eternity and the exodus

His sweat furled brow. Focus. Get lost. Trace the ends of the hair back to their source. Tune out. Find a song in your head. Hymns from the Revival last week. You don’t like this song, When the Saints Go Marching In. It’s redundant. Oh, when the saints, Oh when the saints . . . But they all sound the same. Wipe your face. His sweat is on your cheek. Next to the tear. The door opens. You see your mother. Sad eyes meet sad eyes. The door closes. Oh, when the saints . . . Lie motionless. Pretend you are dead. Feel nothing. Become numb. Go marching in . . . You are singing to His rhythm. You hate yourself for this. You crescendo. Oh, don’t you want . . . He crescendos. To be in that number . . . Anticipation floods your head. Your chest is pounding. Your skin warm. When the saints go marching in. Excitement. Head rush. Relief. You sigh. A chill down your spine. Your temperature regulates. His lips form a smile. You want to smash His face in with a hammer. Destroy Him. Your Dad kept a hammer in the kitchen in the drawer next to the refrigerator. What would he do if saw this? What if he was still here? He’d kill Him. Run him over. Shoot him. Cut his wrists with razor blades and watch him wriggle on the floor like a worm. Let Him try to stop the blood. It won’t stop. It’s a river trapped inside, just dying to get out. Red faced, He rears His head back. He pushes deeper than before. One, two, three, four. He keeps going. The red numbers flash 7:49. It’s been 14 minutes. Almost over. It hurts worse. This part always hurts worse. You don’t feel it swim inside you. But you know it’s there. He stops. Exhausted. He’s happy. You can see it written on His stupid face. Now you wait. It’s terrible waiting knowing that there is more to come.

Stubby fingers run through your hair. 7:56. Next to you, you feel His hot, sticky words stick to your cheeks, but you can’t hear Him. He repeats. You obey. You have Him in your mouth. This tastes disgusting. Why would anyone want to do this? Pull a wiry brown hair off your tongue. Put it in again. Pull out. Repeat. Do that thing He told you with your tongue. He likes it like that. Pressure on the back of your head. In. Out. In. Out. You feel it in the back of your throat. You gag. Dry heave. Don’t complain. Remember not to complain. He doesn’t mean to. He can’t help it. His legs tense up, fully extended. He doesn’t breathe for a moment. A slow moan creeps out from between his lips. It’s coming. This part is bad too. At least this doesn’t hurt. Release. You are still shocked. You are never prepared. Learn to be prepared. You close your mouth. Turn away. The side of your face is painted white. It’s warm and salty in your mouth. But not pleasant. His hand touches what is on your face as he turns your head. Open. Swallow. Suck. He pulls away. You sit on the edge of the bed wishing you could salivate more. Your mouth has never been so dry. You hear His belt buckle clang as He puts His pants back on. The door slams. The room is so much more comfortable when He isn’t in it. You breathe.

“Hunny, set the table. Dinner is almost ready.” It’s as if nothing ever happened. Your mother saw -- she walked into the room, she made eye contact with you. She could see your desperation. Yet, still, she turned away.

“Yes mam.” You walk into the kitchen towards the cabinets next to the stove. The cabinet doors were white, but faded and peeling. Your mother had been talking about painting them for months. “Maybe red. Maybe pink. Somethin’ to give this room energy. Somethin’ to make me feel like I’m alive,” she had said.

“So . . . how has your day been?”

How could she ask that? “Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, I guess. What do you want to drink? Sweet tea?”

“That’d be great.”

“Is He eating with us?”

“No, He has to go back home. His wife is waiting for Him. She called just a few minutes ago. Said that the food was ready.” She looks out the window and points. “See, He’s already gone.”

Your plate is piled high with crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, and a hot buttered role. It doesn’t smell good. You want to throw up instead.

“Why aren’t you eating your food?”

“I’m not that hungry. It’s been a long day.”

“You think my day hasn’t been long too? Eat your food. I made it for you. You love fried chicken. I don’t see what the problem is.”

