Mother looks me in the eyes, blood streaming from my nose. Dad in the other room, still screaming vulgarities in his drunken stooper. She looks me in the eyes. My arm is pulsing with pain, the coffee table broke it under the pressure as Dad slammed my elbow against it. When I fell on the floor crying and screaming in pain, he punched me in the face. I think my nose is broken, too. Not sure. I've never broke it before.

Mom reaches her right hand out and pulls freshly cut, brown hair back from my face.

"It doesn't look that bad, Rose," she starts, "It'll grow back."

I know what comes next. Hatred brews in my heart, but what can I do?

She looks into my eyes again. Dad screams from the living room,

"You animal! God has a hole in Hell for you!"

In my head I think of what the perfect thing to say is, "What about you, Dad? What about you?" Naturally, I don't say it. I never say it.

Mom roles her eyes and looks me in the eyes and here it comes...

"Baby, Daddy doesn't love you. But, Mommy does," she leans in close to my face and whispers, "Mommy always loves you. Mommy will always love you."

My hatred boils, but what can I do? She looks me in the eyes one last time and then she loves me. She loves me and it hurts. She loves me and it's wrong. She loves me and I hate her for it. It is always what comes next. It is always what I dread. He beats me, so she loves me. Love, what a tainted word. They don't know it, I don't know it. All that is certain is he loves me and then she loves me and I hate them for it. But what could I do?

I was born with complications, that's a fancy word for saying my body was really messed up. Doctors said I needed lots of tests and surgeries, but my parents chose a different route. A less conventional route. No not herbal, no not natural; no, they chose the supernatural.

The small building was cramped, my mother held my frail, sickly body in her arms. The building had that old, 70's wood trim on the walls. The wood trim that makes everything seem so dreary, dark and hazy. The preacher has had a short, non-memorable lesson, for the people have not come here to learn. No, not to learn, but to be healed by the power of God.

The preacher heals his first, a small boy, "God has not intended for you to be this way. Arise, and walk! In the name of he LORD, I say, 'Arise, and walk!' "

The boy does as he is commanded. He stands, he walks. The preacher, who speaks in his thickest southern accent, proclaims his joy, "Praise Jehovah God! The LORD is merciful! The LORD is gracious!"

Sweat pours down the preacher's face, he wipes some of it away with a hankerchief he keeps in his suit jacket. His emotion begins to build, the intensity is unsurpassed, his miracles undeniable. He heals infants, adults, children, elderly, he even heals a little girl's dog. The strain now shows, he sweats all the more, his hankerchief is useless now, soaked completely. He slows down, makes his way to his pulpit, he speaks, they listen well.

"You all know of my daughter's complications," there's that word again, he continues, "Well, God spoke to me last night, in a dream He spoke to me. He said, 'You heal that child, my son. You heal that girl, for she is my own and I have much prepared for her.' "

They gasp.

"Bring her forward." My mother listens to my father, she carries me to him. She hands me to my father. He holds me up for everyone to see.

"In the name of the LORD, I command you to be freed from your physical disabilities," he touches my forehead with the palm of his hand, he gets a glimpse into my future and retracts his hand. He whispers, "There is much good to come from you," he hesitates, "My god forbid," he places his hand back on my forehead and I am healed.

I was 14. I explained the situation to my best friend's mom. That was a joke. No one listens, no one wants to believe that someone they know could be so sick. I summoned the guts to tell her and she listened well, but I couldn't tell if it was soaking in or not. I finally finished and then she looked at me for a while and then it began.

"Honey, you can't just go around saying such things about people," it gets worse, "I don't think you realize the consequences of such accusations. If you had told this story to the wrong person, your parents might have been taken away from you and you could have been orphaned for life. And you don't want that."

"It can't be worse than what I go through every day," I pictured myself saying it, but I didn't.

"And I know you don't want that," she said very reassuringly, assuming she knows my heart. Stupid gods and goddesses, they're everywhere. They come in the form of parents, professionals and random adults. They all know everything and they know that there's nothing they could tell a little one that could be wrong. The little ones are never right. The day a little one is right, they will strike it down with a mob's hatred.

Truth is, That is what I want, Goddess of Knowledge.

