A Torrid Affair With the Rain

I am mesmerised by the adventurous tales of Bilbo Baggins as I become insidiously distracted by the soft, gentle pitter-patters on my living room window.  I amble my way onto the outside porch, soaking in the calmness of the pitter-patters on my face and its bittersweet smell, the trees all around me.  That pure, smell of spring, the rain illumining the green grass and the leaves.

Why are the heavens crying?  Perhaps the angels are weeping over sinful humanity, the sorrow too heavy in their eyes as they watch us.  Tales of murder on endless scales — children its victim, and innocent women.  War breaking out one after another, taking more innocent lives with it — just legalised murder.  Poverty all over the world, and rich men who care not for such poor souls.  Pestilence breaking out in the poor, dry countries of Africa.  They could use some rain; they could use some healing.  It’s no wonder the floodgates of the angels’ eyes have burst open upon the earth.

Water, one of God’s many created paradoxes.  The pitter-patters are so gentle as they fall upon my face.  So gentle, and so nourishing as the substance of life.  Yet it is destructive.  Water has piled upon cities in tsunamis, floods, and hurricanes, annihilating peoples’ homes and leaving them in poverty, and taking innocent lives.  But then it calms, floating there on the earth’s surface so gentle and calm, everything still and the people bemused.

Tears roll down my cheeks.  Or is that the rain?  I cannot tell.  Soaked in the bittersweet rain, I begin to shiver.  O rain, your soft pitter-patters are so soft and welcoming.  Why do you have to be so condescending?  I slouch in the wet grass, desiring the floodgates of Heaven to open up and pour its grace upon the earth, for the dull clouds of Satan cover it.

But who am I to offer such a request?  I’m only a narrow fellow in the tall grass having a torrid affair with the rain.

The Outsider

What is it about silence that makes people so uncomfortable?  He wonders this every time he talks to someone.  Someone introduces him or herself, and he does the same, nothing further.  And so they sit there in awkwardness with the expectations of him continuing the conversation when he has no desire to do so.  Why they expect something against his nature bemuses him.  He prefers to be silent, and being sociable is pushed upon him.  When they get annoyed with his silence they make alienating small talk, or they tell an anecdote that he couldn't give two shits about.

Silence is a disrespected phenomenon that beholds the capacity to speak powerful volumes.  But such given chances are sparse.  A friend with whom conversation is easy — that is perfectly acceptable to him.  Even the same with a girlfriend would suffice, but a past girlfriend once dumped him for being a "terrible conversationalist."  Intelligent and meaningful conversation with her would be an anomaly anyway.

And so he spends his days in relaxing solitude.  He has grown so accustomed to being alone that he swears solitary confinement could never puncture his sanity.  Not even the solitude of Jack Nicholson's "The Shining" could scratch the surface of his sanity; that is, omitting the extremely peculiar wife and son in the film.

Loneliness is no longer a stranger to him; it is more of an invited familiarity.  And so when associated with people, he is an outsider.  At times he's not bothered by it, other times he is, desiring close relationships with people, unable to recall any sincere close bond with anyone other than family.  He agrees it is his fault, but it is his nature by his own doing.  He is his own creation...  Reminiscing to his adolescence he remembers always being ignored and interrupted by peers whenever in conversation, and so he concocted:  If no one ever pays attention to me, why bother talking at all?  And he thus conditioned himself to isolation, sparsely engaging in conversation unless someone sincerely desires to listen.

Everybody wants to talk, but no one wants to listen.

A pilgrim in the realm of social conversation, he is the outsider.

Dirty Eyes

Lisa never in her lifetime felt comfortable, or safe, walking alone.  Sometimes she thought she was paranoid, whether on a mentally ill scale or if she was just being overly cautious.  Ever since her father's physical abuse as a child, she has always been afraid of any man harming her.  She couldn't even let one guy remotely touch her.  She couldn't trust one man, which was why she has never gone on a single date in her adolescence.  She can trust him as a student, or a colleague, but nothing more than a mere acquaintance.  And now here she is on the University of Michigan campus, still a virgin of dating, and a virgin overall.  It didn't bother her much; she had much more important things to focus on than the fictions of flimsy romance.  She was in medical school at one of the top universities in Michigan, and her grades were flawless.  Everything in her life was perfect, minus the loneliness aspect of it.

With an immense interest in psychology, she has often observed the male libido.  With what she's observed, she has come to have absolutely no sexual desire for men.  She has actually decided to become celibate, but not on any religious background.  She wasn't lesbian, either; she just had no interest in sex whatsoever.  The question of God is another mystery in itself than the mystery of man's overly active libido.  She often wonders if she would still think this way if her father hadn't abused her as a child.  That's another mystery to solve...

She finds it rather intriguing how physical men tend to be — physically, sexually, and emotionally.  She remembers learning of Sigmund Freud's theory of the psychodynamic self, where the libido often serves as the attempt to avoid physical and/or psychological pain — as we move away from pain, we're moving towards pleasure.  But what sort of psychological pain are these sex craved animals attempting to move away from?  Rejection, maybe?  That's what Lisa couldn't figure out.  From what she's seen, and experienced, men will do whatever it takes to get laid.  First, they'll manipulate kindness and care to ultimately manipulate the unstable emotions of women.  If a woman's disinterest causes them to fail, they'll then turn to another source — alcohol, which more often than not leads to rape, or at least nonconsensual sex, as one cannot give full consent when intoxicated; that's her virtue.  If it were up to Lisa, she'd theorise that men function by the id alone, where the libido lies, and have no superego to determine right from wrong, good from bad, and just from unjust; as well as no ego — a complete lack of controlling their self — no rational thinking involved.  She has looked in many eyes of men, and they're all the same.  Most of them don't have compassion, but a sexual lust.  Their eyes are filthy with dirty lust.  She's surprised that their asinine sex addiction hasn't led most of them to insanity.  Well, she supposes that serial rapists and serial sadists would be that culprit.

Lisa decided to move on from her active mind and psychological theorising.  It's two in the morning and she has her final exam tomorrow in phlebotomy at nine.  She closed her textbook and the profound depths of her thinking habits and went to sleep.


As Lisa was walking to her phlebotomy exam, she couldn't help but feel as if she were being watched, as usual.  Maybe she was, or maybe that was just her paranoia talking again.  She felt someone grab her shoulder and she jumped slightly with a brief yelp.

"Sheesh, calm down, would ya'?"  It was Maria.

"Oh, hey Maria," Lisa said.  "You startled me."

"Yeah, I can tell.  What's up?"

"I'm just heading up to my phlebotomy exam," she answered matter-of-factly.

"No, I mean, what's up?  Something must be on your mind to cause you to startle like that."

"No, it's nothing," Lisa said impatiently.  It was the beginning of December, and in Michigan it is extremely frigid weather this time of year.  "I need to get to class.  We'll talk later."

"All right," Maria said skeptically, possibly catching her bluff.  "Call me when you're finished.  We'll talk if you want."

Lisa departed from Maria's presence.  She likes Maria, just not when she sneaks up on her like that, or anyone else for that matter.  They've been friends since sophomore year of high school, and she learnt a lot about Maria in those years.  Maria is Puerto Rican, and she's originally from Detroit.  Maria used to have intense anxiety problems because of a near rape incident when she lived in Detroit.  Without warning, a man pulled her into an alley and instantly started pulling her clothes off, trying to rape her.  Maria, being the exuberant, feisty Puerto Rican woman she is like the rest of the women in her family, fought the man off, kicking him in his cash and prizes and poking his eyes.  She got away, but in spite of her escape it was a traumatising experience for her.  Lisa respected Maria a lot because of her strength, and it is that deference that enables Lisa to easily trust her with anything.  There's just no time to talk about what was on her mind right before her phlebotomy final exam.  If she keeps up this sociality, she'll end up being an isolated workaholic in her later adult years.


