H shakes with intensity, fists whitening like strips of fat around bloodless
steaks. She clutches her treasured hands into her chest, bows her crooked
neck. She has anointed herself with blood on the forehead: the deep,
cross-shaped crevice tears into her hairline. Her gasps are roadblocks
to her breath; she licks her lips in nervous anticipation, the exhilaration
of exposing something slightly off-limits and secret. She pierces us dead
in the eyes and proclaims: I want to take Jesus into my heart because I
know only God can fill my emptiness and my special need for attention—
an insatiable need, a cruel vacuum—but Satan comes instead. H slurps
the saliva back between cracked lips. The Bible says, vengeance will be
God’s. Her grimace exposes a decayed wilderness, the yellowed stumps
of teeth. But God does not take vengeance. That must be something Satan
says to confuse me. She refuses her food, spiced with sulfur. But it’s in
the Bible, so I’m unsure. Then Satan grows louder, and I can’t hear God
at all. God is banging both fists on her plastic lunch tray. I want to do
what they both say, but I can’t detect the difference in the voices
anymore. I need them to stop fighting. To satisfy both—or herself—
she bashes her head against the leaden windowsill and bleeds for them:
God, Satan.