"I'm going to call your parents, I think you need to go home and talk this out," and she did. She called my parents and they rushed over and put on the theatrics. They all set around and talked about how I was having difficulties, mainly because I'm at that age. They discussed it all in front of me, how horrible I was. I'm such a liar. Finally, the curtain call and we left. In the car the behind-the-scenes routine kicked into play.

Thus began one of the worst nights of my life.

When my parents met, my father had just started his life of deceit (as I like to refer to it). My mom got talked into going to an old fashioned revival with a preacher that could heal the sick and see the future. Sounds like a coming attraction of the carnival, if you ask me, but my mom bit it and went.

In a small sized tent, in a park, in the middle of town. It was summer and the heat was dying down as the moon sent the sun home for the night. My mom walked into the tent with her friend, Francis, just in time to finish up singing "Just as I am" and take two seats from two men. These were the days of gentlemen. An older gentlemen stepped up on the mobile stage and spoke a few words.

"We have tonight a man of God. A true man of God. A man who, by the power of God, can heal folks and even see into the future..."

The man continued his introduction a while longer, but my mom lost concentration at this point and had, as she calls it, an epiphany. She claims God spoke to her heart and told her that this man she was about to meet for the first time, was to be her husband and she his wife. She then turned to Francis and said, "This man will be my husband."

My father walked out onto the stage at this point, he surveyed the audience. Everyone became silent, feeling as if something strange was about to happen.

"My wife is in the audience tonight. I have not met her yet, nor she myself, but my god has spoken to me concerning the matter. You know who you are, if you are here, please stand."

The audience looks around, gasps are heard.

"Don't do anything stupid," Francis said to my mom. Perhaps she should have listened.

"I can't explain it, Francis, but this is something I have to do," and she does.

She stands.

"Behold, my wife!" My father proclaims and the people are all amazed, save Francis.

I was 14, that's old enough to have had enough. I came home from school to a sober father, which didn't happen often, but the worst part is there is no difference. He's still the same old spawn of Satan. I often wonder what he was like before. Was he likeable? Was he kind? Could he show love? Did he know love?

I walked through the door, there he sat at the table, he turned to me,

"It's time."

That's all he had to say. He grabbed my left arm and threw my back pack off of me. It didn't take me long to figure out what he was getting at. I fought it. I scratched his cheek.

"It must be, it has been foreseen, it is my god's will," he spoke very proudly, full of a faith I wish didn't exist. He came at me again.

I fought it. I fought it with all my might. I fought it until I was so sore that I could not move, I went limp and he had his way with me. He might as well have been doing a corpse. I just stared at the tiles on the roof waiting for him to finish. But once wasn't enough.

"Once may not be enough," he spoke out loud to himself, "Must be sure of it. No mistakes. No room for error, my god wouldn't have it."

So, I continued to stare at the roof. I tried to count the tiles, but I got sick of losing count from the blurred vision. There is no pleasure in hate. There is no pleasure in love. Not this love.

"There is no room for error," he reassures himself.

I finally occupied myself by thinking about my algebra class. If a=b and b=13, then a=13. Thus said, then 4ab - 10 = 666.

"There can be no error, my god will be pleased."

He stops. I pick up my panties and stand up, my skirt falls back down to the floor. I start stammering around to my bedroom.

"You tell your mother about this and by my god you will die."

Once wasn't enough, it had to be seven times. Seven times. Mom doesn't even know what that feels like.

This is Rebellion 101. I'm ready to move out and there's nothing they can do about it. There is nothing anyone can do about it. I'm an adult, I can provide for myself. I don't need to be in this environment anymore. I'm ready for a change. I'm ready for life. I'm ready to get what I want.

LESSON NUMBER ONE: Get a Job.

To get a job you must get a paper, to get a paper I must steal some pocket change from my mom's purse. Done. Now I find openings, go to businesses, fill out applications and then wait for a phone call. I can't have a phone call, that would be a dead give a way.

Enter the phone booth on the corner of 12th and Maine.

"Where are you headed, babe?" curiosity should have killed the mom or dad, not the cat.

"I've decided to start walking," I start, "You know, mom, exercise."

"Why do you need to exercise, you're not fat," my dad exquisitely points out.

"Don't mind him, baby, he's drunk," my moms says, as if I didn't know, "you go exercise."

No calls. After 34 days, there are no phone calls to 12th and Maine.