Lisa headed over to Panda Express on campus after her exam.  She felt very confident about it; she believes she easily aced it.  It's only phlebotomy, after all.  As she sat eating her delectable Chinese food, she again couldn't help but feel as if she were being watched.  Maybe it was Maria again.  She turned around, but she wasn't there.  Maybe I should call her like she requested, she thought to herself.  She took out her iPhone and dialed her number.

The phone rang three times and Maria answered, "¡Hola!"

"Hey, Maria, it's Lisa.  I'm over at Panda Express in case you still wanna' listen to my paranoia."

"Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."  There was a click as Maria hung up.

Lisa didn't know how she was going to bring up what she was feeling.  She had to be honest with herself; she didn't know what she was feeling.  She was paranoid, but about what, exactly?  As she thought about it she realised that she's afraid someone will come out and attack her in some way.  But why?  Why does she feel this way?  Is it because of her past with her abusive father?  Or is it some intuitive sixth sense that is believed to be possessed by women?  "The woman's instinct," they call it. It's most likely the former.

As she continued to ruminate upon it, Maria arrived.  Ten minutes on the dot just like she said.  Being compulsively punctual, Maria sat down and just looked at Lisa, not saying a word.

Lisa decided to speak first.  "Are you having a seizure or are you gonna' say something?"

"I figured you should be the first to speak since you're the one with a problem."

"Okay, Aristotle," Lisa said sarcastically.  So Lisa laid down the very basics for her.  Her paranoid feelings of being attacked, and her theories as to why.

"I'm no psychologist," Maria said, "but it seems that you're still deeply troubled by the past with your dad."

"But I'm over it." Lisa denied.

"Have you forgiven him?" Maria asked.

"What?"

"Have you forgiven him?"

How could she?  How could she forgive a man capable of such evil?  She remembers the very look in his dirty eyes — the look of pure evil.  She could never forget his dirty eyes, let alone forgive him.

"No," she finally answered.  "How could I ever forgive a man like that?"

"I can get spiritual and say because Jesus says so and makes you capable of forgiving others.  Or I can be rational and say that if you don't forgive him and get over it, you'll constantly be haunted by this paranoia as an end result of his abuse."

"But how do I forgive him, Maria?  His eyes — those dirty eyes — are embedded into my skull.  How can I just forgive and forget?"

Maria leaned back into her chair.  "Sounds like you need to see a pastor for that one."

Lisa sighed.  No matter how hard she tries, God is always brought up in some way, especially with Maria.  If that constantly happens, then He must exist, but she once again pushed that mystery aside for another day.

"Maybe I do have to go see a reverend," Lisa said after a moment of silence.  "Thanks, Maria.  I'l figure out what to do."

Maria smiled.  "All right, sista'.  If you need anything, call me."  She got up and left the restaurant.  Always the busy body.

Lisa sat back in her chair.  She wasn't hungry anymore.  Would she go talk to a reverend?  Would it even help?  She didn't even know where to start looking.  Neither did she know whether to doubt or to believe.  If she's never tried before, why should she doubt?  She couldn't decide right now...  As her feeling of paranoia came back again she decided to throw her food away and go back to her dorm.

As Lisa walked to her car, just as her paranoia was at its climax, she blacked out.


She woke up completely naked on a mattress that was in a dark, cold room, and she couldn't move.  At first she thought she was drugged and paralysed, but then she realised that ropes tied her down.  The ropes were tied tightly around her knees, wrists, neck, and to make her even more uncomfortable there was a gag ball in her mouth.  Just what the hell was going on? she wondered.  Am I dreaming?  I better be dreaming.  This can't be real.  This can't be happening to me!

But what was happening to her?  Was this some sort of sadistic, satanic, sick joke?  Or was it the worst of her fears?  That her fears have finally caught up to her?  She decided to calm down a bit so that she could rationalise better.  Her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and she could make out a few objects.  Directly in front of her on the other end of the room was a door, the only door in the room.  And worst of all, to her right, was a table with... tools on it.  Now she was really freaking out.  Was this guy some sort of sick cannibal?

As her thoughts rested on that sickening nightmare the door opened, and a dark figure entered the room.  He was tall, white, wearing all black clothes.  He was handsome, but that didn't matter to Lisa.    She didn't want to be here, not even with him.

"Well hello, beautiful," the man said in a creepy voice.

Who the hell are you! Lisa tried to yell into the gag ball, but it was useless.

The man laughed.  "Why do you always try to yell something at me when you're well aware of a gag ball in your mouth?  You're all so stupid.  You stupid women."  Great, now he was a creepy misogynist.  But she hated men, so how was she any different?

Lisa started to try to free herself from the ropes, panicking.

"Ah, don't struggle now," the creepy man said.  "Don't want you to get rope burn.  It'll ruin your nice, beautiful skin."  As he said that he kneeled down over her and brushed his hand up her thigh and onto her breasts.  She had never felt so violated in her life, not even when her father physically abused her.

The man stopped fondling her, looked into her eyes, and smiled.  It was such a crooked, evil smile.  She felt like she was looking into the eyes of the Devil himself.  "Let's have some fun, shall we?"

The man walked over to the table and picked up some knives, carving small heart shapes into her left thigh.

As she screamed into the gag ball the man said, "Do you know why I'm carving these stupid symbols into your beautiful skin?  Because love doesn't exist.  You know that, don't you?  I've been watching you for several months now.  You have no love life.  Hell, you practically have no social life."  He continued carving into her as he continued to talk.  "You have no man in your life, not even any male friends.  I've heard how you talk about us men.  And why are you so judgemental?  Are we just not good enough for you?  Or are you just some stupid lesbian feminist?"  He briefly stopped and looked into her eyes, then started carving again.  "No, that's definitely not it.  Men are just never good enough for beauties of your kind.  We men are just not good enough for you, are we?  Well guess again, lady!"

After all this time, her paranoia was right!  Maybe it wasn't paranoia after all.  Perhaps it really was that intuitive sixth sense that women supposedly have.  She should've been more attentive, but she still doesn't deserve this fate.

He finally stopped carving into her thighs.  Lisa had never seen so much blood in her life.  Just as if it couldn't get any worse, the man took his clothes off, got on top of her, and inserted himself inside her.  While the man raped her, whenever she struggled to get him off her, he would punch her numerous times, even get up and kick her several times and just get back down again.  During the whole incursion of her body, she couldn't help but look into his eyes, and they were so dirty.  They were the most evil, emotionless eyes she had ever seen, and after what seemed like hours, he finally climaxed and put his clothes back on.

Lisa lay on the mattress, bleeding from all the carvings and the man's penetration, beaten to a bloody pulp.  The man's back faced her as he said, "You can't expect me to let you go, Lisa.  You've seen my gorgeous face.  You'll go to the cops and give them a description of my face to an artist."  Lisa was too exhausted and in too much pain to even try and "reason" with him with the gag ball in her mouth.

He turned around and looked at her.  "You're not dead already, are you?  That would ruin the fun for me."  He walked over to her and examined her.  "No, you're still alive.  But we'll take care of that."

And with that, he beat her more and more than he had during the rape and one he was satisfied with her, he left her.


Lisa woke up.  Her entire body was numb, and she felt so much pain.  It was hard to breathe.  She could barely see.  What had she done to deserve this?  Why, God? she asked in her mind.  Why?  Why do You allow these things to happen to good people like me?  She continued to lie there, waiting to die.  Why couldn't she just die already?  She wanted to die so much.  Her innocence and dignity were stolen.  Her virginity... brutally stolen from her.  Kill me now, God, she pleaded.  Just do it already.  But nothing happened.  Big surprise there, she thought.  You're really good at doing nothing.  With that last thought she slipped back into darkness.


