I'm About to Kill God This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.


   It was a cool day, the rare kind, permeated with the brisk feelof Canadian air. Smells of burning leaves and freshly made pies invigorated me asI walked, detemined to meet my destiny. Dawn was approaching, and the beauty thatmy eyes happily beheld made my nervousness, bleeding and anxiety less hard tobear.

I soon reached an abandoned church, glittering with specks ofsunlight and covered in ivy and moss. The church lay in the back of the woods,untouched for many years by the ignorant hands of people. I had been coming tothis church for years; it was, in fact, my home. I stared at this superb exampleof the old life, and shivered when I thought how the people had rejected thisromantic, exotic building.

Illuminated by a pink elegance, the somnolentland was ready to emerge into a day that I hoped would comfort and reassure me.The world was covered with dew, sprinkled with a light scent of pine, and mixedwith a sweetness that saturated the morning air. Slowly, the land became etchedwith the sun's subtle, soft rays. Picking and choosing sections of land toinfiltrate, the sun dispersed its first rays on an ancient tree, cradling eachbranch and leaf with a warm radiance that is the essence of the sun. Curving,hunter-green bushes were next sought out by the sun, its rays flirting with thesinuous motion the underbrush appeared to make. All the plants were facing thesky, their leaves pointing upward as if trying to grab the last bit of life insummer, and get a taste of the sun's seemingly rare gift.

I looked forsome time, marveling at the church's stained-glass windows and welcoming Frenchdoors, with its rusty bell holding everything together in this picturesque scene.Tears welled in my eyes for many reasons, the first because I knew this was thelast time I would ever see my home.

I ran a bloodstained hand through myshort black hair, not focusing on how dirty and tattered a man I was, crying infront of such a tranquil building. Memories invaded me, though I knew therewasn't time to contemplate them. Frozen by these feelings of grief, I forced myfeet to move into the church.

I approached a marble staircase andclimbed up three floors to my bed chamber. My entire room was infused with thecreativity of the Muses - art, thought and learning carried me through life.There was one muse, however, that I always longed to be with. I imagined her ineverything I did; her name was Terpsichore.

She was there when I stoodcrying in front of stained-glass windows. She was there when I stood counting thespecks of sunlight-covered dust and creating a story about every mote thatdrifted past. She was there when I illegally wrote their stories, when I wronglywrote songs on the derelict piano, and painted pictures so risqué theywould have been banned. Terpsichore helped me to live intensely, to move to thebeat of my drum, as Thoreau put it, and corner life so that it couldn't escape mygrasp.

Even if I had never even seen Terpsichore and she was just afigment of my passionate imagination, she made me less lonely. I was thankful forher, and the banned literature that had been left - books, plays, art and music!Like my love for Terpsichore, they were harmonious gifts of something greater,and foreign to me, they were the ultimate reasons for my existence, my dreams andmy hopes.

What can come of a man acting out Romeo and Juliet by himself?He is something incomprehensible to barren minds, which take for grantedcompanionship. Shakespeare himself could perhaps have not grasped the feelings Iexperienced in my isolation, pulling down the musty brown container of brillianceand passionately absorbing page after page of his poetic literature. The church,for me, was the East, and everything inside resembled the sun that struggled withkilling the envious moon.

I looked around the room of Terpsichore withtears running down my face. It was as if I were losing all the poetry in life. Iwas holding creativity in my hands, perhaps for the last time, and blowing itinto the specks of dust. I said good-bye to each of the nine muses who dwelt inthe room.

I then gathered up my black rucksack I had packed the nightbefore and cleaned my wounds in the sink, so as not to look suspicious. Ideparted the church. I left a part of myself there, within the walls, smotheredby the muses that nourished my soul.

I touched my face to make sure I hadcleaned off all the blood from the beating. The fortuitousness of my escape fromthe Official Clerics now struck me. The cool, modest way I had left the StateChapel made me appear mundane, not worthy of the priest's eyes. I had drawn allattention away from myself and simply walked out as they talked about howtorturous my death should be as punishment for my sin of defying thecommunity.

I knew what I wanted. The Official Clerics had discovered mydifferences and would be after me. The punishment would, of course, be death.Death would be glorious, if I could accomplish my awesome goal. I was willing toface a thousand deaths for one second of humans really living. This soulless"perfection" the people were living now was not life; perfection is farcloser to death than life. I had known something other than perfection, andperhaps this was why my head was clear and I knew what I had to do.

Myface, however, didn't bear any traces of the beating. As I look back on that day,it was as if a god's brilliance was spread upon me. My hair seemed to glitterwith specks of sunlight. My heath-colored eyes had lost their dullness and were acrisp cherry wood. My thin, muscular body was energetic andyouthful.

There was a breeze in the air as I started my journey. I pulledmy stocking cap down so I wouldn't be recognized. With every step I was cautiousof who might be looking at me. The path I took was sprinkled with sticks androcks, buried deep within the woods. The world looked as if it had been paintedwith a color that reminded me of an old study: a chestnut color infused with agolden glow of leftover learning. The canopy of trees bore a hint of yellow atits edges, making it appear handsome in its antiquated existence. It wasn't longbefore a traveling stranger, who was happy and dull in the usual way, yetoblivious to what surrounded him, saw me.

"Hello there, stranger! Areyou lost?"