LESSON NUMBER TWO: Get what you Want.

I come to turn my application in, but he is confused and seats me. Too nervous to say no, I sit and begin to order. I have to admit, it feels good. I use to come here a lot with my friend and her mom, that was before I spoke up.

"Do you still have those small pizzas, you know, like for the kids?"

"Yes," he replies. This boy could very well be my dream man. I am blushing immensely, I feel my cheeks rushed with blood.

"Can I get one with pepperoni?"

"Sure, you can get whatever you want," he pities me. I'm not sure how to take it, but I'm embarrassed more.

"A soda, too."

"What kind?"

"Any kind."

He walks away to get my drink and place my order. I scramble for my application and put it on the table. Luckily I stole some cash from Mom this morning, otherwise this fiasco would go down hill real fast.

He comes back and I hand him the application. That was the best meal I had ever had.

Before I left, the waiter came over to me and said he was the manager. Now, I know I've blown it, I thought. But, to my surprise, he hired me right there. I had applied for a waiter position, but he asked me if I'd want to deliver instead. I couldn't say no, I never say no.

I have what I need now, I can move out. I can start a life of my own. Forget the past, remember the future.

I knew the day would be monumental. That it could be the worst and best day of my life. The day I move out. The day I leave it all behind. The day I begin to live life the way I want to. The day I taste happiness for the first time. So, here it is.

I know what you must be thinking, how am I going to be a delivery driver? How did I ever get my parents to buy me a car? Well, I didn't. And I don't have one either. But, I'm moving in with my friend and she has agreed to let me use her car. I am overwhelmed with excitement, as I knew I'd be on this day. To live with a friend, to get away from my fiendish past, to work. To live for the first time.

"That's it," my father starts, "We bring you into the world, we support you despite your unwillingness to do anything for us and now you feel older so you think you can just run off with no consideration for the way we feel?"

I wanted to slap him with a thousand words of hate. I could think of so many things to say, so few things to say. I could think of a few words, sentences, paragraphs. Quite frankly, I didn't care how they felt.

"Sweetie, don't you love us?" my mom put on her sweet side. She started to tear up at this point.

I was sickened to my stomach.

"I forbid it, Rose," my father was officially getting worked up. At least he was sober.

"We love you, sweetie, we'd never do anything to hurt you. We know you're getting older and we knew the day would come for you to move out. It is just that you don't need to leave this early, that's all. We love you, sweetie, don't you love us?"

I wanted to be shot at this point. My father put his arm around her, nodding his head in agreement with her obnoxious monologue. It was about this point that I summoned courage for the first time in my life.

"You love me? Yes, I know how you love me. You have perverted me and ruined my innocence for your own filthy pleasures, because you have no control of yourselves. You love me, because no one else loves you the way you wish you could be loved. You have blinded yourselves with this love to make yourselves feel like you've done something with your life. But, truthfully, you are nothing but sick perverts with a whole lot of hatred and misunderstanding and confusion and who knows what else abides in your filthy bodies."

My mother collapsed and began crying her eyes out and my father's reaction was typical. He slapped me across the face with the back of his hand and threw his body weight on me and began to strangle me with both his hands. I was fighting it at first, but then I saw his eyes fade from blue to black and the room seemed to darken with them. Mother's voice faded into silence. All I could hear was me gasping and him breathing in a deep moan. He opened his mouth to let out air, but instead there was a grunt followed by a black tongue dripping with acid. He leaned his head in close to mine, the tongue slithering to and fro like a snake. I have no doubts that he would have killed me had it not been for what happened next.

He jolted back and removed himself from me. He jumped to his feet, when this took place, the room brightened again, his eyes returned to blue, the tongue leapt back into his mouth and then I heard my mother sobbing once more.

"My god would have none of it," he spoke under his breath, "There will be none of it, he says."

I packed, my friend picked me up and then we left for our apartment.

I have been free from my parents for about a month now. Every once in a while I'll drive past dad or mom at an intersection. I just look away. Ignore. It feels good. I've seen enough of those faces doing and saying ugly things and now for the first time in my life when I see their faces I just turn away. I don't have to go home to it. I can escape. I am free at last.