Lisa woke up once more and all she saw was light.  At first she thought she was dead and in Heaven, but the she knew better because she never believed in God.  Then she soon realised she was staring at a ceiling.  Her pain wasn't as bad as it was before and she could see better than before.

"Lisa!" she heard someone call her name.  She recognised the voice.  She wasn't surprised to hear Maria's voice.  They were like sisters, after all.

She soon saw Maria's pretty brown face lean over into hers, tears swelling up in her eyes.  She put her hand on the top of Lisa's head.  "You're okay now, sweetie," Maria assured her.  "You're in the hospital now.  You're safe."

Lisa somehow managed to muster some words, "No I'm not.  He's still out there."

"No, Lisa, he's not.  He's dead.  The police found him.  They caught him in the act.  Suicide by cop."

Lisa was confused.  "Was this after —"

"No," Maria interrupted.  "This was not after your... raping.  You've been out for three days.  He was killed yesterday."

Lisa couldn't believe it, but she was glad to hear it.  But she was confused and had to get this question out.  "How was I found?  Who found me?"

"It's an amazing story.  You were in the basement of the library.  Two days ago there was a tornado warning and we all had to go into the basement of the buildings we were in, or a nearby shelter if there was no basement."

"Did you find me?" Lisa asked weakly.

"No.  As you know, I'm a music major and I spend all my time at the department of music."

"Then who found me?"

"A boy."  Maria sounded excited.

"A boy?"  Lisa was astonished.  How ironic.  Out of all the people to find her in the condition she was in, it had to be a man.

"Not like a little kid, if that's what you're thinking.  Get this:  This guy is a theology major, and he was studying the prophecies of Isaiah, I think, in the library when the tornado warning came.  But he doesn't even go to U of M, being a theology major and all.  He goes to Concordia down on Geddes Road and he was just here visiting a friend and decided to continue some studying!  Anyway, when the tornado warning came, he and the others in the library went down to the basement and he found you in a remote area of the basement.  Others soon surrounded him and were pointing at your body and stuff and he yelled at them in serious frustration to back off as he called the police.  He wrapped you up in his winter coat and carried you out of the basement and got you to the ambulance!"  There was a long silence.  "Lisa, this religious guy was at the library for a reason!  And if that tornado hadn't happened, then he never would have found you and you would be dead!  And Lisa, the way he handled the situation and yelled at everyone, he was so heroic!"

Lisa couldn't believe it.  She was raped, mutilated, and tortured.  After all that, God spared her?  Why had He allowed all that to happen to her just to spare her life out of the most smallest mathematical probabilities of coincidence?

"What's his name?" Lisa finally managed to ask.

"Noah." Maria had a huge smile on her face.

Lisa's eyes widened.  "Noah?"  When she raised her voice with his name she coughed a little from pain.  "Are you serious?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah!"  Maria still had that goofy smile on her face.

Lisa started to cry.  "Do you know where I can find him?  I'd like to see him when I get out of here."

Maria looked surprised.  "Wow, he said  you'd say something like that and for me to tell you that you can always find him at the chapel at Concordia University and that if he's not there, someone at the chapel can give you his contact information."

"Wait, you met him?"

"He's been in this hospital at your bedside praying over you ever since he found you.  He left two hours ago for an exam."

Lisa still couldn't believe it.  She had never met this guy, and already she was in love with him, and a Jesus freak, nonetheless.  She laughed at herself.  What was happening to her?  Here she was questioning God's existence and authority, and now she's in love with one of His servants whom she's never even met nor seen.  Even though she's a woman, she's never been this sentimental before.  She's never even loved another man before either.


A week and a half later, Lisa was discharged from the U of M hospital.  Maria had brought some of her clothes by as well as her belongings that were left where she was found.  She began her search for this guy named Noah who saved her life.  The only problem was that she had no idea where Concordia University was, let alone its chapel.  She had never even heard of Concordia until a week and a half ago.  So she Googled the university on her iPhone, and it turned out to be very near the hospital — about ten or fifteen minutes away.  She drove to Concordia and asked around for where the chapel was.  She didn't even know what he looked like.  She stopped ten paces in front of him, and he looked up.  He was a very handsome, dark-skinned guy.  If Lisa had to guess, she'd guess that he was mixed.

As he realised who this beautiful woman was, he stood up and said, "Lisa," as a few tears came into his eyes.  "I never stopped praying for you."

"You're Noah?" she asked.

"Yes.  Noah Chase."

Lisa walked closer to him.  "You saved my life...  I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to," he said very humbly.  "I know I have your gratitude...  It was no coincidence, Lisa."

"Yeah, Maria had already explained that to me.  But... why?  Why did God spare me, an atheist?"

"God didn't 'spare' you, Lisa."

"I don't understand."  None of this was making any sense to her.  If He didn't spare her, was he just playing games with a girl's feelings?

"When you spare somebody's life, their life is completely in somebody else's hands and it's that person's mercy that spares them.  However, you never pleaded to anyone.  Not to this man, and not even to God because You blamed God, didn't you?"  Lisa didn't respond.  "I thought so.  Look, God was not deciding on whether He should let you live or die; He decided that from the moment you were born."

"What?"  Now she was really confused.  "What do you mean?"

"Consider what God said to Jeremiah in the first chapter.  He said, 'I chose you before I formed you in the womb; I set you apart before you were born.'  He knows you, Lisa, because He created you.  And since He created you, He has plan for you because He loves you."

"If He has such a glorious plan for me, why did He give me a father who physically abused me and why did he let a guy rape and mutilate me?"

"The 'whys' to those questions may never be known, but understand this:  God can easily turn our bad into good.  In the book of Romans, Paul said that 'we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God: those who are called according to His purpose.'  And if you love God, Lisa, I guarantee that you will see all that to be so true!  It doesn't seem that way right now because you haven't accepted Christ.  But Lisa, once you accept and give your life to Jesus Christ, your life will take a complete one hundred and eighty-degree turn!"

Lisa couldn't believe what she was hearing.  She never once imagined the possibility of God turning her bad into good.  It just doesn't seem possible, but that's why He's God, right?  At least that's what they say.  She could forgive her father, and forget anything bad had ever happened to her from her childhood all the way to the raping.

"But how do I forgive and forget?" Lisa asked.  "I don't think I'm capable of such a feat."

"We're human, Lisa.  We can't forgive and forget; we are incapable of both those feats.  Only God is capable of forgiving and forgetting the sin.  We, on the other hand, are only capable of forgiving.  Because we are finite human beings, we remember, but because of the forgiveness we give others, the remembrance of the event no longer brings with it a deep sorrow and pain.  Rather, through forgiveness, when we remember something horrible done to us, it reminds us of the strength we have received through Jesus Christ.  All of this is possible through Him only."

Lisa could not believe her ears.  As an atheist, she felt very foolish.  Because she understood material matters she thought she knew everything, but she was never even close.  She thought she understood God, but she was far from understanding Him.  A God so vast cannot be fully understood, but through knowing Him on a personal level you can understand all that you need to as He reveals them to you.

"How do I accept Jesus?" she finally managed to ask.

Noah's face just lit up at that question.  She had never seen anyone work and talk so passionately about something they love, not even at the hospital, least of all a man being so sincerely and beautifully emotional.  Maybe all guys really aren't the same after all.

"Kneel before the altar with me," Noah said.

She stood beside him as they turned and faced the altar and kneeled before it.  Lisa already began to feel a strange, yet peaceful and warm presence within her.

"Do you mind if I hold your hand, Lisa?" Noah unexpectedly asked.

