Pathways

It belongs to my dad, although he would deny it, if I ever confronted him with it. Artillery has no place among the armor of God, after all. The sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, is all a good Christian needs to fight a spiritual war. And, above all else, my dad is a good Christian. My parents raised me to be a good Christian too, told me that my power was a portent that God had blessed and exalted me, but I failed them and fell. I became an abomination - God's joke, if He indeed has a sense of humor.

Why else would I have this weapon? Why else would I be contemplating how many shots it would take to blow me to the hell I deserve? My father preached about Hell the other day - about how all perverts, idolaters, disobedient sheep would burn forever in the flames and how they would weep for mercy but no-one would listen - and he looked at me as his sermon reached its climax. He looked at me, and thundered in the voice he saves for television broadcasts: "Turn from sin. Turn from the primrose path of damnation. Set your feet on the path of righteousness and you will be saved. Hallelujah. Praise His name."

He makes it sound so easy, like . . . choosing a way to walk to school or to the store, like there's a signpost pointing down the path of righteousness. He doesn't know what it's like to lie sleepless in the middle of the night, grappling with your soul in an attempt to understand why you feel the way you do and why you're too weak to do God's will. At times like that, I become very aware of the gun beneath the bed and the escape which it offers me. It would be so quick, so clean, so final.

Heck, I could even justify it as a noble and selfless act. If I die, perhaps they'll spare another one of us, another one of the special children that were created when the comet hit our little town. Perhaps Patriot, Pyre and my father will turn back from the path which God has given to them, when they're confronted with the reality of blood and grey matter and death. Perhaps power won't be so important to them after all. I'd like to think that my father would cry for me, but I know his tears will stop the instant the camera stops.

I raise the barrel of the gun to my forehead and my finger almost depresses the trigger before my arm drops to my side. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry at my cowardice. Yes, I am afraid, afraid of the hell of my father's sermons and the tears in my mother's eyes, afraid that they'll remember me as a matyr to a cause that I was too weak to share.

The swelling sounds of an organ drifts up from beneath me and voices rise with it. The words are indistinct, but the meaning behind them is clear. It's time for Sanctuary to descend in light on the congregation. It's time for Joshua Kane to replace the gun beneath his bed until a time when he is braver.