I hate delivering to trailer parks at night. It's so dark and dirty. If you see anyone, their face is usually half covered by shadows and very creepy looking. Not always the case, but somehow it reminds me of my childhood and that's enough to have a prejudice to the place. I'm looking for lot 13.

I am finally getting the hang of delivering pizza now. I'm not quite as scared about it as I was when I started. I can't complain too much. Life is better. It's still not perfect, but it's better and that's good enough for me. Kaylie and I are on better terms. She feels really bad about that first night in the apartment. She was making a habit of apologizing all the time, I just told her I'd rather forget it. She hasn't brought it up since. That's been three weeks now. I feel safe now.

There it is. I must have passed it twice. The lot number is barely visible and it's missing the three. I'm just going off the fact that the one before it is 11. The odds are all on one side. I turn the car off and the silence kicks in. I step out of the car. I put Kaylie's car keys in my pocket, the pink feather key chain still shines in the night. I hear voices coming from lot 13.

"Stupid *****," a man shouts, "Get over here!"

"Daddy, no!" a child screams.

I stop dead in my tracks. I stand there for a moment or two listening with my delivery in one hand and the ticket and bank bag in the other.

"Out of my way, boy!" the man shouts. I hear a loud thud and the child begins to cry.

"Babe, don't! He didn't mean anything," the woman speaks.

"You're all worthless!" with that the man begins beating the woman. I scramble to the door and ring the doorbell frantically. Silence again. The man shushes his wife and child. "Who is it?!"

"Pizza delivery!"

I hear him quieting the child and woman again. The door opens. A fairly large man with a roughly cut beard and shaggy, greasy hair stands in the doorway.

"How much?"

"$21.37."

I look into the living room and see a boy sitting on the floor, fighting tears. In a chair, a woman stares at a window. The blinds are closed. Her arms are folded. I can see just enough of her arm to see a large purple bruise, on the corner of her lips a stream of blood starts to fall. She wipes it. It smears across her cheek.

"Here's $21.50," the man says.

I take the money and place it in my bank bag. I give him the food. He looks at me with irritation.

"Well?"

"Sir?"

"My change."

A jerk and cheap. I give him his change and walk away. The door shuts and I hear him speak once more.

"What are you looking at, boy?"

Ah, yes. Free at last. Back in the car, I cry. I haven't cried in a month, but now I'm crying again. What is freedom? What is love? What is life? So many questions with far too many answers. I have questions for the answers and answers for the answers. I am so unsatisfied.

Kaylie, she's my childhood friend and now roommate. On the drive over to the apartment from my house, she turns the radio up full blast and speaks over it to me when she isn't bursting out lyrics.

"This is gonna be so awesome, Rose."

"Yeah."

"I've always wanted to get out and live!" With the word live she rolled the window down and shouted it out the car.

Kaylie is one of those people that I always looked up to. She was nervous about nothing. She did and said what she wanted, when she wanted and how she wanted. And she looked amazing... always.

"'Free as a bird! It's the next best thing to be! Free as a bird!'" She belts out some lines with John Lennon.

It was as if God took everything beautiful in the universe and formed a human representation of that and here she was. Beaming. Smiling. Hair flopping in the wind.

"We should stay up all night, just hanging out, eh? Ya think?" She asks me as she bobs her head and taps the steering wheel to the music.

"Sure."

"'Whatever happened to the love that we once knew? Do we really live without each other? What happened to the touch? It always meant so much. Do we really live at all?' Come on, Rose, sing! I've never heard you sing, just screech it out, babe! 'Free as a bird!'"

"'It's the next best thing to be. Free as a bird,'" I quietly mumble along to the chorus.

"That's it! Louder! Oh, I'll have you singing and dancing by the end of the night, girl," she foretells.

I just blush and giggle. Why can't I be like that? Beautiful. Free spirited. Full of life.

"I'm gonna make a pit stop, hun," she says as she gets out of the car at a convenient store. A moment later she comes back with a brown bag full of stuff. She gets in and starts the car, "The goods: candy, ice cream, whiskey. Everything you need for a party, Cupcake."

"Whiskey?"

"Oh, yes, whiskey," she starts, "Don't tell me you haven't had a little alkie, Rose?"

"I"m barely 18, Kaylie."

"Yeah, well, I'm 21 and I say we're having some whiskey tonight, babe."