"No, go ahead."  She grabbed his hand first, blushing, and prayed this prayer with Noah:  "Father, my Lord, I come before You in repentance and forgiveness.  I kneel before You today opening the door of my heart to Jesus Christ.  I confess with my mouth that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Saviour and I believe that He died for my sins and rose from the dead.  Lord, I give my father's transgressions against me, and I forgive the man who raped me.  And now, Father, I ask you to forgive me of my own sins.  I put my trust completely in You."

"Now, Lisa," Noah had continued, "if you feel you must add anything, feel free."

"Okay."  Lisa stayed silent for a moment.  "God, I am so sorry for my ignorance, and my arrogance, and my grudges.  I have been so selfish.  I've been so focused on myself and my past and blamed You for everything that I had never thought it possible that You could make all that pain go away, for I never wanted to believe that You could do such a thing.  I wanted to do everything through my own power.  But I am weak, Lord.  I need Your strength to put a blanket over the past and to live my life in Your name — free from sorrow and fear.  I put my full trust in You, Lord.  In Jesus' name I pray.  Amen."

At that very moment, Lisa felt impossibly relieved.  She really did forgive her father, after all these years, and after only almost two weeks, she forgave the stranger who raped her.  She attained her salvation in Jesus Christ, and she started to attend Sunday services and Bible study classes with Noah at his home church in Plymouth.  After living a life of dismay, she now began living a life of peace for the very first time.


As the years passed, Lisa changed her educational focus from medical school to a Family Life degree as a church worker.  Lisa transferred to Concordia University and finished her college majors there.  Meanwhile, Noah and Lisa fell in love and they got married and had two sons, Abraham and Jeremiah, and a daughter, Ruth.  They both went to graduate school together, Noah receiving his master's in theology and Lisa receiving hers in spiritual counseling.  Noah and Lisa both serve God as missionaries around the world, Noah the leader of the missions teams and Lisa a spiritual counselor for women who have been raped or otherwise abused.

The Raven

I stare out between the bars, the chains chafing my wrists, praying — desiring — to be as free as the raven.  She glides through the air so elegantly.  I remember freedom as if it were yesterday.  Everything was going just right.  The next thing I know I'm in this unknown place, everything lost, including myself.  We're not treated with humanity here.  I'm not sure if they know what humanity is. Everything is so unfamiliar to us, coerced to do an over abundance of labour, bleeding in our perspiration.

One of the white devils caught me in my trance, sending blood to pour down my back.

"Get yer sorry ass back to work, nigger!" he commanded.

I continued to remove seeds from the white fluff of the cotton.  I looked back up as I worked.  She doesn't watch with glory, or hatred, or anything else abhorrent.  She has sorrow in her perch.  She pities our forced labour, and she can't do anything about it.  Or maybe she pities our existence.  Then, as she can't take the sight any longer, she flies away.  I don't blame her.  It's quite ugly down here.

"What the fuck are ya' starin' at?" one of the white devils yelled from behind me.  "Keep workin'!"

Blood continued to trickle down my spine.  Or was it perspiration?  I couldn't tell anymore.  I never understand what these devils are always yelling about or why they're always so angry, or their intentions.  They seem to be from another world.

If it were possible to fly away from this hell, we would have a long time ago.  I would fly like the raven — with elegance and serenity.  Maybe she's gone to get some help...  No, that's wishful thinking.  I wonder if she's coming back, whether or not she has reinforcements.  As I continue to work, I imagine our home — much more beautiful and welcoming than this strange place.  And the birds, how glorious they are.  It must be easy being a bird.


This time of morning is a concise serenity — a partial, calming darkness.  The white devils barge in, yelling at us, shoving us, and whipping us with their flexible tridents.  The air is still this morning, and the ravens are hollering, the moon just barely aglow overhead.  I feel a sharp pain on my head.

"Look forward!" one of the white devils commanded.

I can't understand these creatures and their language, but I assume he doesn't want me observing the ravens.  They don't appreciate nature here.  They don't thrive on life like my people.  They cut and burn their trees.

A white devil suddenly grabs and pulls me aside, forcing me to walk at his quick pace to a strange, secluded area.  One I've never been to before.  It seems we are in a field, a group of white devils standing amidst a tall wooden pole.  The white devils help force me to be tied to this pole as they throw sticky black liquid on my whole body, chicken feathers after it.  They're just standing and staring at me now, as one of the white devils starts moving his arm holding the torch up and down yelling something in a consistent rhythm.  Everyone else joined in.  They're chanting, "Kill the nigger, kill the nigger, kill the nigger..."  This is a strange party, and why am I such an important guest, treated in a very odd, demoralising way?  The white devil steps forward with his torch, the other white devils still changing.  Ah, I see it now.  I understand.  This is how I go.  I tilt my head back, the last thing I see the raven flying overhead, staring down back at me.

This life burns to ashes as I begin to fly with the raven.

Incoming Call

This short story is based off of a dream I had (the same dream the protagonist encounters).  The protagonist's predicament is based off of troubles I went through and certain thought processes as well.  I have a poem titled, "Incoming Call" as well that is based off my dream.


"I was beaten, demeaned, and insulted." I said.

"Richard, you do understand that all of these are encounters of the Devil, don't you?" Mike assured me.

"Yes, but I just can't get these out of my head.  They beat me from racism, mentally and physically, and I just can't seem to get out of this depression.  I'm weak in my faith, and I have been for twelve prolonged years."

"This is a cohesive battle.  It's up to you if you want to triumph or fail."

"I'm trying.  It's just too hard."

Mike took out his Bible.  "I want you to focus on this verse.  It's from Philippians chapter four, verses six through seven, and it says, 'Don't worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which surpasses every thought, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.'  You need to pray to Him, asking Him to give you His strength.  You need to forgive these people and let Him know that, and ask Him to forgive you as well."

"I've never prayed before, Mike."

"Then let's start today.  Will you pray with me?"

I looked up at him.  "...Sure."

"Lord Heavenly Father," he began.  "We come to you today on Richard's behalf.  Father, he is having extreme difficulty dealing with his past.  I pray that You give him the boldness he needs to put these things behind him, to forgive these people, and to come to You for all the help he needs.  Whatever Your will is, Father, we ask in Jesus' name that You put the right people and the right words into Richard's life to nourish him in Your Word.  Amen."

"Amen," I said uncomfortably.  I looked up at Mike, "Thanks, Mike.  You're a true friend."

He smirked.  "Not a problem.  And remember, Philippians four, six through seven."  He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Pray, my friend."

We got up and went to our separate homes.  While I drove home, I prayed to God for the first time in my life.

"God," I began, "I lived my entire childhood being forced to go to church and getting nothing out of it, and I grew up unsure if You actually exist.  I've sought many ways to get help, and nothing's worked.  You're my last resort.  If You truly do exist, God, show me that You are here.  Please...  I beg You...  Amen."


I finally got home and walked to my bedroom.  I looked at the clock.  Damn; it's two in the morning.  I collapsed on my bed and fell asleep.  The next day at school my phone was vibrating in my pocket.  It said:  Jesus.  Confused, I hung up because if I answered, I would have gotten suspended.  Jesus called again once I got home and I hung up because I was doing my homework.  Then God called me, but I didn't answer because I was too tired and wanted some sleep.  A text message woke me up, and it was from God, saying:  I am already here with you.

I woke up to find that this was all a dream.  What was all that?  I walked downstairs and smelled my mom's eggs.

"Hey, mom." I said.

She looked behind her from the stove and smiled.  "Hey, sweetie.  How are you this morning?"

I rubbed my eyes and said, "I'm not sure.  Tired, I guess."

"Hm.  You were out really late last night," she said suspiciously.

