Is heaven real?
Mica Anderson had asked that question a million times throughout his life. When his parents died, he asked. When his dog died, he asked. When his wife died, he asked. He asked in between those times and all through out the hours of the night. He asked and asked and got no response from the supposed God who is supposed to live in heaven. Now more than ever Mica needs an answer to that question.
He turned 100 today. A huge milestone and accomplishment. An honor in many people’s eye. A curse in his own eyes. He lived through so many deaths and so many trials. He faced cancer and won. He came out weak but he made it and recovered perfectly. He faced a dire car accident that should’ve taken his life but he made it with only a few scratches. It was a miracle. He even survived against a pack of wolves out in his woods. He was chopping wood for his lovely wife and came across them. They were hungry and crazy and were foaming at the mouth. He had his gun and shot three and somehow managed to out run the other two. He still did not know how he was able to run as fast as he did that day. Right now, he didn’t care. Right now, all he wanted was peace. Then the question came again.
Is heaven real?
Mica groaned in his plush chair and threw the Bible on the ground. He had on three blankets with the heat cranked up and yet the cold swirls of snow outside somehow made him cold. He felt the cold deep into his old, brittle bones as he pulled his robe closer. He stared the terrifying book he cracked open for the first time sprawled against the floor. He stared at it in rage and confusion. He was reading Genesis and it made not a lick of sense to him. The birth of creation made little sense. It is hardly scientific and is composed of whimsical magic. It didn’t bring him peace and came out in Mumbo Jumbo. He grunted, disappointed in himself. A prized scientist who once worked at NASA was contemplating nonsense and has been contemplating nonsense for most his life.
He heard the door open with a resounding bang. Mica didn’t move to get up or yell. His granddaughter would find him eventually. He waited until her head popped around a corner. She had auburn hair and golden freckles. She may have been thirty with her own kids and husband, but she still looked like his five year old baby girl.
“Grandpa! What on earth are you doing in here? It is so hot, and are those blankets? Grandpa! Do you remember what your doctor said?” She always did this. Comes in his house like his little nurse. But she really was. Most of his small family lived too far to see. His granddaughter, Sarah, moved here specifically to take care of him. He wished she hadn’t.
She turned the temperature down and stole one of his blankets.
“Confound it woman! Let a man be comfortable how he wants to be comfortable. Leave me be!” His words alway fell on deaf ears.
“Absolutely not, grandpa! Why if grandma was here, she have a fit with you! The kitchen is a mess and the maid is apparently fired! Grandpa, what it the world!” She suddenly trips over the fallen Bible. She froze and stared at it in wonder.
Mica felt an uncomfortable blush Grace his cheeks. He grunted and let a cold, indifferent exterior become his defense. He did that too often, but he didn’t have much long anyways. He could feel it. The feeling stretched from his chest to his stomach and even took up residence in his head. He felt it press and pursue him and today was the day he wanted to finally give in. First, he needed the question to be answered.
“Is heaven real, Sarah? I just ask because I have not long now.” He coughs, the pressure building in his chest. Sarah rushed to his side with tears streaming down her face. She grabbed her hand and he squeezes it but was hard.
“Oh pa!” She wept. Tears coated he cheeks and dropped down her sweater. Mica could almost not understand why she acted like this.
“Help me, Sarah.” He cried silently. “Read me something from that blasted book that will prove to me heaven is real. I - I want it to be real. I want to believe I will go to heaven. Not enough time.” He chokes. The pressure set to kill.
She sat at his feet and read to him Romans 8. She read and didn’t stop. They wept together, neither of them really knowing why. Mica slipped away. He disappeared into the abyss and found freedom. Not the fake numbness that some people believe. No, Mica died believing in heaven, in God, in peace that passes all understanding. He died and went to heaven and saved his granddaughter by opening the Bible and throwing it on the floor.
Cold. It is so cold. Everywhere is cold. In people’s eyes, hearts, the air, and outside in the rain.
He doesn’t like the cold. He hates it with vigor and rage. But it doesn’t matter that much. He’s a nobody. He knows this and he has come to terms with it. It hurts but only barely. After living for an agonizing two hundred years, you eventually have to forget and get used to it.
He catches a butterfly on his hand as the rain pelts down on his umbrella. The steady thump, thump of it makes him trill. He clicks and hums at the blue, majestic creature that landed so softly on his gray and claw like hand and that now chirps back at him. It doesn’t seem afraid or wary of him. It seems fascinated with him. Weird creature. Who would want to look at him?
He claws at his nonexistent nose and feels around the two holes that enable him to breathe. His eyes are white pits upon his head the look into your soul and can see you every lie. They show nothing and give nothing away and they never blink. A monstrosity but it is who he is. Accept it. His face his gray and pasty, scratchy and dry. Hardly worth to look at let alone feel. He gazes at the butterfly once again in wonder. The thing is feeling his arm and dry skin with its own form of touch. He hums again. He says nothing.
He looks. He feels. He sees. He does not speak though. A gray hanky he found years and years ago covers his mouth. It never comes off and he never speaks. Most the time at least.