The rest of the drive I stared out the window, the trees passing by in a blur. She kept herself busy singing. Whiskey? She drinks, great.

"We're here!" she shouts and we get inside the apartment. Nothing from the brown bag goes into the fridge, it all lands on the coffee table. Her parents furnished almost the entire apartment for us. It's nice stuff, the style is neither of us, but when it's a gift you can't complain. Parents that do things for their kids, what a novel idea? She flips the radio on, once again, full volume.

"You will sing tonight, Rose, mark my words."

I can't speak. I'm too scared of what that bottle is going to do to my friend. Who does she keep in there? Is it someone I want to know? Probably not. She starts swigging the whiskey.

"Have some, darling," she holds the bottle my way.

"No."

"It's your Dad, ain't it?" she starts, "He's such a strict, old guy. I don't know how you lived with him. His sermons are prison enough for me. Don't do this, don't do that. Loosen up, babe, he ain't here."

She has no idea. Not a clue.

I took the bottle, to shut her up more than anything. I take a sip. Nasty. I almost cough it all up.

"It grows on ya, hun," she says as she rips the lid off the ice cream and begins spooning bites with a spork.

Several hours have gone by now and she was right. The taste does grow on you. She's drunk, plastered, wasted, whatever. I'm a little loose myself. Not near as bad off as she is at least. She is bouncing off the walls. Every song that comes on the radio she sings to. If she doesn't know the song, she just makes up lyrics.

"There was a girl in Texas! Stronger than all her exes!" as you can tell, she wasn't doing too well with the impromptu. At the end of the song, she collapses on me with the bottle in one hand. We laugh.

"Come on, babe," she starts, "Give it a try. Sing the next song."

I did. She was right. I hopped up on the coffee table which had become our stage and I sang. It was sappy and I loved it.

"'I started a joke which started the whole world crying, but I didn't see that the joke was on me,'" her smile faded at this point and she watched in a bit of awe. I kept singing, "'I started to cry which started the whole world laughing. Oh, if I'd only seen that the joke was on me.'"

She stood up below me and joined me in song...

"'I looked at the sky, rubbing my hands over my eyes. And I fell out of bed, hurting my head from things that I said. 'Till I finally died which started the whole world living. Oh, if I'd only seen that the joke was on me.'"

She stopped and I stopped. She was looking up to me with a strange glaze in her eyes. The Brothers Gibb kept right on singing. She placed the bottle on the couch, then reached her hands out to my thighs. Startled, I stepped back on the coffee table. She stepped up on the table with me and moved in closer to me, her arms reaching behind my back. She pulled me closer for an embrace. She whispers.

"The joke was on me."

She leaned in and kissed me on the mouth. I freaked and pulled loose, falling to the floor.

"Don't!" I shouted, "You're drunk."

"Yeah... I'm drunk," she replied then slowly stepped off the table. She picked up her bottle from the couch and walked off to her bedroom, "I'm going to bed. Good night."

"'Night."

I laid on the floor for a while, stunned, shocked. I finally got up, turned the radio off and went to bed. As I lay in bed, I decided that I did not like who she kept in the bottle. The more I thought of it, it felt as though I had just witnessed the transgression in the Garden of Eden. Such beauty, such purity, so much to admire. It's lost now. Taken forever.

Do you ever evaluate yourself? Look at your past.

Your present.

Future.

Well, if you haven't done it lately, you should. You should ask yourself, "What was the point?" in regards to your past. You should ask, "What am I doing?" to the present. Lastly, and most importantly you should ponder "What is the point?" of the future. What are you doing with your life? Is there a point to the things of the past? Am I who I am today for a reason?

Was there a point to the pain? To the molesting. The horrors of my childhood. What good can come to me from those things? Has good come to me from it? Am I stronger with or without my past? What can I do?

The answer became clear. I can change the future by fighting the past. The past does make me stronger. It should not ruin my life, it should sustain my life. These were my reasons. My point. I know what it was, I went through it and no one dared help. No one dared get involved. No one dared believe. No one. I was alone. You don't have to be. I am here. I understand. I believe. I know and I will not turn away. I will not walk on. I will stop and I will help. I am Rose Thorn and I am here.

In the aisle of Halloween merchandise, I look for something perfect. There it is, I toss it in the cart. I move along out of the aisle. On to the next. It's long, flowing and brown. I toss it in the cart as well and make my way to the cashiers and then I am off to make my first appearance.

