heaven || vanessa
She doesn’t believe in God. She wonders if anyone really does. It’s all made up, she says, when she is trying to be superior. She says it like she doesn’t care, holding her chin up, rolling her eyes, the snoot in her voice (that reminds her of her mother when her mother talks about poor people) prominent and piercing.
But then, sometimes, when she thinks about it (God, a higher power, the afterlife, the End), and it is late at night, darkness enveloping her and creeping everywhere, she doesn’t feel superior. She feels small, insignificant, lost, scared—bad things.
“Do you think anything happens after we die?” she asks one such night, staring at the ceiling. It’s dark in the room and Meg lays next to her, half asleep.
“It’s a bit late for an existential crisis, V.”
“It’s never too late for an existential crisis.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Exactly. Perfect time for an existential crisis.”
Meg laughs, rolling onto her side and twining her fingers through Vanessa’s. In the darkness, Vanessa can make out the curve of Meg’s cheek, shape of her nose. She can hear Meg’s soft breathy laugh, feel the heat of her skin.
“You have an exam tomorrow,” says Meg. “Go back to bed.”
Vanessa doesn’t believe in God and she knows she never will, but she does believe in goodness, now at least.
