Index Post for Does God Have Plans for Verna?

T.F. : The Militant Verna, Tribulation Force, pp. 5-8

Here's an index post for the first part of Does God Have Plans for Verna?

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 1
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 2
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 3
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 4
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 5
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 6
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 7

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 7

Intermission with your friend Steve:

Steve looked at the barrel of the gun he had stolen from the crime scene after the investigations had abruptly concluded. He had tried to call Buck, but the calls hadn’t been answered, hadn’t even gotten through. He wanted to apologize, say that it wasn’t him who had sold him out so callously, that he knew the whole thing was rigged all along, but he couldn’t reach. He couldn’t reach anyone outside of New York anymore.

He never wanted to feel as hideous as he had these last few weeks. The force had come off and on, at first subtly, but once the strange Romanian Robert Redford with the mountain name had come along, it was more forceful. It toyed with his brain, angrily picking it over, disgusted and hateful of those beautiful memories he and Buck had shared once upon a time, even recently, when he had helped him so lovingly for his big date with the handsome foreigner. It had been unconventional sure, with even other queers appalled at the openness of the format and the intense closet of their public life.

But then, they had never been at the head of one of the top news organization. There were considerations. Stanton Bailey was an insane John Bircher. Steve had to pretend to be a crazed anti-semite just to be employed there, though Steve always suspected it was a cruel joke as he was about the most obvious Jew he knew. Such a person would have been hardly willing to employ an out gay man as well.

Plus, it helped revive the image of the paper. Under Bailey’s management, the reputation built on global investigative journalism had devolved mostly into insane conspiracy theories and seminars on how to present oneself as the Liberal Media that were mostly retreads of far-right insanity. Steve had been able to reign in that ultra-stupid construction and retain the image of impeccable journalism.

When Stanton brought in Buck to be the new wunderkid, he had some early promise and a blind luck to stumble into at least the bare bones of a story that could be knocked into shape by more competent writers. More importantly, he had the most beautiful blue eyes that Steve had ever seen. Steve could fall deeply into those eyes and had indeed done so snuggling him close in bed after a hard day in the office.

So the promise never amounted to much and Steve found himself usually massively rewriting the “ace reporter’s” crap work or slapping his name on some other better journalist’s investigation to keep his reputation good and strong enough to justify taking him on all those press junkets around the world.

And when Mr. Mountains had offered him the press secretary gig with way more pay and a chance to be witness to some really impressive history, not to mention an unlimited spending account and access to any Presidential Suite in the world, he had been too ready in hindsight to jump at the opportunity. Hadn’t he paid his price in blood? And it wasn’t like he was getting any younger. If it meant a chance to finally be out with his primary and be able to walk the streets hand-in-hand, any amount of political “fishiness” could be assuaged. Especially if he helped cover on Buck’s role as head reporter contact.

It had been a perfect plan, really. But then there was the bombing and Buck refused his role right after we pitched the offer so perfectly. It wasn’t at all like Nicolae wasn’t a seductive man. After that, it got worse. He could feel the force in his mind more often. More and more of his statements came from somewhere else. Whenever, he tried to explain the situation to Buck he felt stopped and trapped.

And then the incident at the UN happened. Steve tried to warn him in advance, but his body had moved of its own accord. Every time he had tried to explain or shout a warning or something, the voice in his head at hissed with pure hatred.

It said, “Shut up, faggot or I’ll erase another one of your precious memories doing…ugh.”

Though frankly, he should have been aware even before that when Buck first started asking those random questions about the End of Days. Weird hints fell out of his mouth, strange panics that weren’t his own and when he tried to include his own warnings of the UN trap, it merely mixed altogether with the rest of the crap.

In the end he lost his primary forever and even his position high atop this empty hotel, the voice and force wouldn’t even permit him to lose himself in base comforts.

To borrow from the mythology, he felt like he had sold his soul to the devil and for nothing.

So, Steve settled in with a bottle of Jack Daniels and once he reached bottom he picked up the gun and started at it. He checked the bullets and then set the simple pistol. Staring directly into that deep black opening with a weaving eye.

“Oh, my dear Mr. Plank, don’t do that,” a voice intoned lovingly before repeating himself in German and Swahili.

“Screw you, demon. You’re not going to get my mind,” Steve drunkenly slurred waving the gun at the blonde figure approaching him.

“Oh my dear Steve, what would I do with your mind? Such things are far above me. Now Steve, my dear Steve, why would you betray my trust like this? Not only would you deprive me of a Press Secretary on this momentous occasion, but you’d leave me with a large cleaning bill as well. Tsk tsk, poor form,” it intoned as it came close enough to grab the gun out of his hand while repeating himself in Portuguese and Korean.

“I…fuck.”

“My dear drunken friend. What you need is a bedtime story. Let me tell you my favorite one. It’s about a small-time Romanian politician who late one night found God.”

Nicolae repeated himself in the voice of The Deity.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 6

Verna rang the doorbell impatiently while looking once again at the list.

“How’d I miss that, Alice,” she said, mentally kicking herself that she hadn’t at all connected the Chloe that had started her whole frantic investigation into the San Francisco situation to begin with to the current case.

“Well, you did keep putting off reading the list,” Alice chided mockingly. Her good humor seemed to be slowly fading back into her. More likely, Verna thought, she was using the same energy and focus she was to try and put out of mind Mel’s hopeless situation.

“Still, it’s unprofessional.” Weak sauce, Verna thought

Alice rather agreed. “I will keep that in mind,” she responded letting the terms drip with sarcasm.

“Hello?” A young woman opened the door and straightened what looked like an apron. “I was just making dinner for my father.”

Verna balked at the statement, but forced herself on. “Are you Chloe Steele?”

“I am. I’m sorry, but how do you know my name?”

Verna shook her head. “Sorry, we’re from The Center, you called us about a week ago in a bit of distress.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t fully remember that. But it might be true, I’ve been most upset about my mom and brother. They were lucky enough to be taken by Jesus, you know. Are you from New Hope Church?”

Verna tried to unpack and parse the sentence, but was unable to. She flipped over the sheet and just began writing as much of it down as she could in pure journalistic fervor.

Alice again took over the reins Verna had once again let falter. “Forgive her, she was just worried about her. Yes, we’re definitely related to this New Hope. If you’d be a doll and tell me more about it and your father Captain Steele, that’d be great.”

Chloe’s eyes tilted, but if she suspected the brazen lie, she didn’t let on. “Oh New Hope is brilliant, it really opened my eyes. Or rather, my father’s eyes first. I’m sorry, my roast is burning, would you join me in the Kitchen?”

Verna watched as Alice followed into the kitchen as she began to investigate around the hideous suburban house. Verna was not much for judging decorations. She had always lived pretty spartan, so she never really felt like she couldn’t judge anyone else’s idea of a good home to have, but this house looked like something out of her worst nightmares. Covered in nothing but desperate kitsch and lace, it looked like what a maniacal grandma would put up to line her own prison cell. There were entire walls with more and more complex embroideries as if the creator was desperately trying to stitch back to tendrils of Cthulhu himself.

There were photos everywhere, showing off an older nervous wreck of a woman nervously twisting an ancient pearl necklace while occasionally holding a baby boy or proudly clutching a young boy with that exact type of haircut you only see on a person when they cannot choose their haircut. There was also an older man as well festooned in an airline pilot’s uniform. No wonder the military leads hadn’t panned out. There was also the woman who had opened the door. The photos of her, seemed normal for the most part, but she noticed that teenage Chloe had been a little loud, as it were.

The voice she had heard had been the same one weeping to her on the Crisis Hotline. But why then, did she not have any idea what she meant by the Center? Even worse, how did Chloe not know or respond to the rainbow pin on Verna’s baseball cap? She shuffled around more and more, looking for some form of clue. Moving upstairs she looked around first the parent’s bedroom. It was oddly septic, like a sleeping pod and there was some weird aura surrounding it. She entered briefly and looked around but she was feeling overwhelming energy to leave. She began to turn around, but caught a glimpse of something on the floor.

It was an old straight edge razor, covered in old blood. She pocketed it and then fled.

Dinosaur mobiles hung from the ceiling with little people riding them. Books like The Good Christian Science Book were strewn on the floor while posters proclaiming, “I like Jesus” were hung on all the walls. Verna scoured through the room for any additional clues, but there was little accept a small bundle of perfectly draped clothes that had recently been what looks like forcibly hugged. Verna felt the need again to immediately leave.

The final room seemed to be the right one. There were pictures of female musicians on every wall and what looked like a duffel bag. She dug through briefly, looking over the artifacts within, but they were mostly clothes. She had apparently packed light. Shrugging her shoulders, she tore around the room, but most of it was innocuous, but oddly, that creepy sort of innocuous that comes from someone desperately trying to present an innocuous room. She began feeling around wallboards and ceiling tiles and drawer bottoms, before finding Chloe’s secret stash. Magazines of Curve and old playboys likely stolen from her father.

She felt around some more, finding a discarded pair of jeans with a wallet inside, containing photos of a rather beautiful girl in a halter-top signed From Maggie with Love.

She remembered that name. The panicked girl who had called her had been frantic for any help reaching San Francisco, worried sick that she had to tell Maggie something before it was too late. Slipping the photo into her pocket, she went back downstairs, where Alice was helping sautee some potatoes.

“We were just talking all about Captain Steele. Did you know he lost a wife and son and helped bring our Chloe here to Jesus?” Alice said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Verna just nodded and grabbed Chloe by the shoulders.

“What are you doing,” Chloe responded angrily.