"I know, I know.  It's my senior year.  Live it out, eh?"

She giggled.  "Yes, you're right.  So long as you're not living it out in drugs, hm?"

"Mom, you know I'm not stupid enough to go out and do drugs or party and drink all the time."

"I know, Richie.  You know I just worry."

"I know, mom.  Where's dad?"

"He had an early conference at work."

"Oh okay."

She put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and an orange in front of me and I ate her delicious breakfast.  I drove to school after I finished and met up with Mike.

"Mike," I said, "I had a crazy dream last night."

"Really?  What was it about?"  I told him the entire dream and he said, "Richie, that's amazing!  What do you think it means?"

I thought for a bit and said, "He's telling me that I'm searching for Him, but in all the wrong places until now.  He's been trying to contact me, but I've been ignoring Him everywhere I'm at.  I've searched long distances for Him, and He has been so close.  He's right here!  ...How have I been so naïve, Mike?"

"You can blame Satan for that one, not yourself."  I then told him about my prayer last night.  "That's amazing, Richie!  You asked for His help, and now He has made known to you that He indeed does exist!  This is a great step!"

"Yeah, but what do I do now?"

He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder.  "You get better."

Justin, the quarterback on my football team, walked up.  "Hey, Jesus freak," he said, talking to Mike.  "Want to perform a miracle for me?"

"It is not my place, in God's purpose for me, to perform miracles, especially one for selfish interest." Mike replied in his wisdom.

"Man, you really are a freak."

"It's okay, Jesus still loves you." Mike said, smiling.

"Whatever, man."  Justin looked at me.  "Hey, dude, let's go.  Class starts in a bit."

I looked at Mike.  He just gave me that look he always gives me...  That everything will be just fine.  I went to class with Justin.

"Why do you hang out with that dork anyway?" Justin asked me.

"We grew up together.  He's been there for me through thick and thin."

"Maybe, but he believes in some stupid, cosmic genie."

"Justin." I said.

"What?" he asked.

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop harassing him.  He's my best friend."

"C'mon, man!  I'm just having some fun!  Besides, I thought I was your best friend!"

"No, you're making fun.  I never said you were my best friend either.  I may be your best friend, but Mike is my best friend."

"Man, you're awfully weird today.  I'm your friend too though, right?"

"Yes, but nobody harasses you like you do Mike."

"Ha, ha!  Who the hell would!"

I didn't say anything.  I didn't want to argue with the brute right now.


After school was over Mike called me.  "Hey.  I'm at the church right now.  Get over here, if you don't have football practise.  I have something for you."

"Okay, football practise was cancelled for some reason today.  I'll be there in a few."  I hung up and drove over to the church.  When I walked into the sanctuary, I caught him in the middle of a prayer.  He was on his knees in front of the altar.

"So I thank You, Lord.  I was filled with loneliness, angst, and sorrow until You found me.  I was bitter like black coffee and You made me sweet like tea.  I was apathetic, and You gave me compassion.  When I am weak, You make me strong.  I was tired for the longest time, and You opened my eyes.  I was independent of You, and now I depend on You.  Richie reminds me a lot about me.  Do for him what You did for me.  Like him, You called me and I always ignored You, but then my stubbornness ceased for just a moment and I listened to You speak as You altered my mind and heart.  My heart was in pieces, and you put the puzzle together.  Thank You, Lord.  For so long I was blind, and You healed my sight.  In Jesus' name I pray, amen."

"When in the world were you bitter, apathetic, and weak?" I asked  him once he finished.

He stood up.  "Oh, hey, Richie.  I've had my fair share of battles too, you know.  I wasn't born with this faith.  I had to fight for it, just like you are right now.  Nobody is born with steadfast faith.  Everyone has to work at it."

"Yeah.  What did you have for me?"

Always being direct, he said, "Do you want to get saved?"

"...Yes," I answered, "I do.  More than anything right now."

"But are you ready?"

"Yes.  After that dream last night, I want it.  I need it.  I cannot ignore a loving God who clearly exists and wants to know me."

"Good.  Come, and kneel before the altar."

I walked up to the altar and kneeled before it.  I prayed this prayer with Mike:  "Lord Heavenly Father, I come before You in repentance.  I declare Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour and I believe with all my mind and heart that He died for my sins and rose from the dead.  I forgive all those who have done wrong against me, and here I kneel today, asking for Your forgiveness of all my sins.  From this moment on I trust in You, and I thank You for Your Son's sacrifice on the Cross.  Thank You, Father, for my full salvation.  In Jesus' name I pray.  Amen."

I finished the prayer in tears.  I felt so... different.  For the longest time I felt dead, and now I feel alive.  I am saved!

We stood up.  "What's next?" I asked.

"A complete change in your lifestyle." he answered.

"Like what?"

"First, we start with your environment.  Right now, you have a few friends that are dangerous for you to spend a lot of time with."

"Like Justin."

"Exactly."

"So are you telling me to quit football?"

"No, not at all.  God gave you that gift and He has you there for a reason, whatever that may be.  Use it.  You just need to be wise in whom you surround yourself with."

"What do I tell him?"

"The truth.  That his acquaintance will hinder you from your faith in God unless he also chooses to follow Jesus."

"But then he'll begin to make fun of me."

"Why does that matter?  Remember what Jesus said in Matthew chapter five, verses eleven through twelve:  'Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and falsely say every kind of evil against you because of Me.  Be glad and rejoice, because your reward is great in heaven.  For that is how they persecuted the prophets who were before you.' "

"Wow, I never even knew that..." I said, ruminating upon these words of Christ.

"I know.  A very important step is to get baptised whenever you feel that you're ready.  It's entirely up to you.  You have to make that personal decision yourself."

"What exactly is baptism?"

"It's the public acknowledgement of your personal and private identification with Jesus Christ.  You are telling Him in front of everyone, 'I'm submitting myself completely to You.  I'm surrendering myself to You.'  Also through baptism, you are witnessing to the call of God upon your life.  Romans chapter six, verses three through four says:  'Or are you unaware that all of us who were baptised unto Christ Jesus were baptised unto His death?  Therefore we were buried with Him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too may walk in a new way of life.' "

"So, by getting baptised, I become a new person."

"Exactly!  And by this, God will soon show you your service for His church — the body of Christ, and for the world."

"Yes, I want to be baptised."

"Are you sure you want that right now, at this very moment?"

"Yes, Mike, I do.  I am ready to surrender my life to Christ.

Mike had a huge smile on his face.  "That's great!  Just keep that same desire until we have our next baptismal service in a couple weeks."

"...How do you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Keep your composure when people like Justin criticise you.  It doesn't even bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me; I still have feelings, Richie.  But I didn't always react the way I do now.  I began practising showing love instead of anger and hate.  Just as you wouldn't be where you are in football today without a lot of practise, I wouldn't be where I am today with my faith in Christ without a lot of practise.  You can only improve from hereon out."

We went our separate ways home.  I was really excited to get home and tell my parents about what had happened today.  I got home just in time for dinner.

"You got home late," my dad said.  "Where were you?  Were you at school late?"  He's always the suspicious one.

"Mom, dad!" I exclaimed.  "I just got saved!"

They looked up at me with astonishment and utter joy.  My mom began to cry and my dad kept saying how proud he was of me.

"Richard, that's just... a miracle!" my mom exclaimed.  "Who helped you get saved?"

"It was Mike!" I answered.

"We owe Mike our ultimate gratitude," my dad said.

"Yeah, he's such an awesome friend.  I'm getting baptised at the next baptismal service in a couple weeks, too!"

"Oh my gosh!" my mom squeaked, crying even more.

"That's great, son," my dad said, patting me on the back and hugging me.  "God's got an amazing plan for you."