At home, I find Kaylie has left me a note that she will be closing tonight. She'll be home late. Perfect. Kaylie keeps a baseball bat behind the front door to the apartment, per her mom's request. Her mom lived alone for a long time before getting married, she developed a paranoia of a life without a man to protect her during period of her life. Tonight, that bat will prove its worth.

In my bedroom, I make my transformation. I remove the articles from the bag. A long, brown overcoat with a hood and some clown make up. I pull my hair back in a pony tail so that I can apply in ease. White foundation, some red rings around the eyes. As I am applying the make up, all I can think of is what I am doing and what it means. I stop suddenly. I've been in a bit of trance. I look at my face. Green rose thorns extend from the corners of my eyes. Red lipstick is applied to my mouth and a rose stem extends down my chin made from green face paint.

I let me hair fall down from the pony tail, then put my brown overcoat atop my long hunter green dress. Both the dress and the overcoat flow back and forth at my ankles. I look in the mirror and I see roses immersed in brown. This is it. This marks a milestone. The beginning. The beginning of purpose.

At the door, I snag the bat. With the door cracked open, I can see people in the hallway. A pregnant woman stands in a doorway telling an Eminem-wanna be that she will survive. Great. I close the door and listen to the conversation a while longer, hoping the jerk will leave soon and then I can sneak out.

"But, baby, that's my son, too," he says, "I'm his daddy. You can't take that away from me, baby."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you hooked up with a floozy."

"But, baby, I'm sorry, baby--"

"Yeah, you are now."

There is no end in sight. In my room there is a window which can get me out along the ledge and then I can pass by the windows until I get to the fire escape. The windows are just high enough from the ledge that I can crouch over and walk beneath them. At the fire escape, I climb the rail and just take off running down the stairs as I hear Eminem-wanna be finally give up and start this way. At the bottom of the fire escape, I look up and see him coming down the stairs at quick, irritated pace. I dart behind the stairs and hide in the shadows. He gets to the bottom and speaks some vulgarities under his breath and walks off to his car. He drives off. I run to the alley and begin my walk across town to a creepy, rundown trailer park. To lot 13.

I mostly use dark alleys to get across town. Whenever I did have to pass someone, I just made sure the overcoat covered anything suspicious. The hood took care of most of that. I also keep my eye on the time, I want to get back before Kaylie.

At lot 13, I sit beneath the wooden porch and listen for a moment. I hear the father screaming and cursing. I hear the child crying again. Once again, the wife tries to calm him. But amongst the loud noises, crashes and bangs, I cannot tell exactly what is taking place. Just before I move I see a car pull up at lot 16. A ma and woman get out and look this way. They can hear the commotion, but choose to ignore it and walk inside. With that I walk around the porch into the light and up the stairs to the door. I remove the bat from my overcoat. I take a deep breath. It has to be all or nothing. All or nothing. With one quick motion I swing the screen door open, knock the doorknob off the door by slamming the bat against it and then shove through the door and I am in the house.

"What was that?!" The man yells.

I hear his footfalls come from a closed door. As the noises get nearer, I choke the bat and get ready. He comes in and sees the front door. He starts to curse, but I cut him off when I swing the bat with all my might against his face. He falls to the floor and begins cursing and swearing as the blood pours out from his nose and mouth. This time I do the talking.

"Look at me! Look at me!" I grab him by the shoulder and turn him to look at me, "Don't you ever lay a finger on the kid or your wife again, got it? GOT IT?!"

He just moans, groans, curses and swears.

"Listen to me! Do you understand what I'm saying?!"

I swing the bat up above my head to hit him again.

"YES! YES! I understand, just please don't!"

"Good," I lean in and grasp the collar of his T-shirt, "But, if you're lying, I'll know and I'll be back. But, if I have to come back, I won't show near as much mercy as I have now. Got it?"

"Yes."

I remove my grip from his shirt and look up. The wife stands in the doorway with the boy at her side. Tears have been streaming down her face, yet she smiles.

"Don't stand for it," I instruct her, "Don't stand for it ever again."

She nods.

I pull a wad of cash from a pocket on the inside of my overcoat and toss it to the man on the floor.

"This is for the doorknob," I explain.