“I know you called us Chloe. Tell us about Maggie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just cooking dinner. My father will be home soon. Supper must be ready. A dutiful daughter,” Chloe’s eyes darted frantically to the pot roast as Verna shook her.

“Bullshit,” Verna cursed bitterly before pulling the photo out of her pocket. This Maggie, your girlfriend in the San Francisco area.”

“Liar. I’m a good Christian woman. I am pledged eternally to Buck Williams.”

Verna heard a spoon drop behind her and a voice speak up.

“What was that, dear?”

“Buck Williams. God chose him to be my lord and master as it says in the Bible. I prayed for him and then he God got him seats directly next to mine the day after I met him and I knew then I’d be with him forever and ever because I am a woman and he is a man and he bought me a cookie at an airport.”

Verna blinked trying not to let the creepy overwhelm her moral outrage. If she was going to get to the bottom of this she needed answers from those most afflicted.

“You mentioned you were scared of something. Something inside of your father made him change. Is it related to something called The Deity?”

“Jesus Christ is the way, you heathens! My father corrected me onto the path from a life hell bound for my sins. Now I can be with my mother in Heaven. She’s the greatest person of all, better than us left behind.”

Verna felt like she was close to it. Now she had to gamble.

“You tried to meet with your mother didn’t you. Tried to kill your self with this,” she pulled out the bloodstained straight edge and held it up. “But then this Jesus or maybe Captain Steele did something to you.”

“Oh, god, what is that. I never tried to kill myself. Help, help! The robbers have returned for more of Raymie’s things.”

Verna grabbed Chloe’s wrist harder and wrestled down her sleeves. “I’m afraid you can’t hide it any longer, the evidence is right…here.”

Verna looked down on perfectly unscarred wrists.

“But that doesn’t make sense.” Verna felt the aching gap fill once again, a filling of deep and abiding chaos delicately straddled as the world crumbled down inside of her. “I was onto the answer. Eliminate the impossibilities and whatever’s left no matter how improbable must be true…”

“We got to get out of here,” Alice tugged frantically at Verna’s plain sleeves with absolute terror. “I have a really bad feeling.”

“But-“

“We need to get out of here now.” Alice wasn’t usually inclined to throw weight around, but Verna wasn’t the most butch of dykes to begin with. Without much commotion she found herself dragged along hopping on one foot before gaining a running speed as Alice frantically searched around for an empty house to throw them into and lock the door.

“I think we’re safe now,” Alice muttered, keeping low from the windows and still trembling all over.

“Why did you-“ Verna began, the chaos still shattering her careful faith in order and control.

“I felt it Verna. Again. I think it might have been The Deity,” Alice collapsed against the floor and began to cry. “God, it’s not really over. It’s not actually going to let things become normal again.”

“Alice, what’s going on?” Verna tried to rally desperately.

“The Event, I think I know what caused it and I think it’s somehow fixated on Buck and Captain Steele and maybe that weirdly popular Carpathia guy.”

“So…” Verna violently shook her mind for the core of her essence. Once found, she grasped it tight and fell.

“What do we do, Verna?” Alice continued sobbing into her pretty dress.

“We’re reporters, Alice,” Verna said quietly. “We investigate.”

“It’s probably watching the house now.”

“Then we find another source,” Verna said, pulling up her distraught friend. Now let’s get back to civilization.”

Back at the Steele residence, Chloe Steele cried and prayed as The Deity circled around gazing her this way and that.

“What is it my puppet?” It hissed into the air.

“There were heathens here and they were saying the most horrible things,” Chloe responded, weeping openly. “And then you came and made them stop.”

The Deity chuckled. The new Chloe was so much better than that old insolent whelp. It smiled deeply and then replied in a voice full of what it considered love.

“Well sound the alarm if they come back, the Godless must be punished.”

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 5

Verna looked down the list of callers and questionable cases and then knocked on the door, waiting for an answer. She looked up and down the street, which was literally dead quiet with the dread anti-energy of suburban sprawl. It may have once spawned brief sporadic flashes, but the kids were long since gone. She looked around to a neighbor’s lawn where children’s toys still littered the lawn.

Verna felt the all-familiar ache that it didn’t hurt as much as it should. It was practically reflex at this point, perhaps some distant Jewish trait that always made her extra hard on herself no matter what.

“Why don’t you add highlights to your hair,” Alice asked adjusting her far more lacy and impractical home outfit covered in an odd mixture of zippers, chains, and black lace. Verna stopped in wonderment at the question and turned.

“Huh?”

“Well, I mean you’ve got the whole sport dyke thing going on with the cap and ponytail, but I mean, it’s awfully subtle. I mean, no wonder, you haven’t had a date in five-“

“Four”

“Years, so yeah.”

“I’ve been busy…”

“Right.”

Verna paused in mid-awkward stance and grabbed herself by the mind and focused away the weakness. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Alice seemed taken-aback for a second and then rallied. “The silence was getting to me. It’s kind of triggering. The apartment next to mine had a loud baby you know and…”

Verna nodded along. “In that case, I like the natural look, now if you don’t have any-“

“How are you two doing?”

With a startled movement, she looked back nervously towards the door which remained imposingly shut.

“Over here, darling.”

Verna turned to the neighboring yard where there stood what would have been a young blonde throwback from the 50s wearing high-heeled shoes and stockings if not for the single orange and green bracer around her left arm, stepping her way gingerly through the toys in the yard.

“Ah, hello, miss. Are you er....” Verna glanced down at the sheet of paper before continuing, “Mel?”

“Oh dear me gracious no, I don’t know anyone named Mel. I just came out here to do a little shopping for my husband, he’s so needy, sometimes.”

“Uh…”

“So are you some sort of charitable group or something?”

“Yes, actually…I’m sorry, but are you ok?”

“Why of course I am, why ever would you ask?”

“Well you didn’t seem…er…your lawn is…er…Aren’t those a little problematic,” Verna finally spit out pointing to the scattered children’s toys and expecting the worst.

She wasn’t prepared.

“Oh lord, we got lucky there, Captain Steele had all of his son’s toys stolen, bless his heart. He lost his wife and son you know, terrible tragedy.”

“I…bah…gah.” Verna babbled, unable to even muster any response to her self. She had been kicking herself for three weeks for not feeling enough and here was a woman, seemingly unaware of what had happened.

“Wait, didn’t you also lose kids,” Alice stepped in and finished.

The woman’s face went completely blank.

“Captain Steele lost his son and wife. I need to make my husband dinner and there’s only so much time. By the way, have you accepted Jesus Christ?” The woman continued with no apparent recognition of the conversation before. With that, she walked to her car and began driving away, while Verna stared dumbfounded and shaken.

After the car had disappeared a meek voice sounded behind her.

“Can I help you?”

#

Verna turned around slowly to see a meek teenager with pigtails and a long shirt. Their face and legs clean-shaven, but their chest overly flat.

“Er, are you Mel Cooper?” Verna enquired. “Did you call into The Center for help?”

“I did…” The teenager seemed to be clinging to the half-closed door as a protecting barrier or dear friend.

“Well I’m Verna Zee and this is my friend Alice and we wanted to follow up with you and make sure you were doing alright.” Verna said, moving her expressions into ones of professional empathy.

“I’m fine, really. I don’t hear the voice when I stay in the house and I’ve learned how to run to the store when it’s not looking.”

“Wait, when what’s not looking?”

“The Deity.”

“Wait, what?” Verna was taken aback slightly. If what she was saying was true, then that meant the Rapture theory did have the most validity, but then again, that just raised many more questions.

“The Deity. If I go out when it’s looking, it goes into my head and it starts yelling at me, calling me a freak, trying to change things. But if I’m quick then it’s okay. I’m more worried about my girlfriend and boyfriend.”

“Er…”

“I haven’t seen them in a week and I’m worried that the Deity may have gotten them.”

“Well what did they look like?” Alice asked kindly cutting in.

“Don’t press her Alice, can’t you see she’s scared?”

“I’m not a she.”

Verna kicked herself. How inappropriate she’d been. “I’m terribly sorry, young man.”

“Not man.”

Verna froze. “Alice, pronoun help.”

Alice shook her head and leaned in. “What pronoun do you use?”

“Ze.”

“Genderqueer?”

“Agendered.”

“Well I’m a transwoman myself, so bisexual?”

“Asexual, but my boyfriend and girlfriend are cool with it.” The teen clutched the door less and seemed to let it swing. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

“That’s ok, from your call, you sounded like you were having some real troubles. Can you describe your boyfriend and girlfriend to me?”

“Well he’s kind of gangly with bright pink hair and she’s got long blonde hair and looks kind of plain, but they’ve both got these orange and green bracers I made for them. Or rather one each…”

Verna felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, but tried to rally herself. “We’ll go looking for them immediately. On another note, your neighbor was acting rather odd a minute ago-“

“I don’t have any neighbors.”

“Wait, what?”

“They disappeared with my parents.”

“But what about the woman who just drove away?”

“I didn’t see it…er…you are going to help me, right?”

“Of course, sweetie,” Alice chimed in and stepping forward. “Now, I’m going to stay here and you can tell me some more about what they look like. And my partner will-“

“Be right with you. I just want to look into something real quick. You won’t mind will you?” Verna finished.

“I’m not five, you both do realize that, right? I’m just nervous.”

“Right,” Verna said distractedly before heading back down the path.

