I don’t know why I’m even trying. I swore so long ago that I wouldn’t speak to You ever again and I haven’t, until now. The Absent Moral Authority, You abandoned me so many times, when I was taught that You were there to protect me, watch over me. Saviour. The first time I needed someone, after begging the physical individuals in my life to see me, I turned to the one that I was told would always be there. But, I was left to deal on my own. I prayed then for a Saviour, begged for help and You sent me further assault on my body and no hope of help to escape. I was five.
I hear from everyone that You are still there, that You still believe in me even if I don’t believe in You. I have no evidence of that. I could have believed, after; I wanted to, and I tried but where were You when I was seven with a razor to my throat? When I was twelve and lost? When I was fourteen and desperately needed an intervention? Where were You then? There is blame, a tonne of it and I’m not sorry one bit. I Believed in You, and Trusted that You would be that Protector, and You let me down.
Parts of me still hold to the childhood brainwashing I received in the name of my eternal soul. That’s why I’m making a last-ditch effort. After all, kids suffer worse and survive, right? Every day, people suffer worse fates, and I’m alive, so be grateful, Believe in Me. I’m always here. But this is where I’m having an issue. When I was dying, trapped like a rat in a maze and willing to provoke the final battle so that it would finally be over, I trusted in You to be my voice. To Save me, after I’ve spent so many years trying to save myself, and I have the scars to prove it.
Where were You when I lay sweating on that stinking bare mattress in the spare room, broken inside from fists and coughing and fever sick from days of effort just to breathe? Where were you when I had to crawl on bruised knees and broken bones through my own blood and vomit to the bathroom? Where were your miracles when I sat for what seemed like hours, crying silent tears because it hurt to piss? I could have screamed but that would have meant worse. Where were you when the barrel of that pretty little .44 was shoved into my mouth, breaking my teeth and the gun cocked while I begged for my life? I prayed. Nothing. You weren’t there. I was. I needed You and I was alone, as usual.
So why am I here on my knees praying when I swore it would never happen again? Because I have nothing left to believe in. It’s hard to hold faith in someone whose only real action is to prove that company line is to take none. Years have gone by since l last tried, and there’s always only one course of action that remains when there is nothing left; I’m not ready to entertain that option, yet. I even pleaded profusely, offering a sacrifice to Cthulhu and then to Gingersnap the Soul Eater, but I was refused in both cases, indulgently. Perhaps it’s because I no longer have a soul.
I’ve asked in jest, and then in seriousness, for help, for a life-preserver, anything to save me from drowning. No one cares enough to pull their eyes away from their own reflection. Once I was sure that Angel’s existed; I no longer believe in angels but I’m sure that the Devil is real and His name is Technology. Further proof that You aren’t there and Heaven is some kind of Celestial Prank.
Fact is, that I’m in bad shape, and it’s no lie. This time I’m broken in a new way and my breath rattles in my lungs quite like a watery maracas. It’s no excuse for my actions, and I know that I will pay for it in one way or another. Such is the order of things. My Faith in You still exists. It’s nothing more than this tiny glow of light but it lives, but this is the last time that I will ask You to help me. To forgive me.
I didn’t mean to do it. I couldn’t swallow the swill of lies and insults anymore and instead of swallowing the gall in my mouth and walking away,like I normally do, it exploded from the crowbar I was using to open the new barrel in the garage. His voice was a buzzing in my ears, he was screaming at me so loudly and I turned and rammed the flat end of it into his throat. I just wanted him to stop shouting, and after, when the blood was spraying all over my face and hand, I stood over him and watched him jitterbug. His hands kept fluttering at his neck like red and white butterflies. He bled out on his spotless garage floor, and the delicate butterflies? They stopped flying about five minutes ago.
He was complicit in his demise, made his bed so to speak. The barrel was empty, thankfully, and made a handy storage place. But now, I’m afraid. Please, I need Your help. I’m scared and I need Your Guidance.