I spent the next three weeks trying to think of what I was going to say to Justin.  I still have nothing.  I just have to wing it.  I pulled him aside during football practise.

"Justin," I said, "I need to talk to you."

"Okay, sure." he said.

"This isn't going to be easy."

"What is it?  Tell me."

I sighed and said, "I don't think we can be friends anymore."

"What!  Why not?"

"I got saved three weeks ago, and —"

"What the hell do you mean?  You almost died?"

"No, no.  Not like that.  I declared Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour, and seeing how you hate Christians, I don't see how we can continue being friends.  I believe in Him and love Him, and I'm getting baptised this Sunday."

"...You're serious?"

"Yes, why would I joke about this?  Justin, a couple weeks ago you told Mike to perform a miracle for you.  Well, here I am.  Your miracle."  There was an awkward silence.

"You know," he said, "we both know that you've been depressed for a very long time, and I've been trying to help you.  These past three weeks, I've noticed that you haven't been the depressed Richie I've always known you to be.  You're different.  You're happy..."

"Yeah, I really am.  Jesus does that."

"Does it really work?" he asked.

I was really surprised by his whole responses.  "Yes, it works!  Just look at me as an example!  I'm a testimony to His great love!  Where therapy and anti-depressants have failed, Jesus Christ prevailed.  It's only been three weeks and my life is much better!"

"...Can I come to your baptism?"

Now I was beyond surprised.  "Of course!"

I called Mike after practise.  "Dude, you will never believe what just happened!"

"What?  Did you finally confront Justin?"

Man, he has good instinct.  I swear Mike has a sixth sense.  "Yes!  Ands he wants to come to my baptismal service!"

"Holy crap!  Are you serious!"

"Yeah, man!"

"Dude, this is amazing!  You are a living testimony to him!  God is already working through you!"

"I know!  This is just too amazing and exciting!  God works so fast!"


At my baptism I stood in the warm water with my pastor, Pastor John.

"Would you like to say a few words, Richard?" Pastor John asked.

"Yes," I said into the microphone in front of the congregation.  "First of all, I'd like to thank Mike.  Mike, ever since we were kids, you have always been there for me.  You've been there through my depression and you never gave up on me.  You introduced me to the Lord, and here I stand today, happy for the very first time in my life, just three weeks after being saved.  I'd also like to thank my parents for always supporting me and praying for me.  Before, I didn't think prayer worked, but now I see that it certainly does.  You see, mom and dad, I would always sneak up to your bedroom when I heard you guys praying, and I heard you praying that I'd somehow find a way to God.  God has answered your prayers.  And in less than twenty-four hours, God has answered the first prayer I've ever said to Him.  Prayer works, and God works."

With that, Pastor John submerged me under the water as I was baptised and filled with the Holy Spirit.  After the service, I witnessed Justin talking to Mike in getting saved.  Justin was in tears as we prayed the sinner's prayer with him, and he got baptised that very same day.

Detroit 1995

These events are based on my life during this time.  Every single event that you read about, from the smallest to the largest of them, actually happened, including randomly finding a Power Rangers wallet in my desk that I thought was awesome, hahaha.  I used that wallet for a long time.  The chronology of these events are probably not accurate, but I remember each of these events very vividly.  Also, the characters Lydia and Mr. Atkinson are not their real names; I can't remember what their names actually were.  So I took what I remembered about this experience and compiled them all into this short story.


People think depression is only a result of bullying — of name-calling and feelings of neglect.  Oh no, it is far more intense than bullying and neglect.  For me, it was being beaten to a bloody pulp at five years of age on my way home from school every day.  Why?  Because I was a nigger.  Well, technically half a nigger, being biracial and all.  The life of a nigger was arduous, and even more so if you were half and half.  You struggled to survive.  I didn't really understand it five years into life.  I didn't know what a nigger was; all I knew was that it hurt.  I didn't really understand why blood streamed from my nose every day either.


"Have a good day at school, sweetie!" my mom wished as she finished packing my lunch.  I grabbed my lunchbox as I walked to school with my older brother, Danny.

Danny walked me to my kindergarten class.

The teacher came up to me.  "What's your name?"

"Ricky," I said bashfully.

She walked me over to a desk and sat me down.  I put my hands inside the desk, felt something, and pulled out the coolest Power Rangers wallet I had ever seen.  I put it in my backpack.  Finder's keepers.

"Hi!  What's your name?" I heard a voice say next to me.

I looked over to my right and there was a beautiful, light-skinned Puerto Rican girl.  "Ricky," I said bashfully once again.

"My name's Lydia!" she said as she kissed my cheek.

I blushed.

"Hey!  No kissing!" the teacher yelled from across the classroom.  "I am Mrs. Smith," she announced with authority to us all.  "You will all call me Mrs. Smith.  Not Ms. Smith — Mrs. Smith."

Lydia was my only friend.  She always shared her Doritos and Cheetos during lunch, as well as sneaking some during class.  We held hands whenever we sat at our desks and walked together.  Is it possible to fall in love at 5-years-old?


The next day of school we were all sitting in a circle, waiting to do an activity.  Lydia sat next to me and kissed my cheek as she always does.

"Lydia," Mrs. Smith exclaimed, "the next time you kiss Ricky, I'm sending you to the principal's office!"  That didn't really stop Lydia from kissing my cheek in the future.  She was just more discreet about it.

Mrs. Smith had some posters with bold-coloured letters on them.  We've been working on the alphabet lately.  "When I ask you what each letter stands for, I want you to raise your hand and whoever I call on, you tell me a word that begins with that letter."

We went through the alphabet.  I didn't really participate, but when we got to Z I exclaimed, "Zipper!"

"No, you idiot!"  Mrs. Smith snapped at me.  She turned the poster over and said, "Zebra!"  And sure enough there was a zebra.  I was befuddled with her frustration.  How was I supposed to know that there was a zebra on the back of the poster?

School ended a little later and as I walked out of my classroom somebody pushed me, causing me to fall to the ground.  "Get out of my way, nigger!" a tall white kid yelled at me.  I don't know why he pushed me.

Danny and I started walking home.  We were about a quarter of the way there when I got punched on the left side of my nose, blood spraying out of my nose as I stumbled.  I looked over, my eyes drowning in tears.  It was that same white kid.  He pushed me on the ground as dirt, sticks, and leaves filled my mouth.  I turned and watched as Danny punched the kid square in the face, scaring him away.  Danny helped me up.  Tears were in his eyes.

"C'mon, Ricky.  Let's get you home," Danny said as he helped me up and helped me walk home.

We got home and I saw the sorrow and worry in my mother's eyes as soon as she saw the dry blood on my face and shirt.

"What happened?" she asked Danny.

"Some kid punched Ricky, Momma!" he answered.

Momma took me to the bathroom, took my shirt off, and washed the blood off my face.


This certain event continued for several months.  I'd go to school, Mrs. Smith would demean my intelligence (or lack thereof, I don't know), and I'd go home getting punched, repeatedly being called "nigger" and other racial slurs throughout the entire day.  Although I would have tears in my eyes, not once would I actually weep.  Lydia made each day a little better with her sweet little kisses.  She made everything bad go away.

The last time this happened, the kid did his usual routine.  He surprised me, punched me, but this time he continued to kick me repeatedly.  What happened differently after this was that it wasn't just Danny who drove him off.  This time, other kids joined in as well to chase him off and help me up.  It seems they all got sick of watching him beat me up everyday.  Danny helped walk me home afterwards.

Once we got home Momma washed the blood off my face as usual, but this was the last straw for Momma, too.  She took me to Daddy.

"Dan, we have to do something about this bully at school!" Momma implored.  "This is getting out of hand!  Ricky comes home every day like this form school!"

