Chapter Two: Michael

“Honor thy father, obey your father child!” he would scream, as he burned another cross into my back.

                “Honor me! Honor me!”

I stayed silent. I knew better than to speak against him twice. I lifted my head and watched as he set the brand back into the fire place. Burning flesh was a familiar smell, and ceased to bother me. It was the remaining pain that unleashed the darkness in my heart that scared me.

“You are an ungrateful child; God is punishing me with you. Get out of my sight.”

My arms quivered, all my strength was drained, and I faltered getting up. My father turned back to me, his face bent and twisted in the glow of the fire.

“You dare tempt me twice?” he bellowed. “Have you no penitence?”

He ran over to where I lay, grabbing a handful of my hair. He jerked my head back, and then slammed it onto the cold graveled ground. Blood poured from my eyebrow, making it nearly impossible for me to see. I scrambled across the ground, feeling my way down the hall. His footsteps crackled behind me, and before I could scream, his boot connected with my intestines. Gasping, I felt every ounce of air leave my lungs. I stumbled onto my feet, limping down the hall to the corner that was my room.

                It was dark, the kind of dark where it doesn’t matter if your eyes are open, or closed. I felt around the floor for the match box. The tips of my fingers caressed the rough surface as I struck a match. A brilliant fire engulfed the darkness. I bent down to the one candle in my room, pressing the flame to the wick.

“Let there be light.” I whispered.

The flames shadows danced along my wall, lighting up the bible verses painted in lamb’s blood. Proverbs 15:20 “a wise son brings joy to his father.” Exodus 21:17 “and he who curses his father shall surly be put to death.” And, of course, my father’s favorite; Exodus 20:12 “honor thy father so that you may live long in the land your God is giving to you.” He had painted these as a constant reminder to me; obey or feel his wrath.

                I peeled off my blood soaked shirt, and threw it into the pile with the others. I tended to my fresh burn. The skin was peeling and warm blood was oozing down my spine. I hobbled over to the makeshift bathroom, dampening a cloth with ice cold water. Instant relief flooded my wound. As I pressed the cloth to my back, I took notice to the other burn scars. Most had not healed yet, and some even looked infected. After the bleeding stopped, I laid on my back. With the pain too great, I turned over to my side, knowing sleep would evade me once again.

                The mornings were my only time for peace. My father would go out and hunt while I was left to tend to the chores. They only took about an hour seeing as we lived in a s****y cabin out in the middle of nowhere. Bored out of my mind I walked to my corner. I glanced at the old bible he had given me after my mother died. There was no way in hell I was reading that beat up thing again. It was the only book in the house, and many passages had been scribbled out. My father told me not to worry about it. I knew he was hiding something, there was more to this world, but I had no way of finding out. I turned to a lone hook on my wall, grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. About five years ago, I found an old sewing kit in a box of mom’s old things. Knowing dad would have me discard the old animal carcasses he would bring home, I hatched an idea. Before moms death she would tell me stories about the outside world. She told me of radios, television, and of other books. One particular story stuck in my mind. She told me of an intriguing hobby called taxidermy. She explained that people would take dead animals and stuff them so that they appeared alive again. Upon my father telling me to discard of the remains one night, I hid them away behind a hollow tree, stowing away moms sewing kit inside of the tree. Every morning after my chores, I would go to my tree and visit with my animals. Most of the remains had rotted, or been torn at by some other living animal. I didn’t mind though, I would just remove the nicer looking parts and use them for my creations. I began by trying to reassemble the animal to its original state, matching up parts that belonged with other parts. Rabbit parts with other rabbit parts, deer with deer, and so on. After about a year, I realized I had been wasting my talents. I soon began mixing the parts, creating creatures even God himself had not thought of. My animals were brilliant, and soon I had mastered the art of creation. Unfortunately, my animals would only last a few days. After they were no longer perfect, I would discard of the putrid bodies. It was my favorite part of each day. It made me feel empowered, as if I was giving them new life. The years went by, and my animals got more complex, more beautiful. They gave me a taste of my hidden power. They gave me the strength I have today.

