b e t t e r

Preacher

  "Or do you not know that wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God?" A voice boomed me out of my sleep. I sat up, groggy, my head pounding.

  "Do not be deceived, Judas; nor the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men..."

  At the sound of my name, I frowned and stood up curiously. This verse doesn't mention Judas.

  "... nor the greedy nor drunkards nor swindlers will inherit the Kingdom of God."

  I entered the hall way and I saw him, standing there as perfect as ever. He smiled and held out his arms, arms I longed to be in. My feet took off before my brain could realize something was wrong; this isn't right.

  His grin widened as he opened his mouth, blood pouring out. I came to a dead stop, nearly tripping myself.

  "Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins, Judas, may be blotted out!" He hissed at me, eyes rolling back.

  I gasped and woke with a start. The cool blue morning light cast over my bedroom, birds chirping and humming along with the sounds of passing cars. My room was empty, free of ghosts and blood, but not free from the sound of the preacher screaming his faith across my quiet home.

  I nervously stepped into the hall, weary of what I might find. The hall was empty, the first rays of sun shining through the windows. I traced the faith to the broken down television. My uncle lie in his chair, snoring softly, his head rolled into his chest. I sighed and sat down on the couch, using the beaten remote to change the station to the weather. Sunshine all day. Hot.

  The sounds of coffee brewing and pans banging filled the house, my uncle stirred. "Good morning, Judas," he weakly uttered.

   I smiled at him and turned my attention back to the weather, pondering my dream. I'd been having nightmares for the past 9 months, reliving my families accident and trying to make sense of it. It was my fault, not matter how much everyone said it wasn't. My therapist said that no matter what, I should never blame myself. Yet I do, and I don't think it will ever change. Of course my therapist knows more than my actual family, because I fear telling my family the story in its entirety would only make them to suffer. Or worse, they'd have the same fate.

  Seeing my brother that way turned my stomach. He was defending me. He thought I was normal. Time was frozen for me, an endless loop of nightmares, pill bottles, numbness, parties and dragging my feet since the funerals.

  I tried to brush off the intruding thoughts and flashbacks, focusing on the birds rather than the echoes of my family's screams. I dressed for what would be my first therapy session of the week. T-shirt, jeans, socks, tennis shoes. Brush teeth, comb hair, drink coffee, pick at eggs, only eat the toast, kiss my aunts cheek, grab keys, off I go. Tuesday.

. . . . . . . .

  "How are we today, Jude?" Christine smiled brightly at me, her hair pulled back into her normal slick ponytail. She wore a bright pink blouse with a white pencil skirt today, happy colors. She told me once before she liked her clothes to elegant scream colors of happiness so that she doesn't feel down throughout her day. She was a kind lady, smile lines and crows feet, but beautiful in an aged way.

  "Okay, I guess," I mumbled, "You?"

  "Well, I'm just pleased to see you here!" She exclaimed. "How are you feeling? Has your day started out okay?"

  I shrugged, unsure of how to start. The beginning of therapy was always the hardest, getting into the groove and finding a way to string my thoughts into a comprehensible sentence. "I had this dream last night. The TV from the back of the house was talking about sinners and I went into the hall to turn it off and Zach was there. He opened his arms to me and there was blood and he said something about me needing to repent."