“Ignore her,” Alice said behind her while entering the house. “Now do you have any photos or any other clues that can help us know where to start looking…”

The conversation continued, but Verna was already out of earshot. She looked back to make sure the door was closed and then ran over to the neighboring house, briefly tripping over the discarded reminders of Earth that was. She knocked on the door hoping desperately to be wrong about her hunch, but even before the door opened, she knew it was a vain hope.

The “husband” opened the door. A young teenager in an older man’s suit with short pink hair whose blonde roots were already growing briefly up to replace them and around his right wrist, the same orange and green bracer she had seen on the other girl. And at that point, the makeup had preventing her from noticing that she seemed teenish in body as well.

“Do you know a Mel Cooper?”

The man answered in a chirpy happy voice. “No, I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Do you know a Captain Steele?”

“He lost his wife and son you know, it was very tragic.”

“Did you lose any parents?”

“Captain Steele lost his wife and son.”

“I see. Do you know where he lives?”

“Captain Steele lost his-“

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.

“Have you seen my wife? She needs to make me dinner.”

“I’m sure she’ll be home soon.”

The walk back around to Mel’s was achingly slow and painful and the deep gulf in Verna’s heart was once again threatening to swamp all the progress she had made earlier. She tried the doorknob of Mel’s place entering in and closing the door and breathing a deep painful sigh.

“Did you find anything,” Mel muttered apologetically, trying to hide a pan he had briefly before prepared to swing at the seeming intruder.

“Is that your parents’?” Verna asked, her heart too hardened to really mind the assault she narrowly avoided.

“It’s Marc’s. Your friend is up in Marc and Erin’s sex room. Well, my parent’s bedroom really, but they’re dead and gone now. Bastards.”

“Right.” Verna said before heading up the stairs. Up at the top, she found Alice sitting in the door-frame. “Did you find anything,” Verna asked.

“There was this in the bed sheets, I don’t think Mel found it.” Alice held up a handful of what looked like some form of prescription drug. “There was also a letter that had fallen under the dresser. It was a suicide note.”

“But they’re both playing Stepford Couple next door.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

“What do we do, Verna,” Alice curled up tighter, clutching the note to her leg so that it crumpled. Verna knew enough of Alice’s history to guess. When she had been a young boy, her first boyfriend had dispatched himself in a similar way. Verna knew she needed to get them out of here.

“Let’s go.” Verna said, wrenching her to her feet and taking the letter from Alice’s hand and shoving it in her own pocket.

“Wait, but-“

“Mel, we’re both going to put out some queries to some friends of ours and they’ll keep an eye out. If you need anything or are scared that the Deity is coming after you, this is my personal cell phone number and I will answer it any time, day or night. Got it?”

“Ok.”

“I don’t feel right-“ Alice began before Verna dragged her out of the house.

“She’s very helpful minded. But we have a few more places we need to hit. Have you heard of a Captain Steele?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m not really that helpful, I guess.”

“Quite all right.” Verna stated, the careful practiced calm face, approaching a level of cracking. She shook Mel’s hand and prepared to move away, before Mel immediately hugged her.

“Thank you so much,” ze stated, while Verna nervously twitched. “You be careful of the Deity now. If you feel Him at all, you need to pretend to be as normal as possible and find shelter. You need to do that.”

“Ok, I will kid. Listen, anytime, really.”

The hug tightened and then released. Verna was outside the door that was now closing.

“Thank you” was the only reply as the door closed firmly shut on the outside world.

“Was that a good idea, V-“ Alice began.

“We still don’t know what happened. But we don’t want hir to repeat anything of the sort.”

“I guess,” Alice replied tentatively.

“I just wish I could have gotten a lead on this Captain Steele fellow. Sigh, what’s the next name.”

Verna stopped and looked behind her where Alice was staring shaking into a sheet of paper. Verna sighed. It had been a bad idea to involve her at that level. She was a great shoulder to lean on, but the scene had obviously triggered some bad memories amidst the confusion.

“Verna,” she spoke softly.

Verna reached an arm around her back and held her awkwardly to herself. “It’s going to be ok, you’ll-“

“No, Verna, look.” And with that Alice pointed down to the next name on the list, one Chloe Steele.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 4

(Author’s Note: Not owning the book, I’m unsure about whether this scene was supposed to go before or after the Verna scene. It’s probably before, but since the potential is far more interesting if the answer is after, I’m going to pretend that Fred’s recap order is auto-magically the real one. Yay, ignorance!)

Alice leaned against the door struggling to hear the conversation between Verna and Buck. There wasn’t much to make out. There was a banter about names and then a lot of silence. Suddenly, she heard marching and quickly ran back to her seat at her desk and pretended to shuffle papers.

Buck came out self-consciously. Looking out over the crowd of workers very clearly staring and smiling at him as a few suppressed a brief urge to laugh. Alice herself smiled to see it as it meant that however briefly it was almost ok to laugh again. And then she leaned back in her chair to check out Buck’s well-toned butt in his tight business pants. Alice raised an eyebrow in approval and then recomposed herself. It was rude to stare, but sometimes, how could one resist?

She glanced up at his face and grew momentarily worried. There seemed to be a storm brewing on his face. Alice wondered whether or not Verna was too harsh on him or called him to the carpet about the last story. Verna tried to put on a brave face, but Alice knew that she hadn’t yet let out any of the anger over how that went down. Well, she could always try to cheer him up a little.

Buck’s facial features seemed to shift into something less obviously angry or hurt as he turned and winked at her. Alice felt herself giggle at the attention and felt her hand nervously go to her choker, before rerouting it to her short spiked hair. The ruffles on her shirt would hopefully distract him enough to have hidden the faux pas.

“Your boss says I need an appointment to get settled in. Can you take care of that for me?”

Alice felt herself blushing as she looked at his dapper, nerdy charm, and completely to die for earlobes. Not nearly as butch as her normal type, but still, enough to make her blush for sure.

“Sure Mr. Williams, one second.”

He leaned closer letting her get a whiff of his cologne. It was overly strong, the sort of mistake a casual beginner or teenager would make, but the cuteness of the attempt and his awkward attempt to flirt were making her flashback to her days as a little boy watching Xander on Buffy.

“You can call me Buck,” he whispered into her ear. There was something odd about the statement, but she couldn’t quite place it. Something just seemed slightly off, seemingly demanding maybe. She wasn’t quite sure, but still the experience was still rather pleasurable and besides she could see down his shirt slightly to see that it was well shaven and had that definite metrosexual quality.

“Thanks,” she muttered back nervously, before indicating the empty chair beside her desk.

Buck sat in the chair oddly, a sort of parody of masculinity and there was a quality of her eyes that seemed to make her laugh nervously. She worried that the laughter might offend him, but as much as she waited, he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he began to flirt back with her, seemingly well adjusted to the post-Event world.

Alice’s immense attraction to that fact was a great relaxant and she felt more eased into the conversation, though she did find herself occasionally troubled by the forcefulness of the flirtation. It wasn’t the casual fun or even highly suggestive flirting that she greatly enjoyed, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what exactly seemed off. She couldn’t stop nervously giggling after most lines, even if they were intensely cheesy and ludicrous.

“So how do you like working with the greatest investigative reporter of all time? Think I can shape these mmm, heh heh, boys into something fitting this place.” Buck stated while his sexily gangly arms betrayed his own immaturity.

Again, it was a rather pathetic self-indictment in its seriousness, but worse, it seemed overly off, seemingly fighting in its own structure. She looked up into his eyes again after long avoiding it and was struck dumb and dry by what she saw.

Sheer terror.

A shake and it returned, an angrier predatory core that seemed to bore into her mind. Alice became mute, laughing incredibly nervously as she saw the eyes bore deep and something else creep along absent-mindedly alongside.

“Yup, good. Young whore. Slut.”

“What did you say?” Alice jerked up abruptly finalizing the conversation.

“I didn’t say anything,” his eyes while still with the previous sheen, seemed genuinely puzzled and hurt, so much so, that she balked at the outburst.

“I thought I-“ Alice began, nervously clutching her choker with both hands before composing herself.

“I’m sorry, I must be going. My new apartment has already installed phones, you see, and I’ve hardly had time to make good use of them. It was a pleasure meeting you my dear.”

With that he walked out, blithely whistling to himself as his colleagues continued to stare.

“What a mess, eh?” Verna responded from behind her, causing her to spin around in a panic.

“Don’t do that,” Alice hissed back.

“I would say the same thing. Again, also gay.”

“He could be bi,” Alice said briefly clinging to the most unlikely rumor about Buck’s orientation, though she already knew that one of the aspects most troubling about his recent behavior was how badly it was attempting to compensate or prove something. Alice cursed her aching sex drive that she wasn’t able to note it sooner.

“Besides, there’s something off about him, something dangerous that reminds me of something.”

“Latresha the bodybuilder,” Alice asked, unable to resist the opening to tease Verna about one of her more amusing and as usual completely un-acted upon crushes. Already in response, she could see Verna’s ears glow red.

“N-no. Not exactly, but make sure you put on your sensible shoes tonight. We’re going to-“

With that Tiny entered in with a sorely bruised Chen Yao in his arms and a police officer’s badge in his teeth.

“I, er, we, uh, help?” Tiny garbled as he set Yao down gently. “I wasn’t her able to stop the guy bringing him, but I did, er, get his badge.”

Verna turned to Alice and continued, “Or rather back to work.”

With that she ran on to the trials of the rest of the day while Alice pre-checked off another two likely DBs.

“I, er…don’t know if.”

