Jesus Christ was going to send me to hell and split up my family. That’s one of the first things I remember clearly. Laid in bed wide-eyed, staring into the darkness of my room, unable to stop picturing myself burning in the eternal flame.
Sometimes I’d say stuff to myself too. Why can’t you pay attention in school? Why do you beat up your little brother? Why did you lie about breaking Mom’s fancy heirloom lamp? You took great pleasure in breaking that lamp. It was a blatant denial of both your heritage and elders. You’re a lamp-breaker. You’re a liar. You’re a sinner. You must change your ways and seek a new path, a path of righteousness.
I knew even before I was a “God-fearing man” (six-year-old boy) that I needed righteousness. I’d heard the guy on the radio talking about it when my dad took me to work with him. And I’d heard about it in the bedtime stories from Dad himself. Tales of Good triumphing over Bad.
It was how the world worked, everything I needed to know. My dad even made up a hero of the bedtime stories, called Dark-Eyed Bill. Dark-Eyed Bill and the case of the missing Babe Ruth signed baseball. Dark-Eyed Bill vs. The Evil Principal. And of course, Dark-Eyed Bill: Origins. They were all stories of righteousness in which the titular character kicked Evil’s ass, spread the gospel (of kicking ass), then forgave his enemies for their trespassing.
I’d hear these stories from nine to nine-thirty every night, five nights a week. I’d need only to listen and follow, my dad said, learn and repeat, believe and give in. Almost like he was warming me back up for this Jesus guy I was so skeptical about.
There had been verses from the bible and an occasional trip to church and watching movies like Ben Hur and The Ten Commandments. But when those didn’t take my dad had to find a new way. Something awesome, he said, a surprise, all for me. A story set right here in America, in the 1990’s, called “Left Behind.”
I played along for my dad’s sake. It wasn’t Dark-Eyed Bill, but it was a story. And I liked stories. I liked thinking of things in far way places that didn’t look or feel like anything in my own life. It was easy to do. It was familiar. It was magical. It was scary. And for some reason, scary seemed more and more like the truth.
I listened close this time, listened with my eyes shut tight, my heart beating fast, my fists clenched. Until pretty quickly I had forgotten all about Dark Eyed Bill. I didn’t want my family being split apart due to the Biblical Apocalypse and I didn’t want to be present for the explosions or the Anti-Christ or the seven-year judgment to be rained down upon Earth, so I would forever follow our Lord and only our Lord.
Face half-covered with a blanket, I promised myself that I would do better. I had to do like the characters from Left Behind had done. I had to repent like they had repented when they were separated from their families. I had to do it for Jesus and I had to do it for my dad and I had to do it for Dark-Eyed Bill too (R.I.P.).
I confessed to smashing that lamp. I apologized to my teacher for farting in class and blaming it on her. I apologized to the infamously annoying Ally Sheer for farting in class and blaming it on her. I even apologized to my brother for beating him up, pushing him into hard edges of furniture, piles of mud, and patches of rocks whenever presented the chance.
But nothing happened. God didn’t give me a sign. No evidence whatsoever that anything had been fixed. I was still going to burn in hell. There was nothing to be done except accept my fate, make some friends that I knew would also be going to hell (so I wouldn’t be ally-less on top of being in hell). Then, finally, tell God of my realization:
“Don’t worry, this isn’t a plea for mercy. I just want to say sorry I didn’t believe in you. It was all those people at church with their eyes closed singing those songs. They annoyed me. It was their fault. I didn’t want to be like them. And if I’m being honest, if that’s the kind of people you like, then I don’t like you either. I’m cool with going to hell actually. You’re an asshole.”
Then a few minutes later: “I didn’t mean that. Sorry. It’s not you. It’s that book. It’s the writer of that book. Jerry B. Jenkins. Have you read ‘Left Behind’?”
I got night terrors so bad I didn’t want to go to sleep. I’d imagine creatures from below digging up through the kitchen floor and running to my bedroom to get me. Things had gone far beyond my control and I had to do the last thing I wanted to do. I had turn to my mom. My mom the heretic, incense-burning, Tai-Chi-practicing, turquoise-jewelry-wearing dabbler in all things spiritual (except for Jesus).
What had she seen? Was this why she didn’t seem to like my Dad? What was it about the Church of Christ repelling her away? Would she be friends with me in hell?
“Mom,” I said.
She was busy on her computer, not looking up. I repeated myself and then she asked me to repeat myself again.
“Hell,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it’s real and I think we are going burn in it for eternity while Dad and Little Jack live in heaven with Our Lord.”
My mom looked at me. I’d already been freaking her out the last six years with the talking to myself and the anger and the constant attempts on my brother’s life, and now I was asking her about the fucking rapture.
“Who told you that?” she said. “And why would you think that?”
“Because of those books,” I said. “The one where everyone gets left behind.”
My mom looked angry now and asked, “Did your dad read you those books? Is that what happened? Did your dad read you those awful books?”
I told her yes, hanging my head. I told her all the bad things I’d done, that I was a sinner. I told her that Dad had been unaware of all the sins I’d committed and he was just trying to do me a favor by alerting me of all this apocalypse stuff.
Then I looked at her face again, and could tell I’d made her even more angry.
“I’m not mad at you though,” she said. “I promise you I’m not mad at you. And I promise you won’t burn in hell for eternity. Your dad—he shouldn’t have shown you those books.”
*
Later that night, after the yelling, I asked my dad what had happened. He’d obviously been the bad guy, defeated, and was promptly ordered to sleep on the couch with a bare yellowish-stained pillow next to him. But he was still my dad. He was still a bad-ass in addition to also being my best friend. He must’ve just been confused, like I was. Just confused.
But he was not confused.
He had the confidence of a man with God on his side and used it to repeat everything he’d been trying to teach me. That Jesus loved me. That Jesus loved all those who accepted him as our savior. Jesus was God and God was real and his power was mighty. The bible’s prophecies had all come true and that meant the stories of heaven were true too.
And all the while he said these things, he had this look on his face. It was the look those people in church with their eyes closed always had. All that was missing was the body swaying.
“Oh… okay,” I said to my dad, then walked to my bedroom where I laid under the covers again trying unsuccessfully to sleep.
I just kept thinking about it. I kept thinking about good guys and I kept thinking about bad guys and I kept thinking about it all until I wasn’t making any sense. Nothing seemed to mean what the adults told me it meant. And if nothing meant what I thought it meant, then there were no good guys and no Dark-Eyed Bills and no bad guys either.
Or maybe there were. Or maybe I was still confused. Or maybe everyone was choosing to believe in one thing over the other thing just so they could sleep at night. I didn’t know if I’d be able to sleep at night if I’d just picked one, when there was the other, or maybe even another supercharged and awesome thing that I hadn’t even heard about yet. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything except: if my family was going to be split apart it wouldn’t be because of some stupid book written by some stupid asshole named Jerry B. Jenkins.
***
T.J. Larkey is the guy typing this bio. This is an excerpt from a finished novel.
***
image: “Helloween” by C.L. Von Staden, a self-taught artist/photographer based in Central Texas. He graduated from Concordia University in Austin, Texas with a Master’s degree in Education and currently teaches Special Education. He focuses on themes which evoke strong emotional reactions.
Rejection Letters 