He allows the rain to splash on his large coat. He finds it comforting. At least the rain knows me and sees me, he thinks. He is not invisible to it just like he is not invisible to the butterfly. The poor innocent butterfly who showed him comfort like the rain for the first time in fifty years. He crushes it. He smashes it between his two claws and twists and turns them until the butterfly is nothing but a mangled mess. Just like me, he thinks softly.
Here forever, he decides. He puts the butterfly in his coat pocket and pats it with a sigh. He suddenly feels happy. A weird emotion that is not common for him but once in a while, especially around this time of year when the weather is still warm enough to stop the snow and yet cold enough to make the grass and leaves turn brown. This is the one time, every few decades, when someone can see a nobody. The butterfly didn’t count because all animals can see nobodies. He doesn’t know why they do but they are nice enough company in bad days. The ones that don’t bark, run away, or screech are at least.
He sees the person far off into the rain and makes another trilling noise of joy. There he his. The person that will see him. His pale eyes can see the red outline of his body that indicates that he is the one. He is fresh and calling for nobodies everywhere. Mine, he thinks.
He walks, more like limps to the red, healthy glow in the distance in a jerky but quick speed. He trills and hums some more. The red figure moves and the glow grows brighter. He can’t take it anymore. He runs, getting down on his hand in a crawling motion, with incomprehensible speed. The glow is still growing brighter as he gets closer.
He passes the person and heard it make an odd noise, a funny noise. He gets in front of it and rises to his full height. He clicks and chirps and wanted to shake the boy in excitement. He can see me, he garbles in his head, he is mine. The boy is a leaf and tries to blow away and trembles. He won’t have that. He grabs the boy to keep him steady. He gets in his face and screeches. It is a happy screech of joy to be able to be seen and to touch but the boy shakes harder. The wind keeps trying to blow him away or something does. The boy slips out of his hands and gets away. He screeches louder out of rage and snagged the boy before he could make it far.
He wants to see the warmth and the love. He wants to see someone see him. He peers into the boys eyes to see cold, fear, emptiness. Nothing. There is nothing for him. There is always nothing for him like always. He is a nobody. Why did I hope, he moans, why?
He pulls the cloth off his face and watches as the boy’s face conforms to terror. His smile grow large, stretching a cross his entire face and more. His millions of fangs extend and his tongue dances out to lick the boy’s face.
He takes of the boy’s head and then his arms. He swallows the boys torso whole. Soon he is gone. It didn’t matter though, he was just a nobody, like him.
I breathe in the fresh morning air. It is crisp and cool making me relax and finally breathe. Brown, crunched up leaves litter the entire floor of the woods and make a pleasant sound as I walk deeper and deeper into the one place I know I should not go. I check my mobile again and silently curse under my breath. Nobody I know, like my sister and best friend, would call it a curse though. They would have called it one of Julie’s bad words. What ever the crap that means. My phone blinked and practically screamed that I had five missed calls. Speak of the wee little devils and they shall appear in some shape or form. They started texting me this morning and I have refused to respond. I couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. I put my phone back into legging pocket. It fit firmly and stayed put to which I am grateful. Running around in the woods before the sun has come up is not the best idea but at least I don’t have to carry my phone three miles. Well that is as far as I have gone. Starting at six and realizing it is now seven is something I don’t like. It means work and no more hiding. I hate myself for checking my phone. I let my mind go blank for a few moments. I stop running and I slow down to a stop. I come to a clearing of pine trees that is littered in pine needles as if it is a sea of just that. I smell in the musky scent and try not to cry. Sick of crying, I tell myself. So sick of it. But it smells like him. It smells like my love. No! I fight the emotions and thoughts and memories. I can’t do this. I can’t do this! I feel like I want to retch and pass out. I fight that still. I came out to the backyard of my parent in laws house to escape and to not think. No, I can’t do this. I take off in a sprint hoping to escape the trauma and the pain. Running away never seems to see any problems though. Hey I run and can’t stop. I came to my parent in laws to find peace with my husbands passing but instead I find remorse and hurt and memories. So many memories. This is a horrible idea I realize. Retched and vile. I stop when I see it and freeze. I don’t think I can ever move again. The tree house. The tree house with all the play dates as kids and made up dates. All the making out and illegal drinking we should have not been doing. All the jokes and laughs. All the hope and joy. I do vomit this time. I can’t hold it back. I heave as sob. I scream as I stare at the broken down and falling tree house, the strange complexity of a tiny house fitting between two skinny pine trees that is held up by a few strong branches, the red and purple color that looked so stupid before with its awful design and suddenly looks beautiful and inspiring with the rot, mold, and wear to it. I stare at it and don’t stop, can’t stop the screaming. I decided something before coming into the woods, before having my last walk in the woods. I decided it would be okay, that I will be okay. And I know how I get that. I pull out the gun in my other legging pocket that fit surprisingly well. I feel it and debate and think and get sick again. But I make the choice and stay with it. I can’t live without him. I died when he died. I decided this the moment I got the phone call of his accident. I decided. I pull it out and I shoot. I don’t feel the pain, our peace. I don’t feel myself hit the ground but I suddenly see the sky. I don’t feel the pine needles sticking out of my arm but I do feel my husbands warm hand in mine.