One down. Efficiency makes a good secretary.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 3

“Yes, ok, sure. But where exactly is Mr. Chen? What was that, you haven’t seen any chinks lately? I see. Mr. Wallace, was that? I have it on good authority that it is indeed your offshoot that has him in Detention. Well, I see. Well, if it’s a mistake, I’d be glad to come personally to rectify it. Of course to make it over the Barricade Region, I’ll have to hire some Party People and I’m betting they’d love a more specific face to who’s protesting the food efforts as would our readers. At this point, we could sell it to the local papers as the top human-interest story. What? You say he’s already been released, but he was roughed up by one of the Broken? I’m sure, that’s absolutely true. But do make sure he makes it back here safely and quickly as I wouldn’t want to have to jump the gun and do something I might regret. Yes, lovely command of the English language, talk to you later, bye bye.”

Verna hung up the phone and began to stretch her arms. As far as she could tell, this story hadn’t even fully broken locally and taking the long term had finally traced most of it out. Communications from Atlanta and D.C. have confirmed similar structural stories, so with some polishing, Chen could be seeing his first cover story for the next Global Weekly. Well assuming Carpathia didn’t really try and follow through with his Global Czar idea. Well, they could sell the story to the local papers as well. Front-page credit was always a reward unto itself. Even these days. Maybe especially these days, as anything that could knock the ever-present Event stories below the fold was a prize unto itself as well as a welcome distraction.

She let herself dwell on the scene. The normalcy and the feeling of peace that seemed less fought against. Perhaps, Alice was right and even after all this, some uneasy normal could be regained and strength would breed more strength. Solving the little problems, the small fry, seemed to make the Big Things less scary. They were bigger, The Event was still a mystery, but all mysteries could be solved and all it takes is finding the right source.

For the first time in three weeks, she was allowing herself to feel good and the novelty of it alone was exhilarating.

Then the door swung open.

“Alice, what is it?”

“He’s here.”

“Who-“ Verna began but knew who she was talking about. “But it’s not Monday,” she protested feebly hating herself once again for that seeming slip of weakness and then again for caring. So much for the good mood, she thought bitterly.

“Yeah,” Alice began to shift to leave quickly again.

“Wait. Close the door first.”

“I should be getting back.”

“That’s fresh makeup. All of it. What happened?”

Alice tried a smile, “I just wanted a new look.”

“The doctor called back didn’t he?”

“They’re overbooked in the hospitals. ‘Elective’ surgeries are on hold. It’s ok, I’ll just keep looking. Besides, what’s a few more years’ wait, really?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Alice laughed. “That’s a silly thing to say. You’re not responsible.”

Verna stood stock still for a second as Alice began to laugh more and more out loud.

Alice continued. “Oh, I needed that. I’ll send in Cameron. Oh, also on the Agenda, Tiny is getting stitches from a Broken who tried to attack him with a broken bottle for apparently stealing his kids for the Government. That and The Center wants us to try and look into some of the people on the list after we finish up here.”

“Right,” Verna responded, re-entering her stoicism. Hmm, perhaps there would be an excuse to look into a few other things. Hadn’t some of the names been in the suburb where people were talking about Captain Steele? Her journalistic sense became piqued as she began to return to her desk and wrote herself a handful of notes.

“I said, good morning.”

Verna shook herself and looked at the clock, which read 2:35. She nodded carefully. “Cameron, I didn’t expect you till Monday.” It was a true statement. Cameron “Buck” Williams was a “maverick” and his favorite way of demonstrating that was to constantly procrastinate and never put forth more than the set amount of hours. If he wasn’t Steve’s personal escort as it were, he would probably have been demoted or fired long ago.

“Just checking in,” Buck said smoothing his hair and…striking a minor pose, a rather metrosexual pose at that. Verna found herself literally stunned into silence for a moment. “You can call me Buck”.

Verna looked down onto her desk where the last issue of Global Weekly sat still seemingly hot off the presses as Distribution was yesterday. In it, the cover article she had written going into the global issues and fallout that would occur if Carpathia’s UN plans were actually implemented as well as a brief coverage of the shooting incident itself. It had been a joint project between her and a number of the International Branches that she had to put together and finish once it became clear that Cameron hadn’t even bothered to show up for his scheduled interview with the newest wanna-be dictator. She had finished about 12 minutes before final printing after literally three full days not leaving the office or sleeping and in which one of her other story’s main leads ended up shooting himself, setting her back probably a month on that hook. For all that work, she could see it as cover story, what would have been her first under the byline: Cameron Williams, Senior Writer.

“I’ll call you Cameron, if you don’t mind, and-“

“I do mind,” Buck responded, his voice quivering in full pout. He puffed up his chest and tried to look important or threatening, but Verna was looking at the headline and felt herself struggle once more.

It was a stupid thing, meaningless, trivial crap that she had long become accustomed too. It wasn’t even like that was the first make-up story she had written for him. His famous “Disappearance” story had been written a week earlier by herself as well as his follow up working off his source material of “God did it” in full. She had been the one again pulling his slack and actually interviewing the subjects and figuring out what all the theories were and which had already been debunked. In short, she had been running three jobs for the dim-minded queen in front of her.

In light of everything, it shouldn’t have bothered her. Who cared? What were three jobs at work, when she had volunteered for even more off duty. Her life had more or less had always been devoted to covering slackers for the good of the craft. It’s more or less how she scrabbled each slow step up the ladder, how she kept her lovely eye of the hurricane from giving into the chaos that surrounded them.

But at the same time, here he was, chastised, found out, a source of enormous scandal at Head Office, free from his previous protection with the flight of Steve Plank to greener pastures. And directly believing that she of all the people in the world would show him deference at this point. It was petty, but it was hard to resist the control over the pettiness and the shame it spawned. How dare he try to force his stupid self-given nickname on her, one entirely based on his lazy disregard for the good of the craft? If the center was to hold, if the Chicago Branch was going to keep afloat Head Office, then this shit would not stand on her watch.

Buck continued obliviously. “Please call-“

“Then I’ll call you Cameron, even if you do mind.”

There was a moment of regret. She saw his face begin to tear up with this blow. Oh god, she thought, he was using his ego to keep from floating under the weight of the times. That was what was keeping him afloat. She wondered whether she should apologize, then kicked herself for the weakness in thinking that. Even if it was true, she needed to shake him up. A deliberately deluded person was not only a bad worker, but more likely to trigger DBs. Heck, a DB was practically a rite of passage for the brave remainder. One proved their mettle by returning. Paralyzed, she did nothing, while Buck recovered with the oddest of shakes.

“Help me,” he whispered, before shaking again.

Verna was struck by his eyes, first and foremost. Had they always been like that, or was it new? She couldn’t quite access enough of her memory, but she knew that they stuck out greatly from the terrified pleading eyes of only a moment before as well as the sick quiver that preceded the change.

The eyes were that of a predator, or rather more, the cool calm focus of intense blind hate, seething almost preternaturally from some outside force. She quietly moved her heavier desk objects closer to herself and stood up to her full rather unimpressive stature.

“I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment, but if you would be so kind as to make an appointment with my secretary for a time we can settle you in, that would be great. Now, I have to check up on one of the other reporters, so if you’ll excuse me…” She motioned her arms for Buck to leave, but he seemed unwilling. He almost seemed motionless as if stuck in some form of static point, but for the quiver and the eyes of hate, she would have assumed it so. “And do give my regards to Steve when you next see him.”

There seemed to be a twinge of self-disgust on his face and then a different veneer, similarly predatory, but now once again filled with the rampant ego of earlier on.

“Jealous, you’re all jealous, whore,” Buck muttered before marching himself out. “You’re all whores.”

With a sigh of relief she closed the door afterwards and felt a shake of fear she hadn’t felt since…a memory she didn’t want to face right now. Verna shook herself violently before breathing heavily back into her professional headspace.

There was a moment of full personality change there. If the reports and the rumors of Buck’s greater than normal ego behaviors were true, then there was something, alien or otherwise, going on.

She returned back to work, picking up the phone and redialing the last number, trying desperately to ignore what Buck had said during the shudders.

She had enough jobs after all. Including his.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 2

Exiting out of her office, she could see the familiar sight of reporters scrambling, sales and acquisitions ensuring safe routes for local distribution. Head Office was only slightly helpful, but considering at least half of the last two issues were copy from her branch, it was all sort of a wash. At least they had finally formalized the position she had been filling, of course with all the responsibilities she used to have at no increase in salary, but that was par for the course.

As much as she still reeled sometimes from her studied detachment, she was amazed at the ability of any corporate office to be equally blind and deaf to tragedy. No word yet on survivor benefits, grief counseling, but there was a long-belated memo acknowledging her new position and chiding employees for “taking too many frivolous absences.” She would have been surprised, but she had been in the staff meeting where Lucinda explained the memo asking all employees to help make the post 9/11 issue a “collectible one.”

What worried her the most about the memo was the footnote, though. Her branch had won the Loser Pool to baby-sit the newly disgraced head writer after it was discovered he had done no actual work in his three-week “investigations.” The paper had covered for him by changing the headline on a couple of some of the stories she wrote, adding some special touches that were so “Buck” like describing all male interview subjects as towers of virile potency and referring to who daring he was to work the beat in the first place. Verna didn’t know why they bothered, but then, the whole thing was too stupid to really get that bothered by it. Incompetent Old Boy’s Club favorite gets ass covered, not exactly headline material in any organization. Given the rumors of Steve Plank and Cameron Williams, well, all she could really do was laugh.

It wasn’t exactly like Cameron “Buck” Williams was at all subtle about it.

