"Well, of course they're here," Danielle, my mom, mumbled rather clearly. Who is here? It certainly can't be my brother, can it? Maybe his girlfriend -- she has showed up unexpectedly a time or two without my brother or her children. I don't understand why she would show up two hours into the dark evening, though. Maybe it isn't her either.
"Bentley, we have company," my mom shouted to me superfluously! We have thin walls and she is loud enough as is: why does she feel the need to break the octave scale just to tell me something she has already brought to my attention through her mumbling?
The suspense is killing me, though. However, I'm not a fan of social interaction. There is a reason I'm a recluse: this reason is that I'm highly introverted because I am constantly convicted everywhere I go.
The first time I had felt conviction was religiously ever since I was in my early years, up until I was fifteen. By fifteen, I no longer felt the need to go to church. I no longer felt the need to pray or "seek" God. I no longer felt the need to read the Bible. Maybe because I was tired of being judged by the people that choose to follow Christianity. Maybe I wanted to lead a change to open people's eyes that church is not all it seems to be after you are saved. Maybe I didn't want to constantly waste hours hearing the same songs and listening to the redundancy of the pastor's lessons. A pastor, a preacher, an evangelist -- all mouthpieces of God -- had spoken the same messages they believed they needed to preach for a continuation of nights, just in different tones and towards a singular person instead of the entire congregation -- every single time. I guess I had just gotten tired of it.
When I was fifteen, I decided to quit church. The Christians there believe I've backslided, and maybe I have. There is also a chance, however, that I most likely have not and have just been under a constant awakening. My mom and the church had always asked since that March, of the year 2018, if I would ever come back. It is apparently obvious that I had not. Over the years, the religious part of the conviction left, and I had just felt convicted.
It was just the conviction of the Christians who judged me, but I've been suppressing these feelings for so long that they no longer affect me. Instead, I remain apathetic and live my life the way I please. That is, to the best of my ability.
You see, there is life, there is religion, and people who are a part of both who support both. I'm a supporter of life, but not a supporter of religion. I don't need to explain myself for choosing to live a so-called "heathen" lifestyle. I am also not concerned with giving sustenance to the gossipers, the judgers, or other people who wish to know why I live a life of ambition in order to pursue happiness and live a life that will actually be fulfilling and worth it. They aren't me, they just look to tear me down, so they don't deserve to know.
For the past two years, I have concerned myself with political and environmental activism. I'm still a minor, and, because of this, I face conviction from ageists, Trumpists, ignorants, and other fools. Not conviction in my heart, but a physical conviction that brings me to lead the life of a somewhat political proselyte. I look for people to understand how they go wrong in political arguments and accusations, but I also attempt to do it peacefully and effectively. I know everyone makes mistakes, and that everyone has their own individual beliefs -- I do, too. What I attempt to do is be open-minded and allow them to practice strengthening their viewpoints while also strengthening the argument of my political basis. It pains me to see people use ad hominem arguments instead of effective, scientific, factual information with excellent reasoning whilst also considering the backlash they may receive from others from their argument. There is a reason the Rogerian method of argumentation exists, but it seems people would rather wallow in blissful ignorance and believe in false information instead of actually making valid points that are absolute and true. This conviction I feel from them is annoyance.
I still don't know who this visitor about to enter my home is, though. I guess I am feeling convicted not to know. Maybe I would rather remain in blissful ignorance in this short time period this visitor is here and fake being asleep. It could work. I'm just laying in the dark, and the only sources of light are the moonlight that is cascading through my window and the small crack of light that seeps through my bedroom door from the dining room light's reflection shining on the recently painted white hallway closet door. What a mouthful, but I'm no longer concerned with my surroundings either. I'm just concerned about who chose to disturb my solitude and why they chose to do so on this Wednesday night in the final week of January.
My mom was not expecting company. Having someone visit was the last thing I ever thought would happen tonight. I know it is not my crush visiting. I know it is not family visiting. I know it is not one of my friends visiting. Who else in the world would I care about?
Nevertheless, they finally reach our front door, and my mother just has to open it. I guess there was no hiding anyway: that painstakingly old, red car is parked out front and the lights of both the dining room and living room make our house an easy target for any demons that wish to invade someone's house. Too bad it had to be our house that is the target. I also find it humiliating that they hit the bullseye.
Now is my time to attempt to fake them out. I decide to roll over to hide my face from the door. I bundle up tightly under the cover with my knees in my chest and my arms grasping both sides of the cover which I've folded together. I pretend not to hear the greetings these womanly voices have filled the house with. Curse these thin walls. Cursed are these visitors that disturb me and my mom. Why must they attack us now, and for no good reason? Where is Dante, or Seyton, or anyone who has a key to the fiery pits of Hell? Cursed is you who allowed these women to intrude our household.
I wish to actually fall under the sudden call of slumber. I wish for this painful time period to pass by without being a part of it. So what if these women do have good intentions? I know what they are really here for. They are here to bring back the conviction I had wasted most of my life feeling. They are here to bring back wretched memories that I would much rather forget. They are here to judge us. They are here to mentally abuse us by means of religion. They are here because they want us to worry ourselves to Hell. Cursed be them because they bestow unwanted anger and cast unnecessary sorrow upon us! Sleep: come now and allow me to escape this unfolding tragedy! You are never here when I need you to be! You are the thing that forsakes me more than any man ever has! Quit evading me and actually encase me! I don't even care if it is permanently! I just want to be happy and I want to ignore these instigators!
"Bentley, come on out here," my mom yelled at me! "No thanks, I'm good," I yelled back! Why did I just respond?! I hope none of them heard that. I sincerely hope I can still pass off sleeping. I hope this nightmare can just be over already...
"Bentley! They went out of their ways to come see you! Come out here and talk to them!"
Exactly why would I want to have a conversation initiated between me and these negative beings? Why would I want to leave the comfort of my own bed to face the conviction I would have been happy to leave behind without them blocking my path? Why would I want to leave my comforting solitude to participate in social interaction with human beings that are here to oppress me? Does my mom not realize what they are doing? Has she figured out nothing by now with her solitude and pensive study? I guess it is something else she is just going to have to be taught the hard way. I despise the fact that I'm dragged into it yet again, though. I guess it's time to teach her.
I get up from my bed. I open the door. I reluctantly walk into the dining room. And now, I must arduously suffer this agitation alongside my mother.
YOU ARE READING
The Truth's Shadow
Short StoryA short story defining the difference between religion and the supernatural.
