"Blasphemy"

I can see it; I can feel it
Rushing in my veins.
I don't like it, I don't hide it
See it in my face.
But I... don't want, to wait...
For I... have lost, my faith.

Where can I find myself an idol?

From Amanda Ghost's "Idol".

It's disgusting.

The way Father Lonigan preaches about the sickly sweet infatuation that is the "love" of Miguel and Charity. It sickens me, brings bitter bile to my throat that burns like acid. Don't look at me with those dead milky eyes, old man. They only prove how blind you are-- and in more ways then just the obvious one.

Don't preach to me about God. I've heard it all before, trust me. What's more, I've been there. I've sat in the pews like a good little girl all my life, staring at Miguel's dark head, just a few polished rows ahead of me. The stained glass and sunlight would dapple bright rainbow hues across his smooth, handsome face during the Mass. And as a little girl I'd clutch my rosary until my palm bled, and a searing red imprint of the cross lay burning across my hand.

So don't tell me about good and evil, and how I can save my soul. I gave up on that a long time ago. About when she came to town, actually. Where were you when that happened? Where were you when my soul started slipping away, and my heart tortured me with every sharp, cutting beat at the sight of those two? Oh wait, I remember now. You were fawning over your precious Charity, along with my family, my friends, and everyone else in this God-forsaken little town.

God-forsaken. Apt little adjective, isn't it?

But let's just get one thing straight. I didn't forsake God. He forsook me. Why was my every fervent, silent prayer to get the one person who mattered the most to me always ignored? Why did all Miguel have to do was see Charity and he was automatically in love, when I was his adoring, constant companion for years? I guess God plays favorites. Funny, they didn't teach me that in bible school. And forgive my "blasphemy", but I don't think I want to worship a deity who rules like that. A God who is that unfair.

So I don't think I'll be going to church anymore. Or praying either, even when those brats Simone and my sister shriek of evil. Because I've seen evil. It's in the face of a God that couldn't care less about me or how deeply and truly I love.

That means I'll be moving away, from you and everyone else who blindly follows. I'll be going somewhere where I can make my own rules, make things fair, and control my own destiny, instead of having it crushed and stamped all over me. It's not a physical place, oh no. It's a state of being. I've felt it before, but back when I was still afraid. Back when I was still clinging to the tattered, skeletal remnants of a faith I should have forgotten a long time ago.

Because it was like . . . ebony lightening crackling and streaking all through me, racing madly through my veins, coursing deep into my shaking bones and kissing my very marrow with an aching, seductive smile. And it softly washed away the pale silver scar I carried across my hand.

It was a dizzying power that ran hot and cold, searing and freezing my flesh, rushing with incredible force to my brain and exploding fiercely into a million tiny, glittering supernovas. And they all shrieked to my exulting nerve endings all that I ever knew of happiness, fulfillment, and of a dark, rich beauty that reminded me of a night without stars. It even told me how I could possess it. All of it. I just had to surrender-- and let it possess me.

So now, this is transcendent moment-- holy, and completely, starkly pure. Don't try to get away, Father. And don't think you can outrun me, you blind, doddering old fool, you can pray as loudly as you want. It's not going to stop the power I can feel, warm and uncurling from deep within me, gushing all the way to my sparking fingertips.

I guess you must not be one of His favorites.

Don't worry, I only want to thank you properly for helping me cross this final threshold. I couldn't have done it without you, you know. All your preaching and prattling really must have meant something to me, because I'm ready to surrender now-- and a sacrifice is needed. A blood sacrifice.

And this stirring, sacred power tastes . . . like a heaven I've only dreamt of.

End

(The Fine Print: Nope, don't own a thing from "Passions"! If I did, Theresa would be dead, and would STAY that way. Hee.)