She shook her head and turned to Alice. “Where are the fires,” Verna asked.

Alice looked up, her face in a self-conscious smile that Alice had been forcibly wearing for the last three weeks.

“Well, Chen Yao was detained by the martial law faction of the Chicago Police for his investigation of them, though he was able to confirm that they are an offshoot of the Narcotics squads apparently in revolt to the City’s handling of the food delivery arrests. Four people have had a DB and had to stop work for the day. Twelve people tried to force entry to either reveal the truth or punish us for hiding the truth and I think one may have tried to plant a bomb. Oh and Marsha had her daily visit. I made her a bottle of milk for her ‘kid’ and that seemed to calm her down, but someone still needs to escort her home before she causes any additional DBs.”

“Sounds light.”

“We’ve had a good day,” Alice chirped in what was now a hauntingly happy manner.

“Ok, send Bruno to sniff around and check on the bomb threat and let’s have Phil-“

“FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH!”

The scream stopped Verna in her tracks as she looked over to where Phil had confronted a shabby-clothed woman in the corner, cradling her daughter’s Cabbage Patch doll in her arms and cooing.

“They’re dead, you cunt! They’re all fucking dead and they’re never coming back and you need to get that! Your daughter is fucking gone! My Tabitha is gone! She’s dead! Oh God!” With a final scream, the veins popping even above the dark hues of his neck, and a poorly thrown punch at the wall, Phil ran out of the office and down the stairs as a worrying silence descended through the place.

“Make that five DBs,” Alice quipped.

“Alright everyone, that’s enough. Back to work. We’ve got a mystery to solve and a backlog of cases to look into. If anyone else needs to call in a Daily Breakdown, we’re good, but unless that’s the case;” Verna clapped her hands noisily. “Back to work!”

With that the stirring heads seemed to go back to pointedly pretending to work furiously. With luck they’d be able to slip into whatever rationalization or strength they needed to keep going and there wouldn’t be any more DBs. There was too much to do.

Looking out from the corner of her eye, she saw “Tiny” Minervuson, a former bike messenger who had become the de facto errand runner since The Event, coming back with the staff lunches. The stereotypical Icelandic build combined with the runic tattoos had earned a fierce and unearned reputation despite the momma’s boy interior he really had.

“Tiny,” Verna shouted as she ran over. “Glad I caught you. Marsha needs an escort home and we need someone to watch the doors for a while and keep out the usual type for a couple of hours. Phil had a loud DB and I can sense morale is shaky.”

“Uh, right, I guess so ma’am. Sure,” Tiny said trying to maneuver the overfull bag of lunches off his shoulder and gently onto the front desk.

“Ooh, what’s the menu, big guy,” Alice suddenly interrupted as she appeared from behind.

“Er…uh…sandwich stuff, really, the food shipments have re-entered the small grocery stores. And er…”

“Is there any meat, yet?”

“Well, yes, actually.”

“How much? How much meat?”

“Alice!” Verna turned and shouted at her secretary, before turning back to the tall Icelander immigrant. “I’m sorry, Tiny, if you could handle things...”

“Right,” Tiny immediately turned and grabbed Marsha as she loudly chided the doll for spilling her drink. “C’mon, I’ll protect you from the mob.”

“They’re after her, you know. She’s special. Only child left, my Megan, only child safe. She’s going to save the world, my Megan. She’s the Chosen One, she is. They want to steal her you know,” Marsha stammered as she walked.

“Uh, right. We’ll help you home, though,” Tiny responded taking her hand and leading her out the door.

“How does she even get here,” Alice wondered.

“She’s lonely. I think that’s the point,” Verna muttered and then turned around and quietly hissed. “And you, what the hell were you doing?”

Alice began fidgeting with her choker nervously “Well, I-“

“He’s gay, Alice, and-“

“He’s bi. And-“

“He’s still mourning for Ilya, more importantly.”

“So I want to comfort him when he does, is that so wrong? Damnitt.”

Verna could see the tears beginning to well and a large number of staff surreptitiously concentrating on their work.

“Lunch break everyone!” Verna shouted and then grabbed Alice by the shoulder before hissing in her ear, “let’s continue this in my office.”

This wasn’t the best showing and already, she could feel the discipline breaking down. There would be the usual rumors as well, but she could see one or two sneers of disgust form in the far desks. They could see the frivolity in her actions, were making judgments. But at the same time, they were composing themselves, getting back to work, a step away from the despondence of Phil’s DB. The chaos had been held at bay for one more day. Verna sighed with relief and closed the door to her office.

“Alice, I’m-“ Verna began passing a box of tissues over to Alice.

“It’s ok, forget about it. You were right anyway,” Alice responded contritely drying her eyes and composing her self. “It’s just, everyone is letting The Event choke them, drag them down. Prevent them from being human. I see it in everyone. I see it in you.”

“I don’t know…I-“

“Oh, please Verna, I’ve heard you. We’re not to blame for this. And we’re not to blame if we want to live real lives. It’s what happens after tragedies. Lord, I know that well enough. I’ve gone to enough Days of Remembrance to know that. I’m not going to apologize for moving on. We all get a second chance to live.”

Verna paused. “We’re no longer talking about The Event, are we?”

“I’ve found a new doctor after…you know…I’ll finally be rid of the last part that’s not me. And I’ve still got my savings from before…Life continues Verna.”

Verna stayed still. The echoes of guilt amassing again strongly against the walls of her resolve and she struggled to say anything in response.

“And you know that too, don’t you?”

“I…do.” The words finally tumbling out as the shame seemed to consume her cheeks a fiery red. She turned away, seeking solitude to recompose the presentation, reform the barriers that had served her well. That had been so important for survival. That would stop any inconvenient memory from returning. But before she could, she could feel Alice pressing against her chest.

The warm embrace seemed to soothe her and she felt the shame begin to subside allowing her once again assert control over her mind. And immediately battle a brief second non-professional emotion.

“We will all be ok, with time,” Alice said and pulled back, grinning her impish grin, while Verna subsumed desperately any improper thoughts still swimming from a long-ago fought crush on the cute Lolita-punk secretary. There was a brief battle of control as she tried not to focus on her choker or ankh earrings both dangling around a bitable neck and then it was gone, a distant memory again of a pathway that had long been shut.

Verna sighed with relief and an odd rush of comfort as she looked back up at Alice and caught her blushing back.

“I’m so sorry. I should have rethought that. I knew you used to have a…I didn’t know it was still around. Oh god. I’m-“

“It’s ok. It’s not a problem,” Verna quickly intervened. “I know you’re straight, it’s…”

Alice smiled. “It’s not a problem.”

Verna paused. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always, right, life continues and as long as we’re us, that’s all that matters. Now, as you would say-“

“Back to work.”

Verna allowed herself a first brief smile and pushed Alice out the door before returning to her desk. The Event wasn’t the end of the world, unless they let it be. No one could say otherwise. Verna picked up the phone and began calling the fractionated police.

It was time to rescue a colleague.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 1

(Author’s Note: This is set in the same world as God Has Plans For Chloe. Unfortunately, as I have not read the books ahead of time, I don’t feel like I can distill Verna’s story fully all at once. What this means is that I will add on as she moves through Fred’s posts. This also means that I need to be very strict in updating as the worst thing I can imagine is to conclude this story with her Left Behind)

Verna stared deep into her coffee cup.

Already she could feel the tears well up against her will, that all too familiar loss of control. She hated that feeling, the admission of weakness. But these days, she hated herself even more, that she could only cry at moments like these for such small and petty reasons.

Outside the door there were good people who had lost everything, no less strong than her, no less brave, whose eyes clearly registered the trauma of The Event, who had suffered genuine visceral loss, who had lost entire families. Who had lost everything.

And here she was shedding a mere handful of tears for the loss of a friend, a shared friend even and only then because the coffee reminded her of her warm gentle face. And to make it worse, it wasn’t even like Lucinda was a close friend, or even all that much more than a familiar presence.

But then, that’s why she was really crying, wasn’t it? That’s what made Verna glow red with self-hatred. The entire world collapsed and the only connection she had with it was superficial and lacking, of absolutely no impact. She could walk through the streets and see it all as surrealistic farce. She could disconnect, compartmentalize, and process. She could do that so easily by now, a trait well earned through a long cultivated stoicism. And yet now, it seemed to burn.

How dare she be the only one so unaffected, so callous inside, the only one able to pull together the shattered news team to try and get to the bottom of who exactly did this, and what stories were going unheeded in the meantime? How dare she be swept in self-pity that this was the only pain she felt? Verna drank the coffee, its bitter force rebooting her brain and allowing her to sink back into full control of her emotions, deliberately ignoring the dead feeling inside, the survivor’s guilt.

If it was nothing, it was pointless to succumb. If she was lucky, if she was a monster, if she was strong, if she was weak, no matter what, there were roles to fill. She looked over some of the submitted notes and preliminary stories from those who had been seeking any form of intensive work to prevent them from thinking overmuch about the tragedy. They were universally grim, but far less so than it had been the previous weeks, and often far more coherent.

The banks had tried to take over all their mortgages and foreclose on homes, but had been stopped by a new group calling themselves the CC&R Militia. The coalition of Chicago street gangs had been cleared of all charges for stealing a suite of bulldozers and flat bed trucks and reopening the highways and restarting food delivery from the farmlands thus quelling fears of hunger riots. The Grant Park Cult had pretty much taken over the whole park and there were instances of Hasidic Jews being assaulted by the group for “vaporizing all the children with their Jew death ray”. A hunch had turned out to be correct in that Americans for Truth headquarters was filled with empty clothes. The Christian hate groups had been way too silent about The Event when usually they’d be the first to blame it on gays and atheists.

