#40 – Watch

Rachel

It's not very often I find myself alone.

You might think I would hate being alone, after all of the terrible things I've done and seen. You might think that I would need comfort instead of time to myself to think.

Nah.

I got home from school on Friday and read my mom's note. Jordan was at a Cotillion dance class, Sara was staying the night at a friend's house, and my mom was "just running back to the office for a couple of quick, last minute things." I knew from experience that a "few quick things" would keep my mom out until well after dark, and I was cool with that. I'd been wanting some time to listen to my new CD, and the empty house meant I'd be able to jam it as loud as I wanted.

I tore the shrink wrap off of my CD and read the back while the sound system loaded the disc. It came on, starting strong with some fast, hard guitar riffs, and the lead singer cut in with his awesome vocals. I smiled as I sat back on the couch. I was smiling because Marco would crap if he knew I was into some of the same bands as him; it was more fun to let him believe that I was a boy-band-and-pop kind of girl. It would make it that much better when I schooled him about a real band.

Before the first song even had a chance to finish, the doorbell rang. I groaned, knowing it would be kind of hard to pretend like no one was home with the CD player blasting. I went into the kitchen and peeked out of the small window that sort of looked out onto the front porch. I could only see the back half of the woman at the door, but the hideous purple coat she was wearing was something I'd never seen before. My glance shifted to the street, where a strange PT Cruiser sat idling in the street in front of my house.

My brain noted these details all by itself. I was at Threat Level Yellow. I have a system of readiness, just like our government, and the clues I'd picked up from looking through the window had elevated it slightly. I wasn't exactly worried – if worse came to worst, I could definitely take a lone hefty woman in a terrible jacket. As the bell rang again, I headed to the door, deciding to get rid of her so I could pick my CD back up where I left off.

I opened the door and knew what this was all about at once – the literature she was holding had a picture of a suffering-but-benevolent Jesus on the front. "Hello, dear, how are you?" the woman asked, smiling and already pushing the brochures at me. I took them out of reflex.

"Hi. I don't want to be rude, but I'm really not interested," I said, trying not to sound like I wanted to haul off and hit the woman for interrupting my "me time."

"Most people aren't," the woman said, smiling in a way that made me really want to pop her one. "I'm not here for me, though, dear. I'm here for you. I'm here to help save your soul."

All of a sudden, I wanted to put this woman in her place. I wanted to tell her she might be fighting for my soul, but I was fighting for her to remain in control of her own body. Without knowing I was going to say it, I asked, "What church are you with?"

"The Kingdom of Jehovah, over on Westwood," she answered, looking surprised that all of a sudden, I was the one asking the questions.

"And does The Kingdom of Jehovah do any work with the community? Any work with an organization called The Sharing?"

The woman's lower lip twisted into an involuntary snarl. It had a tiny hair sticking out of it that glinted in the sun. "Absolutely not. They seem like their hearts are in the right place, but the devil is clever. He uses many snares in his attempt to win souls for Hell." She glanced around as if her fellow parishioners might have snuck up on her while she wasn't looking, and added conspiratorially, "They encourage fornication. My daughter told me they pass out contraceptives at some of their meetings!"

I snorted a laugh, unable to suppress the image of Visser Three passing out condoms to teenagers. The woman frowned at me and said, "If you're looking for something to fill a hole in your life, you won't find it at The Sharing. That hole you feel can only be filled by Jesus Christ. He's the only one who can make you complete and get you into Heaven." She reached out and tapped the brochure in my hand; I looked down and saw the words The Watchtower in bold. "That pamphlet will tell you all you need to know, dear. Please read it. It will tell you how Jesus died for your sins, and -"

My mouth again saying things my brain didn't tell it to say, I said, "Jesus died for my sins? That was nice of him. Not to mention presumptuous. What about the sins of other people? What about the sins committed against me and mine? Did Jesus do anything about those?" I was inexplicably furious, all of a sudden. I was aware I was taking it out on a harmless Bible-beater, but I couldn't help it.

"Jesus died for everyone's sins. Every man, woman, and child," she said gravely, in the no-room-for-questions voice of a fanatic.

"What about the sins of…people…not from around here? What if there were monsters out there, monsters that are not human, and they're sinning their asses off against people right now? What, if anything, is Jesus doing about that?"

She sketched a tiny sign of the cross when I said the word "ass," but other than that, she remained stoic and unfazed. "If you speak of demons, the minions of the devil, then you have to understand why they're here. Why God allows them to be here. They are only soldiers in a war – they're the devil's soldiers. They're here to tempt us, to hurt us, to do anything they can to make us turn away from God. They're here to make us give up. We have to ask for God's help to be stronger than they are."

She was talking about demons, but I was thinking about Yeerks. Real demons, complete with weapons, spacecraft, and the ability to steal bodies, never mind the soul. "I don't need God to fight them. I am stronger than they are, and I will win. I've been winning without God's help for a while now, and I'm going to go all the way." I shoved the brochures back at her, but she was too stunned at my sudden, hateful tirade to catch them. "You're spinning your wheels with me, lady. I'm a loner and a rebel. God might be rooting for me, but he's in the stands. I'm the one at the plate. So save that literature for somebody who cares." I shut the door gently in the stunned woman's face, already berating myself for letting something so minor get me so worked up. I pressed play on the remote and let the music fill the living room again, sunk into the couch, and tried to let the melodies wash away all conscious thought.