Ecclesiology
What is a God to a non-believer? Ah, before she answered that question, she should start at the beginning. OC-insert. Pairing to be determined.
Religion was an interesting choice of study. Not hers, not officially, anyway. It lingered there in the back of her brain, smushed into near oblivion in wake of far more tedious but distracting subjects. On occasion she'd debate it. An odd conglomeration of both For and Against that mostly spawned in an effort to undermine and spite her parents.
Hazy mornings of the southern Sunday rush—the harsh hair combing, the too itchy dress, the long drive and even longer sermon—yes, she remembers it well. She remembers punching the pastor and drawing dicks on the chalk board even better.
To be fair, she understands the concept of religion, church, god, whatever. It's a safety net for those too insecure and guilty. It's a final hope for the sinners and vagabonds. Most importantly, it's the guiding hand that steadies the anxious and fearful. Nobody likes to think of death; nay, nobody likes to think of what will happen to them upon their last breath. Death is a soothing and whimsical concept. The after is the disturbing.
Visions of brimstone and hell fire too abrasive. Knowledge of pain, hysteria, torture too gruesome to consider. Limbo and simple forgetfulness too painful to acknowledge. The answer winds down to human pain tolerance. Nobody wants to be hurt. Nobody wants to be alone.
Obviously, a nirvana would be required to soothe such fears. An eternal paradise free of worry and gold-stars that are accompanied by pats on the back for not being as much of an asshole as you could have been. A place to go to forget the terrible, awful things that made you human.
It was a nice thought for some people, but not to her.
(—To be fair, she's read the bible. She's not impressed.)
God. Such an intangible notion. What was God? The answer varied from culture to culture; she was under no such impressions that Christianity held the correct answer. Generally, the consensus hovered over various niceties and over similar synonyms. Usually, but not limited to: Benevolent, Omnipresent, Wise and All Knowing, Everlasting, Redemption, Provider— the list dragged on.
(—Everyone was content with ignoring The Old Testament or making excuses for it.)
But that was too simple, wasn't it? Too kind. In reality, Humans were undeserving of that sort of God.
No, if she had to throw-out a few labels—and she would— they would be far different. Maybe something along the lines of: Extremist, Satirical, Arrogant, Narcissistic, Callous, etc., etc.
Ah, but that wasn't something to be said aloud.
(—Humans were made in God's image, weren't they? Then doesn't that, on the most instinctive level, imply that God is just as liable to folly?)
Anarchy would cultivate like maggots if too many were to begin asking questions. Lambs to a slaughter, most were. It was easier to follow the herd and to not entice suspicion. But, ah, wasn't America founded upon liberal thought? Freedom of speech and person. So, it was only natural to exercise such rights.
(—It was funnyfunnyfunny how a country built on rebellion would go so far to crush those who partook.)
Wars were waged against oneself. A country divided. A country recovered. Hatred festered. Trends were birthed and soon forgotten. Racism, Sexism, Illness; it all spread and infected every river, growth, and border indiscriminately. California was no exception. But the thought of a liberal, open-minded civilization was too tempting for her to pass up.
She wouldn't stay long. No more than a year or two to rebuild her funds.
At least, she hummed, she wouldn't be without entertainment. California, for all of its pathetic influences, held such hateful people.
(—What were they…? The two revolting cities? Sodom and Gomorrah? Yes, it was a fitting comparison.)
The people here lied. Cheated. Murdered. Fucked. They were unabashedly Human. A scourge, some would deign to call them. Yet, it was homely. The most relaxed she's been in years.
(—There is a thought, flashing by in a mere second. It is of pale, wrinkled skin drenched in sweat. It is of rosary beads and the smell of Lysol. The chipped woods of pews and the kaleidoscope colors staining the walls. It is the yellowed teeth, the bloodshot eyes, and the promise of a secret. A Fathers scarf wrapped tightly around tiny wrists and she thinks. Really thinks. This, a servant of God?)
And then, she sees him. He is unassuming the crowd of faces. Black hair long and looking to be stylized in a specific manner. The first assumption is that he has never seen the sun. The second is that his makeup skills are shit. What she mistook for virgin skin and horrific pores were revealed to be an over abundance of powder. The man—because no boy should have such rigid shoulders and angry eyes—looked like a mimicry of something vaguely human looking. He was slumped over, as it the weight of something was too heavy to bear. But the thing that had attracted her attention wasn't purely physical curiosity. No. It was his eyes.