"You're right," Daddy agreed.  "It's about time we've done something about this.  We'll go see the principal right now."

Momma, Daddy, and I walked to the school, Momma leading the way, her little feet marching down the sidewalk.  I've never seen her like this before — so irate.

The principal accepted our unexpected arrival, sitting us down in his office with the door closed.

Momma started, "Mr. Atkinson, my son Ricky has been coming home from school for the last three months with a bloody nose!  And he is repeatedly called a nigger from this kid!"

"Do you know the kid's name?" Mr. Atkinson said.

"Danny knows his name, Ricky's older brother.  You need to do something about him.  Suspend him, expel him, something!"

"Ma'am," Mr. Atkinson said, "with all due respect, there's nothing we can really do.  We cannot control the level of racism at this school."

Daddy pounded the desk with his fist.  "These are kids, dammit!  Do you want them growing up with this kind of behaviour?  DO you want them growing up to be racists in our society?  And most of all, do you want my son growing up in this environment while you sit here and do nothing?  If you don't do something about this, we'll sue the school district!"

"Okay, okay, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett.  I'll deal with this tomorrow.  Just give me the kid's name and I'll deal with him."


The next day of school wasn't very normal, or very routine.  I never saw the white kid anywhere during school.  Lydia was excited and happy as well.  She gave me a big kiss on the cheek as we went our separate ways after school.  I exited the building, looked back, and saw the kid.

"Hi!" I exclaimed.  I have no idea why I greeted him.

He looked up and straight at me with a depressed look on his face.  He looked down and continued the other way.  I never saw him again after that.


On one specific night we were eating dinner — Danny, Momma, Daddy and me.  We had my favourite dinner:  chicken and mashed potatoes, but not the nasty green beans; they're dreadful.  Momma and Daddy started clearing the table when Danny went outside into the backyard.

As soon as he went outside we heard a gunshot.  Everyone froze, too afraid to move, staring at the door.  Danny walked in, holding our puppy, Mickey.

"Daddy, he's not moving," Danny said in tears.

Daddy grabbed Mickey as Momma took ahold of Danny, and I followed Momma and Danny.  Daddy seemed really angry.

Soon after that, everything in our house was packed up and we were moving to Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania.  We got away from the racial problems.  However, we had another problem to deal with:  the effect this experience had on me.  Before this all happened, I was a very happy and high-spirited child.  After all this, I became verbally and physically violent, and dealing with depression for the next twelve years of my life.

Asylum of Ashes

I like to believe that there is some hope for humanity.  At least I attempt to believe.  The very idea that man is innately good sickens me.  This is a lie that many of us feed in the belly of our beastly nature.  When I turn on the news, I don't see good; all I see is pure evil.  The media records the public, and what is the public?  They are several things.  They are evil, stupid, immature, immoral, and when they see a heinous crime on the news, they panic and are somehow surprised that someone could commit such a thing.  I'm never surprised.  We were all born to do these things.  Ever since antiquity, we were meant to be evil.  Look around you.  What do you see?  I can tell you what I see.  I see imbeciles indulging alcohol, butchering the English language, and murdering innocent people.  Only the guilty deserve to die.  My first targets:  alcoholics.  Their alcoholism ruins their family, and they leave them damaged and depressed.  That's no way to lead a family.

I hear a knock on my door, distracting me from my writing composition on my computer.

"Yes?" I said.

"Sam, what are you doing up so late?"  Great, it's my fucking foster mother, walking in without an invite, as usual.

I'm seventeen-years-old, Margaret.  Give me some fucking space for a change."  I said.

"That language is going to cost you again."

"Whatever."

"What's wrong?  What are you doing?"

"Nothing's wrong, and I"m doing my homework."  I lied.

"Okay, well, don't stay up too late."

"All right, you can go now!"

She gave me that look.  That look like I"m one of her retarded or autistic foster children.  She constantly worries about me, she supposedly says all the time.  She knows there's something troubling deep inside me.  She can't figure it out though.  She's not too bright.  The truth is, there are a lot of people out there who deserve to die.  I've killed so many, and the police are too stupid to figure it out.  They called in the FBI behavioural analysts just a week ago.  I just wish that they publicised everything that the FBI has figured out so that I could follow the case and admire my beautiful work. No bother.  THere's no way that they can link these people to me.  My killings began with randomly picked alcoholics.  None of them are linked to me in any way.  I would go to the liquor store, hang out around there, and notice several people buying excessive amounts of liquor.  I stalked them, and then I'd kill them.  I have found that the majority of drunkards utilise alcohol as a source to drown out their troubles, ultimately their fear.  Their fears all link down to a fear of their troubles having control over them, alcohol serving as their asset in the attempt to regain control.  People are so fucking stupid.  They're so worried about having control over their fleeting lives.  Nobody has control over their lives.  These alcoholics do not realise that in this poor method, they have already lost control.  And incidentally, through simultaneously exercising the addition centre of the brain known as the insula, they become addicted.  It always fascinates me the methods that people will use to deny the past, or deny the present, or deny that they have little or no control over a tribulation.  I think that if someone had complete control over their tribulation, they would be superhuman.  We can never and will never have control over our misfortunes.  How one disciplines their anger or sorrow from this reality depends entirely on their psyche.

I was right about not having control over our misfortunes...


Margaret walked into my room the next morning, saying, "Sam, you have some visitors."

That was very strange.  I never have visitors.  Still, the look on her face seemed a little troubled, worried — disappointed.  I walked downstairs to see men in suits.  One of them approached me, stuck something in my neck, and I started dreaming.  I dreamt of my mother.  Her hair was a soft brunette, and so were her hands.  She held me close, keeping me safe from the danger of some dark figure.  He was hooded with a black cloak.  My mother dropped me as blood splattered on the floor, and then I woke up in a strait jacket, in a white room with nothing but a bed, sitting on a chair with a man sitting on a chair across from me.

"Hello, Sam," the man said.  He was British.

"Who the fuck are you?" I exclaimed.

"I think the better question is:  Who are you?"

"I'm Sam."

"Yes, that is your name.  But who are you, Sam?  I think we both know the answer to that question."

"I know why I'm here."

"And why are you here?"

"They finally caught me, the bastards.  To them, I'm a murderer.  But my work isn't finished!"

"Do you view yourself as some sort of a vigilante?"

"Ha!  'Vigilante.'  That's a silly term that society labels supposed delinquents who decide to take matters into their own hands.  No, I'm not a 'vigilante.'  I am justice."

"You're troubled, Sam, and I'm here to help you."

"No one can help me."

"Why?  Because your own mother couldn't even help you?"

"Margaret's not my mother."

"You know very well that I'm not speaking of your foster mother.  I'm talking about your biological mother.  You know that."

"How the hell do you know about my mother?"

"Simple.  Being your new doctor, I just read your files from your foster home.  Your mother was murdered by your father, and you witnessed it, didn't you?"

"...Fuck off."  That dream I had.  My mother was trying to protect me from my father, and she died.  "I don't know what the fuck you'e talking about."  I love being ignorant.

"You cannot deceive me, Samuel.  I'm a psychologist; I know deception when I see it."

"Just who the fuck are you anyway?"

"I'm Doctor Robinson.  You're in a mental asylum.  And yes, the FBI caught you.  Like I said, I'm here to help you."

"So, I'm crazy.  I already knew that, long before my first victim."

"We'll start our first official session tomorrow."  He stood up and left.  Orderlies came in subsequently and made me get in my bed, taking the chairs out.  This just might be the help I was looking for.

No it's not.  You're a fucking useless piece of shit and you will rot in here, and then you will rot in hell for all the people you mercilessly killed.

