as always, feedback and criticism is awesome. P.S. I can't handle it...
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Everyone remembers what they were doing when they saw the face of god. My father still talks about it to this day in fact, recounting how it started out ‘just like any other’ with an ‘early morning in the clipper household and long lines of traffic dominating the streets’. I guess it was the surprise that caught everyone off guard; after all you don’t expect to see the eyes of the great almighty staring back at you when you look into your bathroom mirror one day. Those deep powerful eyes that made you feel naked, exposing your true self to the one and only: the big guy upstairs.
At least, I think that was it.
To be completely honest, my memories of the event all seem a little hazy now. It was over five years ago after all, and my body was only just beginning to hit that awkward stage of puberty where every fifth word you said sounded like a mouse being beaten to death. I can remember my mum telling me how the vision completely changed her life, making her want to be a better person and help those in need. My brother got all philosophical and begun to sprout different conspiracy theories over what God actually was, none of them every really holding any merit of course. One thing I do remember, however, is the influx in Sunday Roasts we had after the event. It was delicious. Fresh chicken cooked until the skin was a golden brown, and superbly roasted potatoes stacked on top of one other and brightly coloured Brussels sprouts and Yorkshire puddings with their soft doughy centres and homemade stuffing, all covered in the thickest gravy I could’ve possibly imagined.
And we would always say grace. This part seemed to drag on a bit. I understood at first why we did it and I joined in with the ceremonious holding of hands and silent chanting that boarded on the creepy and unusual, but after five years of the same routine it all begins to feel just a little… Pointless? If I were being completely honest once again, I really just wanted to eat my food.
I’m not saying that I’m ungrateful for the integration of religion in my life, because I am eternally happy with the way things panned out and I really do understand exactly how lucky my generation is. Although my education took a little bit of a nose dive after the event, with the core subjects having to be stripped and changed (Religious studies started to take a much more focused role in most schools, while subjects such as chemistry, physics and engineering fell into disuse) and that resulted in many schools having to close down, due to being ill-equipped to deal with the newly improved curriculum. The entertainment industry also took a bit of a bashing and became a lot less varied. You see, once you find out that God is in fact real and will eventually condemn your immortal soul for every bad thing you’ve ever done in your life, you begin to censor the things to say in front of other people. All reality shows stopped almost overnight. All scientific documentaries also came to a halt, despite the fact that many scientists believing that religion and science actually do support each other if you were to look deep enough.
So I’m not saying that I’m ungrateful. It’s just… I don’t really understand what the big deal is? I never did, maybe I never will.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t actually remember what God even looked like, just what other people’s interpretation of what God was.
I’m sure I saw him though, I must have done.
Not long after the visions started happening, a lot of people came forth saying how they never actually saw anything.
‘Atheists’ my father would mutter whenever they appeared on the news, ‘a bunch of non-believers trying to corrupt the next generation!’
‘Mhmm’ my mother would tut in approval as she shook her head at the television, her brow furrowed so intensely that her eyes almost disappeared in the shadow of her forehead.
And I would… I would… I would remain silent I suppose. I got the feeling that it was never a great time to voice my honest opinion, and I would stare at the television set as these crazed people were escorted into the backs of jet-black vans, the broad smiling face of Pope Kenneth plastered along the sides, their wide bloodshot eyes darting back and forth at the camera crews and news reporters, spitting saliva and ‘poisonous filth’ as my parents would put it.
There was no way that I was one of them. I was as sane as I could possibly be. I was the most ordinary person I knew and everybody who knew me would say so, a fact that gave me a secret comfort.
But when everyone else stopped dead on that day, horror and confusion pulsing through their bodies as impossible images flashed into their minds, I was sitting in my room playing with my toys, content and happy.
To be honest, I think that was the last happy memory I actually had.