The investigations into the children had produced no leads, but there were actually confirmed reports of women being pregnant from Planned Parenthood now that they could use to ease fears and speculation that the human race would become extinct. Radiologists, nuclear physicists, and biologists had investigated new UN security chief Carpathia’s theory and had found it ill-supported by evidence. Worse still, they couldn’t find anything wrong at all, there weren’t even any signs of vacuum stress that would occur if the missing people had simply vaporized or disappeared. Worse yet was the discovery of organs in some of the clothing. Whoever had caused The Event had been a sick bastard.

Verna rubbed her eyes together. It was hard to piece together. If it was a death ray or some new weapon, where were the demands or statements by the terrorists responsible? If it was aliens, would they strike again and if so when? If it was the Rapture, where were the parting of the Heavens and the people floating up, would it be related to the Russia-Ethiopia Incident and worst of all, what would it mean?

What was such a deity planning, why would it slaughter its own followers and children and what else would it do to the world? There were some particularly frightening follow-ups that had come in. A suburb in the Tri-County area had been completely unaffected by The Event. It still suffered the effects, but no other part of life had changed. Food delivery had stopped but grocery stores had full stocks, accidents had been cleared with no evidence they had occurred, some of the residents seemed unaware and uncaring that their children were gone and furthermore, seemed mostly worried about a Captain Steele and how he was faring. A friend in the military had found no matching records for the name, which was even more worrying.

Plus there was the whole Carpathia business. He was obviously at least partially insane, but the TV news seemed unable to broadcast anything other than how wonderful he was. There were even worries that the sovereign governments of the world’s nations were actually considering and debating the merits of his political takeover.

More than one public figure and even city had changed overnight and there was still no news from San Francisco. It was entirely possible it had merely been wiped out. Taken alone none of these things were too weird, but altogether and in light of events, it was seemingly likely that something more powerful was fucking with shit.

So now as a reporter, the goal was to find out the who, how, and why, as well as the make it stop.

She stopped in horror at the thought and gulped down the rest of the coffee, and if it is the God of the fundies, what did that mean for her and her community. She had already been busy volunteering at the Center, running the phones at the Crisis Center, trying to run follow up for gay kids who were panicking. There was already a huge list of names she wanted to visit personally after work. Panicking kids, closeted Christians with no support networks left and all the people who had already been on Suicide Watch.

She stared at the paperwork and closed her eyes. It was her job now, finally officially to get to the bottom of all this, to make this branch deliver the right news to a starved public and if that meant she was stone hearted, so be it. Too much was at stake not to be.

God has Plans for Chloe Part 5

Epilogue

Chloe jerked awake. She was at home, her parent’s house outside of Chicago. She was on the couch. She felt odd, scared maybe. It was all a little fuzzy. She began to get up and look around. She walked out of the living room and into the hallway. She could hear the sound of arguing in the kitchen.

Were her father and Hattie fighting…Wait, Hattie? She felt so fuzzy in her head; she wanted to scream. She began to inch towards the kitchen when something hit her on the legs.

“What th- Raymie, I’m going to kill you.”

Raymie just laughed at her, swinging his toy dinosaur back and forth. “Ha ha, Chloe is a bull dyke! Chloe is a bull dyke!”

The kitchen door swung open.

“What’s going on here,” her father called out. “Ah Jesus Christ, how long have you two been standing here?”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Chloe’s mother smacked him upside the head. “And you, how dare you. After we let you go to a secular school. Oh the Good Lord warned me, yes he did. This is how you reward me, wallowing in sin like the other intellectuals. We’ll see how smart you feel on Judgment Day and it is a’coming oh yes, you watch me. Judgment on all you little heathens. Raymie, come with me, we need to pray for your whore of a sister.”

“She didn’t…” Her father ventured as the door to her mother’s bedroom slammed shut with complete finality, “take it very well I’m afraid. I’m sorry…Uh, she’ll come around someday I’m sure, but we’ll just have to ease her into it. That being said, if you ever want to bring uh…Maggie was it, home with you, you are welcome to. I’ll make sure your mom is off on one of her Bible retreats then.”

“Um…thanks Dad,” Chloe felt relieved. She shook her head. Man, she must have really been shaken up about coming out. She wondered why her knees were shaking so heavily.

Chloe smiled and hugged her dad ferociously, clinging him to her as tightly as she could manage.

“Hey watch my back,” he called out jokingly. “All right, let’s get ourselves out of here and out to the flight. I’ve snagged the flight back to San Jose so that I can see you back to school. You’ve got a lot of guts, kid, I’m proud of you.”

The trip to the airport happened in a daze, her mind still reeling from the emotion of her big moment and its aftermath. She couldn’t wait to be back in Maggie’s arms.

At the terminal she grabbed a seat while her father talked to the flight attendants who would be accompanying him on the trip and waited for the co-pilot and plane to arrive from Vancouver. She began to pretend to read a magazine, but her head felt to full to concentrate. She found herself straining her ears to listen to her dad talking to a flight attendant she had seen accompany her father a lot.

“…I can’t say how sorry I am,” her father was whispering to her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “What I did was unforgivable.”

“Yeah it was,” the flight attendant replied rather matter-of-factly.

“…”

“I’m not going to report you or anything so you can drop the penitent act.”

“No, it’s not an act. I’m really sorry. I treated you like a tool, a way of striking back at my wife…That’s inexcusable. I know that it is, but I wanted you to know that I know that now and I’m in therapy and everything.”

“So?”

“So I want to know if we could be friends again? Not now, of course.”

“No, not now and not for awhile. But if you’re earnest, Ray, maybe, someday. But never more than friends again.”

“I can live with that.”

“You’ll have to.”

Chloe hid her head in the magazine to hide her blushing face. She didn’t intend to overhear that!

She buried her face even further as the flight attendant walked past and winked at her. Her father was close behind.

“Hey, kiddo, the flight looks to be coming in, so we can probably both board if you want.”

“Okay. Um…dad?”

“Yes, Chloe?”

Chloe froze. She wanted to ask him, but she could see the fear and embarrassment climbing in his eyes. She didn’t dare raise the question now. She’d ask him when he was ready and able to talk and she’d have to trust that he would.

“Nothing, dad.”

“Okay, let’s get you settled in and this plane all prepped.”

As he slipped into the cockpit, the flight attendant he was talking to escorted her to her seat.

“Welcome to your better world.”

“What?” Chloe exclaimed and stared at the flight attendant.

“I said, welcome to Flight 349 to San Jose…Chloe.”

God has Plans for Chloe Part 4

Chloe was now back in her hotel room. The bottle lay open in one hand, pills spilling gently across her palm as stark raving terror propelled her thoughts down unconscionable lines.

It was a path, a choice, she had shunned, always and forever. There was no good reason, ever. That had been her decision. It was a good decision. A firm, wise decision that time always lead her to no matter how depressed or hopeless she felt. There was after all, only one life, one memory of this consciousness, no matter what you believed. Only one you in this patch of Earth.

Chloe had held to that as one would cling to a rock in a terrible storm. It was solid, necessary, hopeful, and true.

Until now.

She had been so close to total loss. Her essence only spared by a momentary hesitation of a hateful God. The type of salvation as might befit a lobster who has been placed in the tank at the front of the restaurant rather than directly in the pot.

It was not a mercy that would last. For one thing, mercy was beyond this particular deity.

For another, she would need to play-act everything perfectly and more and more perfectly until the Deity decided the charade had ceased to amuse it. Chloe understood that that would occur sooner rather than later.

So in its stead there were the pills. Hattie’s last gift before she embarked on her own truncated existence.

It seemed so pointless, so pathetic, so much like the surrendering that it was. It was so Thelma and Louise, so hopeless and Hollywood. It was the urge that said it was better to leave than fight. But…

But that was it. That but. There was nothing else for it. Her existence was on the line and it was this or a fate worse than death, total cessation. And worse, she knew, every moment she delayed increased the chances that the Deity would find Hattie’s body, realize this last attempt at rebellion and seek her out to finish what it had set out to do.

It was a pressing concern but she just couldn’t flush all of what she was down the drain so quickly, give up those precious last few bits before facing either the Hell of her mother’s God or a Heaven of a reality or even something else, that ever possible nothingness that shook her to the bone. It was hard to give up life.

So she remembered Maggie, kissing her gently in the morning before her shower. She remembered playing with Raymie on the beach. She remembered her dad as he had been when she was young before he became so controlling and evil. She remembered her mom and how their exchanges were always twinged with mutual pity and sadness.

She remembered everything she was and everything she dreamed of being. She remembered it all like she was sealing each page in a photo album somewhere so that they would be preserved.

By the time she was done, she had hardly noticed that she had dutifully swallowed the entire bottle of pills. She lay down as the room span, her eyes heavy, and her soul floating out.

Blearily she murmured, before rising completely out of her body, “I commend my soul to any who would take it.”

She felt so tired as she blearily looked down on her body, but that was soon to fade as the boiling eye of the Deity shook her soul aware. She cowered in fear as she floated up towards that disapproving gaze. She could feel its fury trying to snatch at her, trying to punish her for her insolence.

It remained like this before shifting into a malevolent glint. She saw her body below rise like a rag doll, shake its neck one way then another, adjusting itself.

Her soul, her self, stared in absolute terror, screaming soundlessly into void and naught as her body turned to face her and smiled, chipper as could be. That body waved, as she felt her soul being sucked into an absolute void.