You take your fork and stir the food around on the white and blue China plate. Your dad had bought the China for your mom on their 20^th wedding anniversary. This would’ve been their 32^nd anniversary this year. Slowly you put a small forkful of potatoes into your mouth. As soon as they hit your tongue you run for the bathroom. The water from the toilet splashes as the lump of food breaks its surface. You feel absolutely sick -- doubled over, dry heaving, just wishing something would come up.

The next day you wake up not even remembering how you made it back into your bed. You felt something sticky on the back of your leg. The sheets still hadn’t been washed. The door bell rings. He is here. You panic. Bite your lip. Taste your blood. Remain calm. Control yourself. Let Him think nothing is wrong. Everything is normal. Everything is fine. Say this twelve times. You’ll remember and never forget. You wait in your room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Your leg begins to shake. The hair on your arm is on end. Stop it. Concentrate. You hear murmurings from the other room. Your mother’s voice. She screams. Try to move. Get to her. Help her. It’s like your feet are in casts of concrete. Listen -- silence. Everything is calm. Stay calm. He’s gone. The sound of the door knob turning makes you jump. The hinges creak as it opens slowly. You hear the shoosh sound the door makes as it drags against the brick orange shag. His breathing is heavy. You could recognize His breathing anywhere. It’s how the two of you communicate; sighs, gasps, moans. Adrenaline runs through your veins. Your heart beats faster, harder. Can He hear it? Can He smell your fear like an animal?

You watch as He comes through the door; first His bare feet, His legs, flabby, yet muscular thighs, followed by His misshapen core, stubble on His chest, then His Adam’s apple protruding like a valiant soldier, lips dry and cracked, and His eyes, all swollen, dark, and empty. He screams at you too. You don’t flinch. It’s nothing but sound. A wall of sound. Become Joshua. He is your Jericho. You are right and He is wrong. He has a weakness. You have been stripped to your bare bones; you have nothing left to hide. You are exposed. Mind over might. You are victorious.

Joshua fought the Battle of Jericho . . . He crawls into the bed with you. Slowly, you feel the shirt come off your shoulders, the edge of your panties tickles as it slides off your legs, as if by magnetic force. You both lay there. Everything seems so innocent. So pure. Two people about to make love. 8:14 A finger glides into the valley between your legs. And the walls came tumbling down . . . Stay relaxed. Don’t tense up. Let the routine stay its course. He tells you to get on top of Him. You obey. His face is flush. The veins in His neck swell with blood. Something is different. This isn’t right. It’s too fast. He lets a moan sneak out. He’s not sweating. Is He finished? It’s never been this fast. Stay still. Maybe He’s waiting for something. Be patient. Let Him tell you when it’s okay to get down.

Say His name. Touch His chest. No response. Get down. Relax. Breathe in. You smell something different about Him. Lean in. Sniff. Alcohol. He passed out. Adrenaline surges through your body. Excitement. Fear. It’s wrong to think these things. What are you thinking? Who are you? Your eyes find your nightstand. The drawer is open. You reach in, fumbling for the knife your brother had left behind. It glistens in the slatted sunlight from the blinds in the window. A single blade with a wooden handle with your brother’s initials, TD, inscribed.

You are Abraham about to sacrifice your only son to the God who loves you. You are faithful. You are benevolent. Stand above your prize. Hold the knife in both hands above your head. Pause. Lord forgive me for I know not what I do. You feel a weight pressing your hands down. The knife, it falls. Try and catch it. The blade tears through your skin. Blood falls like rain across the room. The blade turns in the air as time slows to half speed. Revolving, falling. A minute goes by. An hour. A day. The knife desires rest. It wants to stop. It wants to devour an untamed beast. Through tears, you see the knife on the floor. Your hands burn with fire as you pick it up. Stand above Him. Aim the device. Deliver. Repeat. Deliver. Repeat. Keep steady with the rhythm of your heart. Like you are rocking a child to sleep. Hush little baby. Don’t say a word.