"No, sir," I muttered. "I was just walkingto my grandma's house to visit before she goes ... if you know what Imean."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was thinking you were just walkingaround admiring the sky. I thought I might have to report you for such unusualbehavior. The good Lord would never permit such things, blessed as He is forgiving us this wonderful perfection. Go on, visit your grandmother, and may theLord bless her as He does everyone."

"Yes, I could never letmyself do anything so crooked. How absurd! Thank you, though, and goodday!"

I smiled at the man's stupidity and we went our separate ways.I continued to be cautious, deciding on the name Hades in case anyone questionedme. I thought this name appropriate, considering my task.

One would thinkthat I would hate and fear a beating, but I was almost longing for one, as astarving plant yearns for sunlight. I felt as if I were the only one in the worldwho could see clearly. I wanted the people to be able to feel pain more thananything, because I knew its power was equal to joy, especially if they weremixed.

Ever since I was born, my God monitor never worked. A God monitoris a kind of box attached to every human being that gives us the essence of"perfection." It is a device we were told God gave us to make our life

better, and so, being brainwashed, no one challenges the explanation. Idon't know why mine never worked, but I am thankful every day. I often wonder ifthe parents I never met knew the glory of being able to feel, and secretly passedthis wonder on to me.

Despite the beauty I experienced, being differentdid separate me. I once overheard some teachers talking, and it scared me. Theysaid I was "crooked," that I contained IT: "the power of theDevil." They had watched me cry, frown and express emotions different fromthe total euphoria that was the only feeling allowed the other children. Theysaid I had been "turned off," but their fake, cheerful smiles neverleft their brainwashed faces. The sad thing was, I knew the smile could neverleave and I was the only one who was different, who would be despised for beingable to frown. It saddened me to hear and see such covert hatred expressed towardme. For a long time, I endured it in silence. But one day, I was forced to takeaction.

"Teacher, Teacher, oh dear one!"

"Yes,child?"

"Look at his face, Teacher, look at Abe's face! It ismaking weird motions! Look at his lips!"

"Yes, yes, I see. Gooff and play, Alan, and don't fear. I'll take care of it."

Thechild ran off with a look of disgust, and the teacher's fabricated smile embeddeditself in my brain. It still hasn't left.

"Abe, comehere."

I walked closer to the teacher, my eyes squinting and afraid.I was oblivious to whatever harm I was causing, so I found no way to fix what Iwas doing. The teacher's perfect voice flowed like a river from her mouth, thoughat times the current shook me.

"I want you to be more perfect thanperfect, my darling. God has blessed you, as He does everyone, and I want you tobe grateful. Please don't do such things with your mouth, you wouldn't want todisturb the other children. Move the corners up a bit so you look like me andeveryone else. We can't have you looking any different or unusual; such thingslead to displeasure. You would never want that. Such things are against God. Wemust never, ever defy God, Abe."

"No, ma'am," I mutteredunder my breath, my body shaking and hurt from thedenunciation.

"Well then, Abraham, please fix those lips ... thankyou."

After that day I was to be sent to the school of rejects, butthey never called it that. It was The School of Extra, a meaning the communitywas sure no one could interpret. This was the school for the kids of differentcolors. The mentally and physically handicapped kids went there, along with manymore minorities the perfect Sweet Town couldn't accept.

I had figured thisall out before I was even sent there. Once I had crossed the schoolyard and seenblack kids in the windows; dull-eyed and sulking at cheap desks. My body began tosweat, considering I had only been exposed to white - and what was considerednormal - people. For as long as I could remember I'd stayed away from thatschool, and hearing that it was where I would have to spend the rest of my lifecut me like a knife. When I heard this was where I was going, that I would bepart of the rejects forever, I fled.

The old church I found in the forestwas where I spent my days leading up to my escape. It served as a wonderful home.Its book-covered walls and artistic atmosphere had inspired me to be creative. Ihad found out how to love myself, as well as others. Books, all long-bannedexcept for the Bible, had taught me about pain, suffering and the need ofimperfections.

In this great growth period I learned my strengths andfaults. I learned about art, the ancient times, and through forbidden booksdiscovered that it was up to me to bring the world back to sin.

I was theonly one on whom the God monitor didn't work. I could feel, and was the only onewho knew of a different lifestyle. I couldn't be the only one who the tranquillight of knowledge shown upon; sucking the marrow out of life was not aone-person job. I knew the joys of skinning my knee, crying, and suffering. Iembraced these things and nurtured them, as if I feared I would losemyself.

After thinking things through, I gathered up the courage to go. Ileft the church. Melancholy as I was, the Muses, the church, and the old me werepart of the past.

The place I had to go now was called "The GreatHeavens," the place where God lived. God was the perfection, controllingevery monitor, not letting an evil thought come into the mind of any lemming. Ishuddered as I thought about God, and the mindless people who prayed to himwithout really knowing what they were praying for. There was a song that themajority of people sang as they were led off a cliff, too stupid to see theirdeath was being fed to them. I had decided I had to leave this life behind, andthat I had to take the people of the town with me. I had decided to kill God.




This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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This article has 4 comments. Post your own now!

SparaxisThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Feb. 3 at 6:34 pm
Is there going to be a sequel?
 
. said...
Feb. 16, 2012 at 2:09 pm
Praying to someone blindly that you believe in isnt called stupidity, but faith!
 
Matt's Gurl said...
Sept. 8, 2010 at 10:22 am
interesting lol
 
kari-kiwi said...
Sept. 6, 2010 at 2:52 am
this is a very interesting story that I really like!
 
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