother took me to church with one of her coworkers. She said she wanted me to go to a Catholic church because that was how she’d been brought up, but Miss Jamie was Episcopalian, so that would have to do. So I went with Miss Jamie and came home with her and still not understanding.
I told Sam I thought maybe I wasn’t Christian.
“You do Christmas,” he said.
“But I don’t understand God and Jesus,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Neither do I.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re not Christian. We Christians need to get this.”
“So you’re Christian?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “That’s what everyone who’s not something else is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
I asked Madeline if she knew why God and Jesus were the same. She said, “God comes in three parts. Like an Oreo.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I told you you weren’t a true Christian,” she said.
One night when we had broccoli for dinner again, I asked my parents if we were Christian.
“Is this about church again?” My mother asked.
“Kind of,” I said back, pushing the broccoli around on my plate. “We’re not Jewish like Sam, and we’re not Muslim or Hindu like we learned about in Social Studies, so we have to be Christian, but we don’t go to church.”
“You don’t have to go to church to be Christian,” my father supplied. “Your grandma never goes to church, and she’s very religious.” My mother nodded in agreement.
“Because she has a picture of Jesus on the cross on the wall?” I asked.
“No,” said my father, “because she believes in Jesus and what he died for.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?” I asked. My parents exchanged glances and we quiet for a long time.
“No,” my mother said finally.
“Then we do we have Christmas?” I asked.
“You like Christmas,” my mother said.
“But why do we have it?” I persisted.
“Why do we have Thanksgiving?” my father countered.
“Because we’re thankful for what we have,” I said the way I said every Thanksgiving dinner.
“That’s why,” he said, and we went back to eating as was normal.
At night I wondered, Do I believe in Jesus?
And I had to say I didn’t, because Jesus was God and God was the fairy godmother and the fairy godmother isn’t real.
This thought frightened me. All my friends and their overcooked broccoli believed in something, Christian or Jewish or anything else. I did Christian things, but I wasn’t Christian. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in God and it felt as if I couldn’t bring myself to believe in gravity.
“You have no faith,” something in the back of my mind said. I pushed it away, and I spent years pretending I wasn’t completely godless because I wanted something to believe in.
In fifth grade, we had an exercise where everyone sat in a circle and we said what we believe in. I don’t remember the point of this, probably something about how beliefs shape us or how we are all different. Most people said God or Jesus. One person said Santa Claus as a joke, and we all laughed.
I almost said I believed in God, but I didn’t want to lie.
“I believe in the universe!” I announced proudly. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I meant by this, but no one questioned it. The teacher just nodded and turned to the next person. This excited me, because that must have meant this was an acceptable thing to believe in. The universe was real, and I could believe it would go on without believing in God.
Madeline believed in God and Jesus, Sam believed in God without Jesus, and I believed in the universe. We were friends, we liked the same games, we all believed in something. After all, broccoli is broccoli, no matter how you cook it.
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