There was nothing but darkness and then-

There was nothing.

God has Plans for Chloe Part 3

When Chloe returned to the table, her father was babbling. There were no actual words, or rather there were words, but they formed little to no actual narrative. It was all about sinners and Jesus and it’s in the Bible, but all of it was as mish-mashed as Bruce Barnes had presented it.

Chloe was sure it made sense to someone. It had certainly made sense to her mother and it was now making sense to her father. She glanced over at Buck as he sat there panting during her father’s monologue. He seemed to hang with desperate glee at every mention of a powerful male authority and another two was added to the fourth column.

Chloe glanced over at Hattie who was looking at her with a look of immeasurable pity. Chloe knew what was encoded in that glance. Chloe knew exactly what fate was being groomed for her. She bit her lip in sad irony. She was being groomed as a heterosexual, being rewritten down to the last inch in order to be a gay man’s beard.

In bitter self-pity, she tuned out of the rest, letting tears stream down her face as she watched her father and Buck engage in very literal verbal intercourse, a type of foreplay she remembered fondly indulging with Maggie after her Intro to Western Philosophy classes back in Freshman Year.

With thoughts of Maggie, her self-pity grew worse and her depression spiraled yet again into the forefront. What would happen to that connection? If she went through with Hattie’s crazy plan and this world was the only one, would she be able to find Maggie in this God’s Hell? What would the Deity’s Hell even look like anyway? What if she didn’t go through with it? What if she hid enough to keep a small piece of herself? Would it still remember her fondly as Buck fastened the leash around her neck?

The tears kept flowing as she glanced up, Buck was putting away his World War II era tape recorder and microphone and glanced at her. His eyes were filled with the same disdain he had seen in her father’s eyes as she was walking away from the table.

One piece…if she was lucky. But likely not that at all. Any Deity that would choose these men as its champions, which would uphold the values of her self-hating mother, would never allow that little piece. And given the transference of hatred. The way the Deity’s hateful views of the very idea of her being her and more to the point in a “her” context were being adopted so flawlessly with each convert into the cult…

She couldn’t stop weeping silently. Her options were both bare and pressing.

“Can I have your opinions on the deathly serious issue of the trip and fall guys or even the tedious affair of the disappearances? Off the record, of course.” Buck asked Hattie almost as a formality.

“Why off the record?” Hattie snapped, deciding to go out with a bang. She adopted an entirely sarcastic tone of voice as she continued. “The opinions of a pilot are important, but the opinions of a flight attendant aren’t?”

As the two men were focused on to express the feelings of shock and dismay and right manly responses under the close watch of the Deity, Hattie slipped a quick wink to Chloe that made her involuntarily stifle a giggle before she slipped into despair again.

It wasn’t long before she was being dragged from the table and forced to mosey to the lobby.

“I’m going to say my good-nights,” Hattie said. “I’ve got the earlier flight tomorrow. Thank you oh so much for the dinner, Rayford.” She shook his hand firmly and then embraced Chloe in a tight hug and whispered in her ear so lowly that Chloe was nearly sure it had been a trick of her mind.

Hattie had said, “Good night, good bye. Perhaps I’ll see you in your better world.”

Hattie pulled away before the Deity could be suspicious, but Chloe wanted to cling to her more. It was stupid and pointless and entirely because she was scared, but she wanted to force Hattie to stay, long enough to say a proper goodbye.

It would attract attention, but Chloe started after her and stopped mid-step. She felt the Deity’s force in her mind, all focus on her in all of its divine hatred. Fear gripped the last of her neurons. Was she going to lose herself in this last instance?

Her head moved against her will and looked longingly at Buck. Her brain reeled and rebelled, trying to roll right out of her head as the crushing weight of the Deity dug deeper into place, pulling her like a puppet.

“Give us a minute, will you, Daddy? I’ll be right up.” The words came out of her mouth all sickly sweet and schoolgirl-like. What was the Deity’s obsession with making her sound and act like a prepubescent child?

“Your dad is a pretty impressive guy,” Buck said. His voice was filled with wistful longing and an unconscious self-hatred. His face looked as if he was still headily recalling the smell of her father’s old man sweat and it’s nauseatingly masculine odor.

“I know,” the words came out of her mouth as she felt further boxed in. She could feel the tendrils of the Deity feeling their way trying to find the core of her sexuality and pervert it, establish its dominance. She sacrificed early memories; even fond memories of her mother and brother to protect that special bit of her self. “Especially lately,” she forced out of her mouth in order to continue the dialogue and hopefully give the Deity a reason to let her go another day before domination.

The Deity seemed to hesitate. This was her last chance at freedom.

“I just met you and I’m really gonna miss you,” Chloe acted at Buck. It was a desperate first-grade level pantomine of an act, but it was desperate. “If you get through Chicago, you have to call.”

It didn’t have quite the same submissive ring as her earlier dodge, but she had to pray it was enough. She cowered in the back of her head as the Deity watched her warily and suspiciously. It was the look the nice Christian boy had given back in that car in High School. The exact same look that emphasized that her future was at its mercy and none other.

Chloe held her breath wishing and praying for what freedom she could steal. After who knows how many clichéd hours, years, or centuries one could conjure, the Deity retreated to its pride. She fell limp with relief.

Buck smiled at her, all manner of predatory behavior flashing in his eyes. “It’s a promise. I can’t say when, but let’s just say sooner than you think.”

God has Plans for Chloe Part 2

In the restaurant, Chloe continued her pose, willing herself to slip outside of the gaze of the Deity. Finishing up her meal as her father bribed the waiter with Ron Paul bucks in order to rent out the table for another hour or two. She willed herself not to comment on the faux pas.

She glanced at Buck who unpacked some sort of World War II era recording device with the big spinning tapes and the large microphone.

“I’m ready,” Buck said “to ask your idea of what happened on that fateful flight to London. Do you have a theory?”

Chloe shut her eyes and grimaced. Two and two and two and two were adding up in her head multiplying and expanding down the line she had already deduced. It fit with what she suspected when she was first paired off with Buck. The sick Deity wasn’t going to be content with just forcing her into the role of obedient house slave, but it was going to need her to convert first. So like her mother, the Deity was.

She knew she needed to escape, while the Deity was focused on dad’s new speechmaking on the Gospel of the Antichrist and All. But certain conventions needed to be upheld if she was going to complete her quest.

Chloe put on her best 50s housewife impression and gently touched Buck’s arm and asked if he minded if she excused herself. She nearly beamed at pride at the turn of phrase. It was so neatly submissive. She began to shift to walk out of the frame of vision, out of the direct line of sight of the Deity, when she caught Hattie’s eye.

Chloe nodded her, the nonverbal equivalent of “Fly, you fools.” She didn’t know why she made the gesture, as it was risky, but it had been involuntary necessary. Hattie may have been her father’s mistress, but she was an innocent caught in the middle of the Deity’s Madonna-whore complex. It would have been a sin not to help her.

“I’ll join you,” Hattie said to the men and joined her. Chloe gave a fain smile, but she could see her father bubbling into fury. In his eyes, she could feel the Deity’s very thoughts etching themselves in her skull. It went, you two have meddled in my affairs long enough, resisted me in no uncertain terms. This will not do.

Chloe grabbed Hattie’s hand and quick-marched her in the direction of the bathroom, hoping that the Deity’s hatred for all feminine affairs would prevent it’s interference in the land of female bowel movements.

“What’s all this about,” Hattie growled when Chloe dragged her into the one stall restroom and frantically locked and blocked the door. “If you’re going to preach at me like your sick little control freak of a father, I swear I will cut you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Well if you’re trying to hit on me, I’m afraid I don’t swing that way. While that sounds tempting considering what your father put me through, I could never get down with the female body.”

“What? You’re not my type-And anyways who said I was gay?”

“Uh huh…”

Chloe glared for a second and then shook her head. “Listen we got off to a bad start-“

“Nah,” Hattie interrupted, shifting out of her hostile body language into a more neutral stance. “I’m just being a bit spiny. Your dad got my back up a bit earlier and I’ve been chewing daggers ever since.”

“I’m sorry…” Chloe didn’t know what else to say, so she went with her heart. “I’m sorry my dad’s an unrepentant bastard.”

Hattie scoffed. “It’s cool. I’m mostly over it…No, no, okay, it still pisses me off. How can you stand it? How did I stand it? It’s…It’s stupid. I’m being stupid. I’ve been getting dumber and dumber all the time.”

Chloe leaned against the sink and let Twos multiply. “How so,” she asked though she already suspected the answer.

“I don’t know. I keep saying dumb things lately, not caring at moments. I mean, I called up your dad and said my sister was bummed because she was out of work at Planned Parenthood. Why would I say that? She’s busier than she’s ever been what with all the people with disastrous miscarriages and working on the infertility problem. But it’s not just that…”

“You feel like your body is being used against your will.” Chloe ventured her theory cautiously. She imagined that Hattie would be a bit tired of theories from Steeles at the moment.

Hattie’s façade cracked for a moment. Her voice naught but a murmur. “…yeah.”

Chloe began to move closer to Hattie. She wanted to give her a hug, but could see the defensive body posture. She extended her arms slightly, offering the opportunity. When enough time had passed to be sure of a decline, she lowered her arms again and leaned against a closer sink.
They waited in silence for a minute before Hattie spoke again. “I’m going to say something and I want you to be a different kind of Steele than your parents, okay?”

Chloe just nodded.

