along with the illusion. “What kind of a God would expect such a thing? What kind of a God would be appeased by an act like that?”
“ He’s not appeased. He doesn’t want us to do it but we do it anyway, because there’s nothing else we CAN do. It’s a gesture. It’s the only way we can acknowledge our unworthiness in His eyes.”
Unworthiness, Westmore thought.
The angel was leaning over, right in front of Westmore now. “Still don’t believe me, huh? There’s so little faith anymore. Remember when that kid Nathan beat you up for stealing his army men? Remember when you and Dougie made the crippled kid cry? You stole his book bag. Fourth grade, Summerset Elementary School. How could I know that?”
“ It’s easy,” Westmore countered. “You’re a hallucination, born of my mind. I drank too much and now I’m seeing things.”
“ Maybe you’re right. If you died, right now, you’d go to hell. Be careful.”
“ But isn’t hell really just death?”
“ Yes,” the angel said. The distant clock ticked through a long pause. “And no, not at all. Be careful, Westmore.”
“ How ambiguous.”
“ We have to be. God works in fucked up ways. It’s the only way because you and your kind can’t understand. All of life is a mystery. We’re spirits, Westmore. We live forever.”
Westmore stared up into dark. Whenever he tried to focus on this phantom—something surely born of his subconscious mind—a vertigo shifted in his vision. Then he was shuddering—the angel was touching his forehead—the gash. The touch felt hot, itchy.
“ Parlor tricks for a simpleton.” The voice flowed in the dark. The cigarette tip glowed. Westmore wasn’t impressed when he touched his forehead and found it healed. No gash, no cut, no blood. When I wake up tomorrow, it’ll be there. I know it’ll be there because I know I cut my head. This is just an hallucination, the D.T.’s or something.
Now the voice sounded like wind blowing through leaves. “You want to see something, you want to see something?” The angel opened his hand over Westmore’s eyes. “Remember that girl you loved so much, the one you never told? Take a look.”
Westmore saw her in the dark behind his eyes. She was passed out. Some scuzzy scumbag was fucking her. In the vision, Westmore could sense the man’s aura—the core of his being. He was just using her for a hole to fuck. He didn’t care the least about her; he’d gotten her drunk just so he could fuck her, and discarded her feelings.
“ You should’ve told her, Westmore,” the angel’s voice hissed.
The photographer’s own voice sounded like something destroyed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“ Let me tell you something about truth…” Now the angel’s words seemed to issue from everywhere but his mouth. “The truth always matters…”
Westmore ground his teeth; tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.
“ And here’s the crippled kid’s digs now. Look, look…”
An executive office, big desk, plaques and certificates of achievement on the paneled walls. On the desk, a framed picture of a happy family.
“ He’s what you aren’t. A success. A benevolent person. He’s what it’s all about. You aren’t.”
Westmore was sinking.
The angel stepped back hastily, as if annoyed. “This is chump change, man. Your life is chump change. I don’t know why I bother.”
“ Why do you bother?”
More of the hiss-like whisper. “Because you’ve got to love everyone. You’ve got to love everyone the way Jesus did. Anything else makes no sense. You’re an asshole, but I love you. You’re all assholes. A lot of us were really pissed off about your race. A lot of us got thrown out.”
“ What about you? Did you get thrown out?”
“ No. I live to love and serve the Lord on High. I am His unworthy servant forever.”
The words beat gently in the air, like small birds flying.
“ Because God was right.” Again, the angel pointed to his head.
“ He’s not appeased. He doesn’t want us to do it but we do it anyway, because there’s nothing else we CAN do. It’s a gesture. It’s the only way we can acknowledge our unworthiness in His eyes.”
Unworthiness, Westmore thought.
The angel was leaning over, right in front of Westmore now. “Still don’t believe me, huh? There’s so little faith anymore. Remember when that kid Nathan beat you up for stealing his army men? Remember when you and Dougie made the crippled kid cry? You stole his book bag. Fourth grade, Summerset Elementary School. How could I know that?”
“ It’s easy,” Westmore countered. “You’re a hallucination, born of my mind. I drank too much and now I’m seeing things.”
“ Maybe you’re right. If you died, right now, you’d go to hell. Be careful.”
“ But isn’t hell really just death?”
“ Yes,” the angel said. The distant clock ticked through a long pause. “And no, not at all. Be careful, Westmore.”
“ How ambiguous.”
“ We have to be. God works in fucked up ways. It’s the only way because you and your kind can’t understand. All of life is a mystery. We’re spirits, Westmore. We live forever.”
Westmore stared up into dark. Whenever he tried to focus on this phantom—something surely born of his subconscious mind—a vertigo shifted in his vision. Then he was shuddering—the angel was touching his forehead—the gash. The touch felt hot, itchy.
“ Parlor tricks for a simpleton.” The voice flowed in the dark. The cigarette tip glowed. Westmore wasn’t impressed when he touched his forehead and found it healed. No gash, no cut, no blood. When I wake up tomorrow, it’ll be there. I know it’ll be there because I know I cut my head. This is just an hallucination, the D.T.’s or something.
Now the voice sounded like wind blowing through leaves. “You want to see something, you want to see something?” The angel opened his hand over Westmore’s eyes. “Remember that girl you loved so much, the one you never told? Take a look.”
Westmore saw her in the dark behind his eyes. She was passed out. Some scuzzy scumbag was fucking her. In the vision, Westmore could sense the man’s aura—the core of his being. He was just using her for a hole to fuck. He didn’t care the least about her; he’d gotten her drunk just so he could fuck her, and discarded her feelings.
“ You should’ve told her, Westmore,” the angel’s voice hissed.
The photographer’s own voice sounded like something destroyed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“ Let me tell you something about truth…” Now the angel’s words seemed to issue from everywhere but his mouth. “The truth always matters…”
Westmore ground his teeth; tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.
“ And here’s the crippled kid’s digs now. Look, look…”
An executive office, big desk, plaques and certificates of achievement on the paneled walls. On the desk, a framed picture of a happy family.
“ He’s what you aren’t. A success. A benevolent person. He’s what it’s all about. You aren’t.”
Westmore was sinking.
The angel stepped back hastily, as if annoyed. “This is chump change, man. Your life is chump change. I don’t know why I bother.”
“ Why do you bother?”
More of the hiss-like whisper. “Because you’ve got to love everyone. You’ve got to love everyone the way Jesus did. Anything else makes no sense. You’re an asshole, but I love you. You’re all assholes. A lot of us were really pissed off about your race. A lot of us got thrown out.”
“ What about you? Did you get thrown out?”
“ No. I live to love and serve the Lord on High. I am His unworthy servant forever.”
The words beat gently in the air, like small birds flying.
“ Because God was right.” Again, the angel pointed to his head.
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