And with that, I make my exit. At home, I get out of the clothes and hide them between my mattress and box springs. I head to the bathroom and start washing the make up off. When I'm finished, I turn the water off and I hear the front door close. Kaylie is home. Just in time.

Out of the bathroom, Kaylie looks at me as she flops a large pizza on the table, "I'm starved, how 'bout you?" She asks.

"I am a little hungry."

"What have you been up to?" She asks me as she grabs her first piece of pizza.

"Oh, the usual. Nothing much," I reply, but I know better. I've never done more in my life than tonight. For once, I am here. I am now. I am.

My mom pulled off on the side of the road and put it in park.

"Get out," she said.

"What?"

"GET OUT," she shouted, "Take care of this, babe. I can't deal with it."

This is it, I thought. They're finally gonna kill me. If I'd known speaking out would have lead to this, I might have said something sooner. Maybe I could have put an end to all of this. Some justice could have been had, since it's so hard to commit the perfect murder.

"Come with me, Rose," my father spoke.

He opened the door and got out, I followed. We walked into the ditch and into the woods nearby.

"Come with me," he repeated.

The moon was shining ever so nicely. The stars gleaming without a cloud in the sky. It was late and incredibly dark except for the moonlight and stars. We were in the middle of nowhere. Or at least somewhere between one man's version of hell and another. Only God knows which one is the right one.

He stopped and stood with his back to me. "It's time I explain something to you, Rose," he started, "You better listen, because the future of mankind lies in your hands."

Great, another sermon. Just what I need, a biblical lecture from the greatest Pharisee that ever lived. The Great Reverend Thorn! Some day they'll put his name in lights; people will come from all over the world just to hear one uttered phrase. One sentence that could change their existence in a profound way. They'll gather in football stadiums and listen to the man... this man of the hour. The Great Reverend Thorn. He'll go on and on, as he always does. He'll perform his acts of charity (some call miracles). And finally, they'll believe. They'll believe the man with sweat pouring down his face. His red face colored with passion. His suit worse-for-wear. He'll probably cry and say something perfect then quote the apostle Paul. At this point, a credit card will be handy and they'll all agree, It's a worthy cause. But, what they won't see, is a man filled with rage and hatred. A man so black with sin, Satan looks like unto the archangel Michael. What they won't know, is that he's a fraud to God and a fraud to himself. He speaks of a god, but not one they know. It's just that the unspecific English language undefined which god he speaks of. Or that's his intention. To blind the blind just a little more.

"You don't know your father, kid," he continues, "Your father died a long time ago. I'm just watching over the house for him, so to speak."

"Dad--", I started to speak, but he interrupted me and turned to view me.

"Your dad's dead, twit," he said in a gruff voice. His eyes shined red in the night. They peered at me through the silhouette of his body.

I heard thunder, yet there was no lightning.

"You don't need to know my name, kid, but know this... you hold power to shame my worthy name. To shame the name of my god. The god whom I serve is willing to give you all that you desire, if you would only cooperate."

Cooperating somewhat with the ridiculous story, I asked, "Cooperate how?"

"Your womb, kid. If it bears fruit, it will bear a son. That son will rise and accomplish a great many things. He will serve my god. He will bring a new era of enlightenment. In bearing the child, my purpose will have been completed. Your purpose is to raise him. To care for him. To see he comes to the age of 24. At that age, he will begin The Enlightenment. And then, as it should be fulfilled, The Reckoning."

"When did my father die?"

"When he obeyed, kid, when he obeyed."

"Was he good? I mean... would he have been a good father?"

He laughed.

"In a sense, I suppose. You think I can't parent, don't you? You think your mother rapes you for pleasure? No. It's all part of the plan. To form you into the type of woman you need to be for your son. It's all got purpose."

I became angry, "So I could have had a good childhood? I could have had a good father and mother, but you killed him and perverted her! Is that it?! Is that your pleasure?!"

He screeched an unearthly screech of rage as he lunged at me, grasping my arm with his hand. Again, more thunder. The ground shook.

"My pleasure is to serve my god! And the childhood you have is what it is. It's perfect! It's exactly what it was intended to be! Don't ruin it with your thoughts on what life should be and how people should act and treat each other. Don't get moral, kid, it isn't becoming. Just cooperate and everything will work out. You'll be happy, my god will be happy and will reward you accordingly."