Dark, explosive things they were. She leaned forward to rest her chin on the back of her hand. Bruises, a coloration of rich blues and royal purples were too strong for his tragic foundation skills to hide. She wondered if that was a result of too many sleepless nights or if it was something else. But, if it was in fact sleepless nights, what could keep a man up to the point of such visible signs of insomnia. Lost as she was in studying the peculiarity of him, she hadn't noticed he was returning the favor. Or rather, he was looking just slightly above her head. And when she did notice, she was almost proud that he looked just as intrigued about her person.
Well. She was never one to let something new idly slip through her fingers. Cash was thrown onto the table, more than she owed, less than the waitress would have liked. The bell chimed above the worn door announcing her pursuit. But he—this thing who dared call himself a man—was already two blocks east. Following him was truly the only option. Ducking and weaving through drug-thin, scantily covered bodies hardly seemed like a chore as long as she kept the white shirt and ugly hair in mind.
(—She was never as cautious as she should have been. Untrusting to a fault, yes, hateful, definitely.)
It would be a lie to say her expectations were met. Instead of following him deeper into the slums of the beach-front city, she was led astray to a nice neighborhood. A clean one, where neighborhood watches were set-up to protect children and cook-outs probably occurred on every second Friday of the month.
Would it be fair to say she was disappointed?
Then again, things are never as they seem, are they? Because she had come too far to turn away; so even if the conclusion was a dreadfully boring one, it was one she needed to see to the end. And then—only then—would she content to drift back to the main streets looking for yet another way to kill time.
(—This moment in time that seemed so insignificant, she'd come to cherish it. She would never forget the sound of—)
Laughter. Bright and new and so unsure. It made something clench painfully in her chest. Every nerve, vein, and muscle ached with a need so passionate that it frightened her. She hadn't heard that sound in so long that she was envious of the producer; what could have provoked the sound? Would the source of the laughter be moving enough to incite a similar reaction in her?
She had to know. The man, the one who seemed so distorted was able to find solace and so that meant she could too. He had left the door opened behind him after all. He must have wanted her to see. It was that flimsy excuse which moved her. From the well-loved porch dotted with flowers, to the warm welcoming mat, and into the small but cared for kitchen it was obvious to see that this home could not have belonged to the object of her inquisitiveness.
It didn't. In fact, it didn't belong to anyone officially as of July 31st, 2002.
Later, when the case was made open to the public, she'd find out his name was Believe Bridesmaid. A gentle free-lance writer whose specialty was children's books. No direct family though the kids who walked the cul-de-sac often stopped by for treats during the summer months.
But as it was, it was hard to make out any distinguishing features when one was covered head-to-toe in still-warm, sticky, red blood. Most of it seemed to pool from the large and almost clumsy gashes in the man's chest.
It was best she left now.
Her feet retraced the steps previously taken. She was not affected by the gore, despite what would have been the popular opinion, no, she had seen far too much to be squeamish of it now. Really, her desire to flee stemmed from the mess of paperwork and authorities she'd have to deal with if she was found at the scene of a crime.
Maybe she should have known better. That leaving wasn't something she could chose to do. From the moment she had laid eyes on him it was far too late to get cold feet. Her back hit his chest. He had been waiting behind her. Eagerly watching for her reaction. She must have dissatisfied him.
There were many things someone could—should—say to a murderer. The path less traveled was far more amusing. By that standard, she almost couldn't help herself when she whispered, "Messy." His breathing hitched and she could feel his every inhale and exhale. "Messy. Messy. Messy." She repeated again, watching as the hard wood floor became stained in that ugly dark red.
Fingers, long and dexterous, skimmed over the bare skin of her shoulder. She felt his hand briefly fold around her neck, as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to wring it or not. He'd decide in due time, she reasoned, and relaxed in his hold. The crown of her head rested against his chest. When he wasn't slouching, he was rather tall. Faint pressure was applied against her jugular. He didn't follow through and it was almost disheartening.
It was only when she felt his head rest on her shoulder, when she felt her shirt dampen, did she understand. It was his first kill. It was pitiful. But that didn't mean she could walk away. No, he had robbed her of that. "Get a mop. And a fresh shirt. His is ruined." She told him softly.
(—She hadn't meant to kill him, but she wasn't upset that she did, either. In hindsight, perhaps Beyond was the 'innocent' the one between the two of them.)