Your Own Personal Jesus

My breath continues on and surely my life has not ceased to be. A figure is staring at me. It does not register, for a moment; my mind does not seem like a valid template for thought. In fact, I cannot say that that I am an actual person. He puts the cold glass to my lips, simple things, taste buds I realize. My hand moves to take the glass. The appearance of my own flesh startles me. It occurs to me for a moment that I might be missing a finger, I look startled.

I do not know what I am thinking, for I am not even recording these words. It is him who sits by my side scribing such letters. I do no believe that I have a name for myself. There's a sweet scent to this room. He seems to like staring at me, and I do nothing to deter him. My lips pine for the liquid he holds. My mouth is surprisingly moist, I was asleep for so long. So long, time is not an issue I think of.

I lay on back in that little room. With this man beside me. It is a bedroom, that is my automatic understanding. Surely I am not an infant, although I do feel helpless and without any initial purpose. My body seemed uninjured and upon a second investigation of fingers I had on each hand I came to the conclusion that it was, indeed, normal. I look to the man for some sort of comfort. He did not care to turn his head this time to stare back at me. On and on I looked.

He was not normal, in the least, but you could not exactly put your own normal finger on what was so abnormal about him. Shoulder-length brown hair graced his features. He had an impeccably groomed mustache of brown color as well. His eyes were neutrally grey, and his lips were insignificantly colored. Perhaps it was that he was so painstakingly normal that it seemed, somehow, that he was strange. My confusion was evident, but I did not make a fuss.

He turned his head towards me finally, but he did so in a mechanical fashion which scared me. "I see that you have awoken." Just as I could have assumed, his voice was completely void of emotion, "You may be frightened, but I am only here for you." I just stared, interested but unchanged. I could not remember my past or anything else that I shouldn't have forgotten. He let me drink from that cup again. I thought that I could speak, so I said something aloud. My words, whatever they might have been, were ignored.

"The morning has already past." He announced this and removed the blankets from my body. He probed me with fingers like silk. My skirt was lifted up and my legs were spread. His clothes too, were placed aside. His body intruded on mind and I was raped repeatedly. My lips were spared from kisses, and not once did he touch my breasts. I merely laid there and took it. It was not in my nature to fight this, apparently. All the while the man seemed to be distant and mumbling prayers. When he dismounted he corrected my skirts politely. So very politely.

He returned to his chair silently and informed me that we must read soon. "Why did you do that?" I asked. He did not glance at me, but he said that it was necessary for procreation. "Just why is that?" I ventured again, "Why is man born from such a sin?" His eyes lit up immediately and it startled me, but he only said that he did not know and that we now must read and recite. I seemed to bare the simplicity, that of a child and an uncaring outlook on life in this boxed bedroom. I did not realize that this was not correct for me to feel. "Read and recite what?" A bible then materialized into his hands.

It seemed for the next many months that I didn't have a care in the world. All I knew where these prayers and that I must do good and that I must love God and all that is good---amen. I barely took notice of the fetus growing in my womb. I, at the age of fourteen, had never felt such a thing, but of course, I did not worry of it. It vaguely occupied my mind at times. There was a silent rule here, it was probably subliminally messaged into the bible verses. It was that you must not care!

Inevitably the day came when I was to give birth to this child. My stomach area was so huge it seemed like it would burst anyway, so what's the point of going into labor? It would be an almost exciting event to see a pregnant woman explode and to have confetti spewing out her vagina instead of a newborn baby. I was disappointed when there was no pain involved or confetti, or anything at all. He simply parted my legs and the babe fell straight from my womb and into his warm, but indifferent hands.

He left through a door that did not really function as a normal door should, it had no doorknob. Then he returned without the baby. Without any more thought he returned to his chair. "Where's my baby?" It was a passing thought that the mother should have her baby. like The Virgin Mary. "He is not only your baby. He also belongs to the Lord. This is his house and he will perform his duties as I perform mine." I said something as insignificant as "oh". It occurred to me that with original thought that I did, in fact, feel mistreated; raped. "And who the fuck are you?" His eyes widened and he said a prayer. "Such language is absolutely not acceptable. I am Your Personal Jesus. You will not speak to me or any of God's children in such a manner." I only smiled.

My Jesus and I had a long conversation. I was dead, this was heaven, and I was serving God. You see, Heaven is not some endless golf course with Angels flying about. It is an endless hospital, without purpose. Everyone is already deceased and we are only kept here as not to cause trouble for the ones who still live. Damned humans need company, no matter how indifferent and males cannot bear children. Women are merely farmed for new "nurses", new Jesuses. They are mindless angels, not human for they were not born into the Earth. They are just God's limbs, his army. All He, Him, Almighty does is feed off of us all.

I wept now for nothing. He advised me that it was my turn to read from the bible in its entirety. (It had always been him reading to me.) I opened the bible and there in writing, that must've at one point, been my own I read silently:

"For every drop of blood on each page of this Holy Book of Lies you have given birth to an Angel of Nothing. He, Him, Almighty, has raped you, most personally. You are just His Holy Whore."

Terrified, I began reading. On every page up to the 173rd there were drops of blood. Chills rand throughout my body and I cried, this time, for myself. I marked the next page with blood that was somehow on my wrists. "Oh, the Stigmata. You are blessed." I was forced to continue reading until my tears failed me and the book had ended. The last inscription to myself merely told me that I would know nothing when I woke up and was raped once again for the betterment of Him. I just had to close my eyes.