"Is your god Lucifer?" I asked, unable to hold back wanting the knowledge.

He snickered.

"What's in a name?"

"Just answer, I have to know."

"My god is who he is. Bite the nail, kid. Life's cryptic. So... do we have a deal? Will you cooperate?"

"Can you read my mind?" I asked.

"Only The Adversary has such powers. If you won't cooperate, things will go back to as they were before. Answer now."

I decided to play the cryptic card myself, "It appears I have no choice."

"Say it."

"I will cooperate as best I can."

"Not good enough! Get in the car."

"But--"

I awoke later that night in bed with a raging headache. I once tried to dismiss it as a bad dream, but I know better now. I know better.

Chapter Twelve: When Everyone Looks Left, Turn Right

It had been two years. Kaylie and I were still working at the pizza place. She was still waiting tables and I was still delivering by day and busting heads by night. I had been fortunate enough that I didn't get much publicity, most were generous enough to keep their mouths shut and just get on with their lives properly.

"I hate being in a deadend job," Kaylie commented, she was flipping through the TV stations.

"Yeah, but it ain't so bad," I spoke up, "It could be much worse."

"Not sure of that," she suddenly set up in her recliner, "Dude, Rose, it's your old man!"

Sure enough. As sure as night was dark, there he was. There he was invading our living room through our TV. I was sickened instantly. We watched quietly for a space.

He was preaching from one of those ridiculously overkilled church buildings, I like to refer to them as MecaChurches. You know the kind. When the cameras pan the audience and the stage, it appears more money was dispersed for the auditorium of a chapel, than on the members in attendence. Often times, the members are ragged and homeless looking. Then, there's my dad on the stage. He was pacing all over, like old times, sweating like a devilish pig. He was screaming to the high heavens about the lowest hell. He was wearing a really, really nice looking suit. It probably cost a fortune. He had bling on his left wrist in the form of a gold bracelet. On his right wrist, a shiny gold watch gleasened in the stage lights. He looked much older now, which made him seem more viable to the audience. He had some gray streaks through the sides of his hair, like Clark Gable. But, he didn't look charming at all. He looked mean, his wrinkles bore the emotions of a thousand years of hatred.

"Brothers and sisters," he addressed, "I would not have you ignorant, my god is willing to forgive you of your sins. He is willing to overlook the life you have lived, if you would just accept him and bow before his presence today. My god is not a harsh god. He is a loving and patient god, but he is a jealous one. You will worship him or you will worship no one! You will obey his will or you will die a thousand deaths in the hell to come!"

"Your dad is a nut," Kaylie spoke up, "Not to be rude, hun. But, seriously, he's an absolute nut."

"You have no idea, Kaylie."

She turned and looked at me with a queer, concerned look, "What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Rose, hun, I'm not stupid. Tell me."

I told her. I told her everything. From the beginning, I told her everything. Unto the present, I told her everything. I held nothing back. I took her into my room and showed her my costume, I kept it in a box beneathe my bed. And she said nothing the whole time.

She listened.

After showing her my outfit, I wrapped up my story and we retired on the couch in the living room again. My dad was still on, but we had muted him long before. He was sitting in a small room, with plants about him. The camera was close up on his face and he spoke directly into the camera. Kaylie still hadn't said anything, but she picked up the remote and brought the audio back up.

"Now, this is a just cause," he spoke softly now and smiled a lot, "But it is a heavy burden. I personally want to thank all those who have supported the cause both by sending money for the establishing of more churches and for supporting my wife and I. We are burdened, but no matter how rough the road may get, we will prevail. Better to die for my god, than to live. If you should wish to help support the cause for the first time or maybe you want to continue to support the cause, either way, than dial the number at the bottom of the screen and have your credit card ready..."

A number appeared across the screen, my dad began to read it but Kaylie turned the audio down.

"Rose..."

"Yes?"

"You know what has to be done, don't you?" she asked me, still staring at my dad on the TV.

"Yes."

For the first time, I saw tears build up in Kaylie's gorgeous eyes. And the streams fell, one after another. It was methodical.

She sniffled, "Please don't die."

Chapter Thirteen: Upon the First Day of the Week

Copyright 2007 Nathan Weaver
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