So, my brain works in mysterious ways. This is told from Roger's POV. It's a bit of collaboration with volitaire, who is a genius. Bow at her feet. Anyway, this is a series of flashbacks of Roger's life and how he came to hate God. PLEASE do not flame me about your own religious views. I am writing this strictly from the viewpoint of a character. Whether or not these views are my own does not matter, so please don't tell me I'm going to hell. I'm not saying anyone would, but it's happened before. So, thank you and enjoy. Oh yea, I own nothing whatsoever.
"Mimi!" I propelled myself away from the fire escape and ran inside. I slammed right into the long metal table that was stupidly situated in the path of the fire escape. Whoever had put that there was going to get an earful. I clutched my stomach and grimaced in pain, but kept going. I was oblivious to everything, except that door. I finally hit the door (literally) and slid it open. I could feel Mark and Collins behind me. And all I could think of was myself. Well, not exactly.
"You son of a bitch," I muttered under my breath. "Don't do this to me again. Not again." All my life I had had everything taken away from me. My father, my friends, my…life. And I didn't know why. Why was God so cruel to me? I took in breath as I thought about "God". What had "God" ever done for me? I ran down the seemingly never ending stairs. My mind was on Mimi, but it was also flashing back to a memory a long, long time ago. Something that I hadn't thought about in years. Something I should have thought more about. I owed it to him. But what did I owe? Rational thought in that side of my brain flew away as the memory unfolded in my mind's eye. As I raced down the stairs, I succumbed myself to the pulling power of the memory.
I was nine. Nine, Rogy was nine. I was born an army brat. My dad was a decorated Navy captain and we moved all along the east and west coast from the time I was born. I even spent two years in Guatanamo Bay, Cuba. By the time I was nine, I had moved twelve times. At nine, as most nine-year olds generally do, I had a great relationship with my parents. My mom's cookies rivaled anyone else's and my dad was a hero to everyone, especially his son Roger. He was amazing. He didn't talk a lot, but he had this quiet strength that was astounding. I can still remember how strong he was, and when he would come home, I would run into his arms and he'd swing me up and hold me. I remember now that he always smelled like the ocean and tobacco. I can even smell him, as though I were nine years old again and he was holding me again.
He was always good at listening. He would put me down and I would talk non-stop about school and the rocks I had found on the playground (I always had a rock fascination) and the stupid girl who say in front of me and how she had stuck her tongue out at me so I pulled her hair and she had cried and the teacher had gotten mad at me and it just wasn't fair, daddy, it wasn't fair because she deserved it and she should have kept her tongue in her mouth. And my dad would laugh and ruffle my hair and he would take my hand and lead me into the kitchen and he and my mom would talk. My dad was amazing.
Then one day, he and I were walking home from my school (it was one of the rare days he was able to walk me home) and a homeless man came up to us. He asked my dad for some money and my dad gave him some change. The man got irritated and asked for more. My dad told him he had no more money, but that he knew where a shelter was where they could help the man. The man started getting fierce, saying he didn't want their charity. My dad told him to calm down, but the man wouldn't listen. He reached out to punch my dad, but my father grabbed his hand. About a second later, my dad released the man's hand and stumbled back. I looked where my dad's other hand was. It was clutching his stomach and I could see red on his knuckles. I heard someone screaming. It took a good ten seconds for me to realize that it was me, that I was screaming.
The homeless man dropped the switchblade he was holding. His eyes widened and he bolted as my father collapsed to the ground, running off as people were starting to gather around. I was holding my father's head in my hands, screaming and begging him not to go, for someone to help, screaming and crying for God to help me, to help him, to save him, to save my daddy, oh God please, please save my daddy. The life left my father's eyes as I sat screaming in the street for a God who never came.
My mom was brave. She kept going. We were living in Long Island at the time. I had become almost mute since the death of my father. It was almost as if I had screamed my voice completely away that day. I drifted along, a boy of ten now, in too small sneakers and ripped jeans. I was in fifth grade and I never laughed, I never played. I had been to hell, and I had come out bruised, beaten, and scarred. But if I had seen a vision of the future at ten, I would have realized that I had not even entered the gates of hell yet, let alone come face to face with the devil. I would meet him at twelve.
Next chapter will be longer. Review, please!