Hattie took a deep breath of air. “God, I’m going to sound like such a psycho like your father…I think there is something out there. Something…malevolent. I don’t-I don’t think it likes us do…I don’t think it likes us. I think we’re getting in its way.”

Chloe’s mouth muscle twitched in a concerned way. It was one thing to work it through. It was another thing to have corroboration. It had a way of making things, even things you were certain were true of feeling realer, more pressing.

Hattie continued. “I think…it’s going to change us one way or another. I think we are…God I sound insane…offending its delicate sensibilities or some other shit…No, no, this is too crazy. I’m just going nuts after all your father’s head games, seeing his views get all magnified. I’m sorry. I-I don’t even know why I’m saying this. Maybe I haven’t escaped as much as I hoped. I mean I’m here with-“

“Hattie,” Chloe tried to interrupt.

“My most slinky dress on all so I can tell your father how over him I am. Hell, maybe I’m just hoping to get one over on him so that I won’t have wasted my time like my mother, making the same mistakes she did and-“

“Hattie!”

“What?”

“You’re not the only one…”

Hattie sunk to the floor. “Oh God, so it isn’t just me.”

“I think it’s happening to everyone in a general region of my father.”

“It happens around Buck as well and Nicky Mountain-range now that I think about it.”

“The weirdo who quoted every country in the U.N.”

“Yeah, I think I’m being prepped to be his hussy by the way it looks.”

“And I’m being set up as Buck’s child bride.”

Hattie smiled sardonically and let out a sharp breath of air. “How much of ourselves do you think will make it…in the end?”

“Well considering everything…none. Not one red cent.”

“I thought so,” Hattie nodded. It was a resigned sort of observation with not even a hint of sadness. “Well sucks to be us.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way. We can escape.”

Hattie focused for a moment. “How? I mean…if we’re right, then we’re up against something akin to a God. I mean what are we supposed to do? Walk out of reality? Let me just slide these bathroom tiles away and we can hop out of the narrative.”

“You don’t have to be…” Chloe froze. What had been her plan? She blamed the way the Deity had muddled her thoughts. How could she have forgotten to think of a way out? Something more fleshed out than just running away to where the Deity wouldn’t be able to find her and hope for the best. She felt like an idiot.

“We could pray,” Chloe ventured pathetically.

“Pray.”

Chloe’s cheeks went red with embarrassment. A competent student at one of the top universities in the country and all she had was this. She began to take it all back, resign herself to her fate, when the twos began to add again.

“Yeah,” Chloe said earnestly, her eyes again breathing with life. “Yeah, it could work. I mean, there obviously is a supernatural or else none of what is happening could occur. There may be some other force we can appeal to.”

“Like God? Like your fath-“

“Like God, Artemis, a moon Goddess, Billy the Kid, I don’t know. Something, anything that can take us out of this reality.”

“A razor to the wrists can do that handily enough.”

“Something else, something that won’t trap us in this Deity’s version of Hell.”

“I’d trust it over its idea of Heaven,” Hattie began, but stopped.

Chloe glanced into the mirror and saw her own face wracked with desperation. She averted her eyes and fell silent. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to-“

Hattie grabbed her gently at the shoulders and stared her down. “Let’s give it a shot, eh?”

Chloe nodded, feeling stupid nonetheless. She grabbed Hattie’s hands and stared at the sky willing her soul open to anything that wasn’t that control-freak of a Deity that her mother had worshipped so many times.

“To any who would hear us; to any who would have compassion; help us, please,” Chloe whispered the words earnestly; tears already beginning to release down her face. “I commend our souls to any who would take us, to anywhere where we can be us in all our pride and folly.”
With that she felt something, a glimmer, an eye seemingly watching. Not glaring like the Deity, but just sort of taking it in. Chloe continued in hope of enlisting a further response, but there was none to be had. As soon as she tried to force the issue, force her hope on that presence, it was gone as if it had never been there. Chloe’s heart sank.

“It didn’t work,” Hattie said getting up. She seemed grittily determined. Chloe wished she had Hattie’s newfound confidence.

“Listen, kid. It was a good effort,” Hattie continued. “Maybe it will be there for you…But, if you want some advice,” Hattie pressed something into her hand that felt like a bottle. “I’d take all of those tonight before whatever it is that’s watching us catches on and completely rewrites us. As for me, I’ve got a few non safety razors left that I can use once I get back to my hotel room.”

Chloe looked blankly in horror, daring not to look Hattie directly in the face and get the full force of her earnest plans for self-destruction. She willed herself to just look down into her own hands where she held the bottle of sleeping pills in a death grip.

Hattie kissed her forehead and hugged her as Chloe finally broke down into tears. “You’ll be okay,” Hattie whispered into her ear. “It’ll all be okay.”

The lies weren’t at all comforting but they were enough to compose herself as best as she would be able to. She could feel rays of the Deity wondering about the bathroom. It was time to go back for better or worse.

God has Plans for Chloe Part 1

Chloe entered the restaurant as meekly as possible, showing no outward sign of her recent epiphany. Above her, she could feel the iron hot gaze of the foul Deity, which had taken root so recently in her world. Could feel it twisting all of what was normal not only into the apocalyptic landscape where every person on the street had a tragedy to report, but also into a land where no one cared, no one had rights to their mind anymore.

Honestly, it had been worse than The Event, though that would be inconceivable in the grim aftermath.

Ask her a week ago, in the Stanford Yard, when the rumor mill was buzzing, when her morning class halted for everyone to sit and watch the panicked CNN coverage until the Professor demanded everyone go home and be with their loved ones.

Ask her when she sprinted back to her apartment complex just off campus as she passed pile-ups and crazed mothers searching for their children, demanding answers of any who stood still long enough.

Ask her when she stopped to help Mr. Peterson up into his apartment after suffering a heart flutter at the sudden disappearance of his wife of forty years. Ask her when she ran up the stairs searching her shared complex for any sign of Maggie, the woman who had been her lover since nearly the beginning of her freshman year.

Or ask her when she called home to find no answer. Or the bittersweet blur of emotions when Maggie came home, when they watched the news, when they listed the numbers of the planes that had crashed and her father’s hadn’t been among them, but Maggie’s parent’s flight had. Or the tearful goodbye as Maggie hijacked a car to get back home to San Francisco to check on her little brother. Or when Chloe herself had hijacked that plane from that evil little CEO miniplane lot, relying on naught but her sketchy memories of those infrequent lessons her dad had given her as a little girl. Or nearly crashing that same plane. Or finding her dad alive, but her mom and brother not. Or or or…

She shook her head out of that spiral. It had been a spiral that had gotten her into this predicament. Being honest, being frightened, trying to find some reminder of connection, proof that the world made sense as her father went insane before her very eyes.

She had focused on that despair, had been told of God, a cruel and malicious God of the type her mother had destroyed herself praising, a God that didn’t only find her a sinner for what she was, but for who she was. A God that found those who rejected the roles set for them evil and punishable. She had been polite enough. She had even tried to listen to what such a God might have to offer.

That’s when she first felt that hateful gaze, had first experienced it rummaging around her body in perturbed fury. She felt herself cut off from her father, from Maggie, from even the possibility of escape. She had been trapped in her own house.

Being the liberal-minded skeptic she had always been, she put it down to moods, to the despair that filled her when none of her former neighbors would talk to her, when her father acted as if nothing had happened that was important, when she couldn’t get a call through to Maggie’s house in San Francisco.

It was easy enough to accept that. In her state of mind, of total despair, any answer that gave semblance of even basic sense was latched onto and nursed. Even if it was about something as small as a bad feeling.

So when it became more than a feeling, when she felt the force of the Deity, as cruel and angry as her father had become, as her mother had been, as her pastor had always been. When she felt its gaze not only disapproving but furious at her disobedience to the demands of its whims. When she felt her own intelligence beginning to slip away, statements not her own forced into her lips with a Greaser’s understanding of modern slang, she became paralyzed with fear.

It was a violation of body and mind, and numb as she was taken, she found herself losing more whenever she was in the focus of that celestial eye. She put two and two and two together, saw how her father was losing himself, how that focus seemed to suck the humanity out of the landscape so that even cabbies lost all perspective, so that cabbies still ran.

And it was getting worse. She was always good at making connections, a survival trait growing up under the paranoid reign of her mother and under the watchful eye of bored suburbia. When Buck entered the picture, dapper, eager, and utterly terrifying, her heart had sunk. When he had given her a cookie and treated her like an eleven year old that he wanted to show the inside of his van to, she had wanted to run. She could feel the gaze working around her, knew exactly where it would need her to go.

And that was the last little bit it would need. She could feel it already trying to take hold of her body, forcing awkwardly the simulation necessary for its purposes. Her sexuality perverted, taken out her hands and placed in that sick Deity’s.
She had felt like that once before, when her mother had set her up “with a nice boy from the Church” because “it isn’t proper for a lady to be on her own” where “she can develop unnatural thoughts.” The boy had been the usual undereducated thug for Jesus type she had seen around High School. The date hadn’t even gotten to the theatre before he had started trying to feel her up. She had fought him off and stared him down, but for one frightening moment she had stared into his eyes and saw him weighing up the possibilities. Saw him thinking about pushing it further; entertaining the possibility. He hadn’t gone down that road, but she had remembered that look. She imagined that was a look the Deity had often.

At that moment she understood exactly the fate for women under its gaze, their purpose and their life. It was what her mother demanded of all women on behalf of the pastors and her philandering husband. It was the fate that was worse than death, than Hell. It was her mother’s dream.

At that moment, she knew what needed to be done.