"Shut the fuck up!  What the hell do you know?"

I know everything about you, where you don't know shit about yourself.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone?" I exclaimed.

So be it.  I'll be back soon.


The next day I was sitting across from Dr. Robinson again.  "I hear you spend all of your time alone," he said.

"Yes, I prefer to be alone." I replied.

"Why is that?"

"By nature I am mellow, calm, and quiet."

"Why?"

"It's just who I fucking am, Doctor. Don't patronise me.  People question this, urging me to speak.  What is so wrong with silence?  What is it about silence that makes people so uncomfortable?"

"We live in a very active world, Sam.  But you wouldn't know that because you spend all of your time sequestered in your room, doing what?"

"Writing."

"Yes, I read your diary."

"What?" I yelled, getting out of my chair.  "You read my fucking journal!  Why!"

"Sit down, Sam.  Calm down.  I read it to get to know you."

"You couldn't have fucking asked me?"

"People lie, Sam.  You of all people know that.  How could I be sure that you would tell me the truth?"

I sat down.  "And just what have you learnt about me, exactly?"

"You're a paranoid schizophrenic."

Don't listen to him!  He lies!

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I said.

"Who were you talking to last night, Sam?"

"What?  How do you know I was talking to someone?"

"Surveillance."

You see?  The world is out to get you! Kill him!

"That's kind of useless seeing how I"m in a fucking strait jacket!"

"Who are you yelling at?"  Dr. Robinson asked, not seeming to be confused at all.  It seems that he already knew the answer.

"You can't hear her?" I asked, bewildered.

"Interesting.  So it's female, is it?  She doesn't exist, Sam.  She's in your mind."

"If she doesn't exist then how can I fucking hear her?"

"She's an auditory hallucination.  You do know what hallucinations are, don't you?"

"Of course, but I swear she's real!"

"And that's a delusion.  Furthermore, you're a paranoid schizophrenic.  Just what are you paranoid about, Sam?"

"If I don't kill these people who deserve to die, then the entire world will be a very bad place!  Children won't be safe!  They won't be able to grow up!"

"And you're afraid of all this noise.  This is why you're so quiet and isolated."

"Silence is the pure serenity after a storm, which we adore and appreciate.  Yet in a person it is eccentric, and he is urged to act out of the normalcy of his behaviour." I theorised.

"So what are you avenging, exactly?"

"My mother's serenity.  Everybody deserves to die."

"You know, in a lot of peoples' beliefs, in their eyes, you deserve to die, too."

He's right, you know.  All those people you've killed.  You deserve to die.

"You're the one who told me to fucking kill them!"  I yelled.

"Ah!  So she tells you to kill, does she?  Has she ever told you to kill yourself?"

"...Yes."

"And why haven't you?"

"Because my job isn't complete..."

"Tell me, Sam.  Do you want help?"

No!

"No!  Yes!"

No!

"No!  Yes!  No!  Yes!"

"Stop battling with her, Sam!  You will get the help that you need.  We will continue after lunch.  I don't think you need this strait jacket any longer."

As he left he said something to the orderlies and they took the strait jacket off of me.  Another orderly came in and put a table and a tray of food in front of me.

You need to die.  Fucking kill yourself.  Now!

"No!" I screamed.

Do it!  You are here because of your sins.  You must join your victims in their graves!

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Hey, man!" a black orderly said.  "Shut the fuck up and eat your damn lunch."

So I ate.  About fifteen minutes after I finished, the orderlies came back and took the tray away and Dr. Robinson came back in and sat down.

"She told me to kill myself again during lunch." I told him.  I don't know why I'm being so honest with him.

"Whom?" he asked.

"Her name's Ash."

"Oh, she has a name?  Why do you call her Ash?"

"Yes.  Because like schizophrenia, she makes my mind deteriorate into nothing but ash."

"I see.  That's quite poetic.  Can you tell me why you didn't kill yourself?"

"It may seem odd, but I value human life."

"That does sound odd coming from the mouth of a merciless murderer."

"I'm doing humanity a favour, Doctor.  I'm destroying the lives who ultimately destroy the lives of others."

"I see.  And if you don't?"

"Everybody will die.  And I'll die."

"Have you ever thought that this voice might be your mother's voice?"

"She is my mother, or at least the echoes of her once pure life.  And she thinks that I'm better off dead to be out of this dirty world, and sometimes I agree with her."

"Then why haven't you done it already?"

"I'm... afraid to face her."

"So just like she attempted to protect you from your alcoholic father, she's trying to protect you by convincing you to kill yourself so you can be out of this dangerous world, and to kill others in the process, beginning with alcoholics."

"Yes...  I think so."

"So why the hesitation?"

"Because...  I don't know if it's the right or wrong thing to do.  Should I submit to her will or do my own?"

Doctor Robinson leaned forward in his chair.  "This is good, Sam.  I can tell you right now that it is the wrong thing to do.  If it weren't wrong, that question wouldn't even come up.  Life is glorious, and when we get you better, you will see that."

"I'm not so sure, Doctor."

"Sam, you already know that life is glorious!  You believe that you're saving people from their lives being destroyed by killing off those whose lives are self-destructive.  You value it already!  The question is:  Do you value your own life?"

"...I don't really know if I do."

"You need to confront her.  You need to tell Ash that you control your life, not her."

He's right.  Just like my victims, I have no control over my own fleeting life.  No wonder she tells me to kill myself; it makes absolutely sense.  I am exactly like my victims.

"I value your life, Sam," he continued.  "That is why I'm here to help you get better."

I looked at him for the first time.  "Thank you..."

"You're welcome."  He smiled.  "We will continue tomorrow.  This was a very progressive session.  I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."  I'm surprised that he reached out his hand to shake mine.  I shook it.  Then he walked out of the room.

This time the orderlies didn't walk in to force me into bed.

He's not trying to help you; he's trying to kill you.  He destroys his own life by trying to help the lives of others and he fails every time.  Kill him!  Then kill yourself and finally be with me!

"No!  All you have done is tell me what to do.  He's the first person who's actually trying to help me!"

And is it helping?

"...No...  No, shut up!"

Exactly!  He's fucking useless!  Just as you are useless!

"Get the fuck out of my head!  Get out!"

I passed out.  She hasn't been this bad at all.  What changed about her?


Doctor Robinson and I have been at it for six months now, and for the first time I feel self-controlled, and Ash is gone now.  We were eating lunch together for the first time when he told me some big news.

"We've made some amazing progress, Sam.  This is the fastest that the drugs and therapy have ever worked.  Not only that, but your cognitive abilities are actually increasing!  I think we've finally found the cure for schizophrenia!"  He had a big smile on his face.

"I can't think you enough, Doctor."

"No need to thank me, Sam."

"Why not?  Nobody's thanked you before?"

"To tell you the truth, I've never been this successful with schizophrenic patients before, ever."

Wow, Ash was right.

You're damn right I was right.

What the fuck?  Ash!  You're back!  You should be gone!

Ha, ha, ha!  I fooled you!  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!  This was all so fun to watch!  I watched as he tried to help you with so much hope, and you believed him!  You see?  He is useless; he's self-destructive and now he has destroyed you!  Kill him!  He deserves it!  Kill him now!

"No," I mumbled.

"What?"  Doctor Robinson asked, confused.  "What'd you say, Sam?"

I looked at Dr. Robinson, picked up my fork and stabbed him in the neck and watched as he fell to the floor, clutching the fork, blood squirting out uncontrollably.

"No!" I yelled.  "No!  Ash!  Look what you made me fucking do!  No!"

I am so fucking useless!  Ash is right!  I started banging my head against a wall, seeing my blood go everywhere in my peripheral vision as everything started going blurry, and here I rot in Hell.