A Good Mother
I am not cruel. People say that I am cruel. They paint me as a skeleton, decaying and black and cold. They say that I steal people away from them, that I am heartless and mean and ( )utal. They do not understand that I do not steal . They do not see that I am beautiful and warm and kind. All of my children come with me willingly because I am a Good Mother and I love my children.
Some of my children already know that I am a Good Mother. They leap into my arms, and I kiss their sadness and scars away. They cry for me at night when their impalement on needles becomes too much to bear, and I soothe their pain. They run screaming towards me when the bombs drop, and I wrap them in my tight em( )ace and protect them.
I love my children. I am a Good Mother.
But most my children do not love me, because they do not know me. All they know are the lies He tells them. He is cruel. He forces my children to hold on to him, to cling desperately to his leg. They do not understand that he is pain and suffering and sadness. He is beautiful too, but it is not a lasting beauty, it is fleeting and small and delicate. My beauty is the beauty of infinity and peace and understanding. My beauty is strong.
When my children do finally meet me, they understand. They understand that I do not steal people away. When they finally know me, they love me, because I am a Good Mother and I love my children.
I am Death, and I am not cruel.
Going Home
The wind is strong. Biting. Whipping. Mocking.
Mocking like their voices. All of their voices, dancing in my head, dancing, dancing, an endless waltz of misery. Not Her voice though. Her voice is kind.
She is kind. I've seen Her in my dreams, the colour of sunlight and the feeling of a soft blanket. She whispers sweet words that sound like music into my ear as I fall asleep. She heals my ( )oken and weary body with Her kisses, light and dainty.
The lights are distracting as they drive by. Blinding. Ugly. Harsh. Can't they turn them off?
She is light, but it is not a harsh light, it is soft and warm and gentle. Even though it is dark out, I can feel Her illumination, a friendly glow that chases away my fears.
The water looks cold. Angry. Vicious. Unforgiving.
She is warm. Her peace washes over me like a river, drowning out the complaints that bubble to the surface. This is what She wants. This is what I want.
I see Her standing underneath the ( )idge, arms wide, waiting to catch me. She is so beautiful. Through the noise of the cars and the river I hear Her voice call to me, clear and loud, a lighthouse cutting through the fog. She is calling my name.
I push off, cutting through the strong wind, away from the distracting lights and towards the cold water. But it is not the water I am aiming for, it is Her arms, Her eternal em( )ace.
She is Death, and I am finally home.
The Anniversary
Mummy always gets sad this time of the year, and there isn't anything I can do to make her feel better. I don't like it. It's not just mummy being sad either, it's daddy and sissy too. I definitely don't like that. Nobody feels like playing, they just all sit around with serious faces and nobody says anything and it's so boring. And then The Day comes and nobody is smiling at all and sissy doesn't want to get out of bed and mummy and daddy have to force her out of her room. Everybody is wearing ugly clothes and mummy is crying before we even leave the house and sissy is trying to be like daddy and keep the tears back because daddy talked to her about this already. We have to be strong for mummy. I can tell sissy and daddy don't want to be strong though. They want to cry too. It makes me want to cry. Then everybody is in the car and mummy is sniffling in the front seat and sissy is staring out the window and daddy is driving slowly. I don't know why we go every year, nobody wants to go and it just makes everybody sad. But then we're there and they all get out of the car but I don't because I don't like where we are, it's a scary place full of scary things and I don't like it. I know where they're all going though. They're going to one of the tombstones, the one with the little baby angels carved on it beside a big rocky cross and a mean square stone. The cross says 'loving father' but the man who lives there is mean and nasty and I wouldn't want him to be my daddy. The lady who lives at the square stone is scary, she spends all her time screaming, I can hear her from the car. She used to grab me and say I'm her baby but I'm not her baby. That's why I don't live there anymore.
Good Dog
"What do you think, Herr Wilhelm? A good likeness, no?" I ask, not expecting an answer. Wilhelm looks past the folded paper to me and thumps his tail, fleshy pink tongue lolling out between large pointed teeth. He's a beautiful shepherd, a proud testament to years of diligent ( )eeding. A good German dog.
I stand up and pocket the paper, straightening out my uniform. I think about Wilhelm's retirement. Not for a while yet, but still in the foreseeable future. The War would be over soon, our Führer had promised. He would make a good pet for my family, a strong, loyal guardian for my most treasured possessions. My little Heidi drew a picture of him last night and insisted that I show the dog the drawing.
"I'll tell her you liked it." I say, ruffling the top of his large head with my hand. Another approving tail thump.
Wilhelm is a good dog, smart and obedient. We spend the bulk of our days training, or escorting new batches of prisoners. Most of them don't bother trying to escape, just the presence of Wilhelm is enough to discourage them. A few foolish ones try, but I barely have time to drop the leash and shout the command before Wilhelm is on them. He is very good at target take-down.
I try not to think of the flesh and bones these targets are made of. I try not to think about what the blood on Wilhelm's muzzle is actually from. He doesn't eat them, of course--his rations are better than mine!--but he has been trained to take them down very vigorously.
I don't think about any of that when I call Wilhelm back to me and reward him with a 'Guter hund!' I don't think about who these people are or what they've done to end up here. I think about what a good protector Wilhelm would be for my family after the War, and drown out the muffled screams of his victims in his heavy panting.
God's Lessons
God has revealed His plan for me, His purpose for my life. Like the prophets of old, He came to me in a dream, shining in His brilliance; a kindly white face with beautiful scarlet strips, the thorns forever marring His holy brow.
"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations."
I have been chosen. I am His navi, His prophet.
"In their case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. You who I have called will gather my sheep, that they may know the glory of the Lord."
I will call his people to repentance, show them His lessons. The wicked shall mourn, the righteous shall inherit the kingdom.
She is beautiful, young and tight, brimming with vitality.
Harlot!
Her red dress clings to her like a lover, holding her tightly.
Jezebel!
Red. Scarlet. The blood in her veins. The blood of the Lamb.
Whore of Babylon!
His voice screams in my head. He has chosen her, I will teach her His lessons.
She was beautiful before. She is more beautiful in repentance. Her skin glows with a radiance not found in this earthly kingdom, the pallor of the angels. She reaches out, arms spread, ready to take on the sins of the world.
Red. Scarlet. Her palms, her feet. The crown of thorns marring her brow.
There is no more fear, she is beyond fear now.
She is reborn, a child of Our Holy Father.
God's lessons are beautiful. |