                 It was the night of my eighteenth year on this earth that my father found out what I had been doing. After spending two hours with my animals, I washed off in the creek, and then returned home. The door was cracked open, even though I had tied it shut like always. When I pushed it open I saw my father standing in the corner, holding a raccoon by its tail in one hand, and one of my creations in the other. My breathing became shallow, my heartbeat thumped in my ears. He turned, throwing the decaying body at my feet. I knelt down caressing the mangled remains. My father rampaged towards me, and within seconds he had me by the neck.

                “What kind of witch craft is this!” he screamed.

“You are working for the devil aren’t you?” He shook me violently, yelling with every swift movement in his wrist.

“Father please!” I begged.

He threw me against the wall, and without missing a beat, he kicked me repeatedly, each blow worse than the last. He shuffled over to the fire place, grabbing the poker. He lunged at me, giving me only seconds to roll away. After escaping his first attack, I took off for the door. I was a few steps from freedom, when suddenly I had collapsed to the floor, a sharp pain throbbing at the back of my skull. I rubbed the blackness out of my eyes, turning to see he had thrown the bible at me. He plummeted onto me wrapping his coarse hands around my neck, squeezing tighter with every second. I could feel the life slipping from me.

                “How can this be happening?” I kept thinking, “Only God can kill!”

I glanced to my side; the fire poker was just within my reach. Suddenly, something sparked inside of me. A power grew within, and spread through my body like a poison. I grasped onto the poker, and in one quick thrust, I shoved it through my father’s skull. His grip released, and he collapsed on top of me. Rolling him off, I panted and gasped for air. Coughing, I turned to look at what I had done. Blood pooled on the floor, my father’s body twitched, and then went limp. Cautiously, I crawled over to him, placing my head on his chest; I listened for a beat I knew wouldn’t be there. Shocked at my actions I scrambled away from the body. I began hyperventilating; my thoughts began racing in my mind.

                “What have I done?”

                “How could I kill my own father?”

“How has God not killed me yet?”

I took a few deep breaths, realizing that I didn’t have to be afraid of my father anymore. After eighteen years of his, his hate, I was free. I didn’t understand, but I didn’t care. I was filled with a new power. I felt strong. I walked over to my father’s body, and knelt down beside him. Grabbing the poker, I pulled, forcing bits of his skull onto the floor. Fresh blood spilt from the wound. I dipped my finger into the puddle of blood besides his head, lifting it to my tongue. The bitterness overwhelmed me; I spat it back onto his body.

“You truly were evil you b*****d.”

I went over to the trunk of my mother’s old things, knowing there was a pocket bible in there. I dove into the passages my father had scribbled out from mine. What I read, I could barely comprehend. There were many passages about how humans had been killing other humans for years. It talked about how they started wars over land, and tortured each other in unimaginable ways. The verse that struck me the most was about how fathers should never provoke their sons. If so, they should be punished. And uncontrollable laughter burst from inside me. I began to realize that God had no real power. Maybe he did create everything, but he wasn’t strong enough to stop humans from being evil, from committing sins. God couldn’t even stop my father from torturing me. My laughter turned into angry screams.

“How could you do this to me? If you are all powerful, why do we not live in a perfect world? How can you call yourself God if you can’t even stop a petty argument among humans?”

I grabbed the bible off of the floor, tossing it into the flames. I glanced at my creation and smiled.

“See!” I shouted, scooping the animal off the floor thrusting into the air, “I’m human and I created something you never could! I’m better than you, I am better than God!”

Surprised at my own words, I dropped to my knees. I was better than God; I possessed the power of creation, something only he was said to of possessed. I could create things, and make them perfect. What if I could fix his mistakes? What if I could redo his work? I could put my power to good use, make my own humans, make them perfect. I would start at the beginning, start with the humans.

“I will make my own Adam and Eve,” I shouted, “and they will be flawless!”

Turning to my father’s body, I released his hunting knife from his belt, and headed for the door.

“I am the new God.” I whispered, shutting the door, and stepping out into my new world of possibilities.