Photo by timatkins at morguefile.com
***Attention!*** For part I of this story, click here, for part II, click here, for part III, click here.
Christmas had come and gone and I still hadn’t replied to Nesbit. His story hung over me like a cold mist. Last night, at my mother’s New Year’s party, she had asked me about him and I hadn’t known what to tell her.
Sitting down on my couch, I gaze at the tree I have yet to take down. What do I say to him? If his story is true, then God saved him but condemned Chris, my sweet, good, brave, and honest Chris, to die. If it’s not true, then everything I grew up believing is still a lie.
The tree sparkles in the dark, my eyes falling on the angel hidden in the branches just below the star. Each beat of my heart aches more than the last. My tears come whether I want them to or not.
“If you’re there,” I say, to God, or maybe to the air, “then why? I believed in you for my whole life. I went to church and sat through so many boring services. I tithed. I prayed. I read my bible. I even celebrated the birth of your son when others told me he doesn’t exist. The least you owe me is an answer.” I roll my eyes at my own stupidity.
My computer dings from the kitchen table. Continue reading