It's funny how the first day I smoke a cigarette in six months is the same day I attend church for the first time in ten years. God and I, we have a unique relationship. A little bit of love and a whole lot of hate… on my side only, of course. It's not that I blame him for my woes, because I don't. I just wonder sometimes why I couldn't have had it just a little bit different. Just a little bit better.
I couldn't help but to walk in as I was passing by, the preacher's voice carrying from the church. Calling to me. Before I knew what I was doing, my ass was in this pew, my cold heart despising every second of it.
I've always been a good man. I've always put others first. Yet since the day I was fucking born, I've been shit on. There comes a time when you stop blaming yourself, and guess what? The blame's gotta go somewhere. I'm a God-fearing man, I always will be, so any blasphemous outbursts could be counted on one hand. But in my head, I'm cursing him all day long. Not so much for myself, but mostly for my sister, who truly was a happy girl.
She loved life, and there were a lot of times I was envious of her complete lack of self-pity.
Then the drugs found her, then prostitution, and then she was gone. I was left to sweep up the scraps of my life, to view the vast wasteland around me where my family should've been.
My hands rest on top of the pew in front of me, and I settle my head onto my arms. I feel as if an invisible hand is gripping my heart and pulling it slowly up through my throat. I can feel the force of my faith tearing a hole through me, along with all my doubts, insecurities, and fear.
"If you'll read along with me in Corinthians 1:27 and 28," the preacher says in his best infomercial delivery. "'God has chosen the world's insignificant and despised things—the things viewed as nothing—so He might bring to nothing the things that are viewed as something.'" He sets his Bible on the podium and scans the pews before him. "God does not choose the wise. He chooses the wicked and weary. He chooses those who are looked down upon, turned away, disregarded."
I slide down the pew and quietly stand. Having had more than enough, I shuffle down the aisle as the preacher continues.
"And He chooses them to do His work. To spread His message and His love. Through him, all things are possible."
I give one last passing glance to the crucified Jesus hanging above the door before I exit the church, heading first to A-1 liquor, then I go back to the department, back to the bloodshed, back to the looked down upon, the turned away… the disregarded who make up my homicide reports.
“Possum Kingdom”—The Toadies
Ever since dinner the other night, Edwin has been—well, not very Edwin.
This morning, he's been overly nice: pulling out my chair every time I sit to write, making me coffee, and he hasn't mentioned the word "fate" a hundred times. To be honest, had I not spent time with him prior to today, I would probably think he's a charmer, but this is such a drastic change it's nothing less than unnerving.
Constantly staring at me, he's always trying to make eye contact, and I can't stomach it because those eyes of his, they're—I wouldn't call them demonic. No, they're dead. Empty. Absolute voids of nothingness. And the way he watches me with that slight smirk… it's as though he's sizing me up, trying to determine how he can go about using me only to destroy me. Maybe I'm paranoid or losing touch with reality. I am wired to jump to the most morbid of conclusions. I mean, James in the bookstore—I was convinced he wanted to kill me at one point.
I pace the length of my bedroom, trying to sort this out because I can't concentrate enough to write a single sentence with this pile of shit buzzing around in my head. Just because the man is being nice—and comes across creepy as hell while doing so—it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.
I've spent the better half of the afternoon avoiding him, trying to convince myself that I've just let my overactive imagination run wild with me. Telling myself I only feel so uneasy being alone in this cabin with him because I don't allow myself to ever trust anyone—that I’m the one with a problem, not him. But this knot in my stomach, the way my hair stands on end when he subtly brushes his hand along the small of my back in passing, I don't know how much longer I can ignore that. Gut instinct is there for a reason—a deep, ingrained survival instinct that is probably not wise to ignore for as long as I have. I just need to get out of this damn cabin. Clear my head. Escape… stop it, Miranda!
Taking a deep breath, I open the door to my room and head down the hallway toward the kitchen. The stereo's blaring in the living room. Edwin's in the kitchen singing along to The Toadie's "Possum Kingdom," and—I swear—he gets louder every time the word "die" comes around in the chorus.