The Burden Of My Soul

For my writing exercise today I used a random quote from The Home Book of Quotations: Classical & Modern. It resulted in an interesting dive into a fairly personal and dark part of my past. Religion is a difficult topic as some find it rewarding and others find it destructive. I don't know why it happens both ways. What I do know is that I worked very hard for many years to be as obedient and thorough with my beliefs as anyone could be and I spent most of cognitive and emotional strength to do so. I am glad that part of my life has ended and left me with shattered pieces to gather and rebuild into a stain glass window, beautiful and magical, all of my own.

The Burden of my Soul

Age after age the children give

Their lives that Herod may still live—

-Winifred M. Letts, The Children’s Ghosts

I was eight years old when the burden of my soul was placed onto my shoulders. I remember imagining a large sack full of mistakes. My bishop was sitting behind a large redwood desk – dense and full of confessions. On top of the desk was my sackcloth bag. It was full and moved a little whenever I looked at it. My bishop’s head sat right above the bag from my tiny vantage point. I was a child in a room alone with an adult and the nightmare on the desk.

He asked me questions that I knew the answers to because I was taught the answers. I got every question right. The bishop smiled and showed me all his teeth. The last question was about Jesus. I needed to accept him so that he could empty out my bag, and I could start fresh and clean and light. I liked the sound of that. I’d filled the bag. It was my responsibility to get rid of whatever was inside so that I could feel like everyone else. Right.

I looked at my bishop's teeth, each one had a smile of its own, “Yes,” I said. The top of the desk immediately opened up into an abyss. It pulled on my heart and I wanted to look inside. My bag was floating above the hole and the contents began shrieking. A low voice came from inside the desk.

“Who are you?” It asked and everything shook.

“My name is Winslow,” I said.

“You have come to pledge yourself to me?” It asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“And you would have me empty this bag for you?” It asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“It is very full. It will cost a lot.” It said.

“How much?” I asked. I watched my bishop’s eyes widen. His smiling teeth were now hiding behind trembling lips.

“Your soul,” it said. I was pulled up out of my chair and was now floating above the hole. The bag floated toward my face, sliding its drawstring, and opened itself.

Inside the bag was my soul. It was a beautiful and broken soul. We were together for a long moment. I could see in its eyes the big bang and I could hear David Bowie singing Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide in the distance.

“Are you okay?” I asked, and was suddenly transported to the Back to the Future movie set outside the school on the night of the Enchantment Under The Sea dance. I glided by lights, gaffers, sound equipment operators, a cameraman, people busy with costumes, and Robert Zemeckis.

“Action!” and a slate snapped. I watched quietly. George McFly had just punched Biff and saved Lorraine. He reached out his rickety but constant hand, and out of breath from an emotional growth spurt, asked, “Are you okay?”

I snapped back into the room floating above the desk. The bishop, disturbed, looked into the hole. “What was that?” He asked. The hole ignored him but shook.

“A temptation,” it said.

“I don’t think I need to make this deal,” I spat out.

“Don’t be stupid!” The bishop snapped.

“SILENCE,” came from what was probably the deepest part of the desk. “Will you give me your soul, your pain, your questions, and fall freely into my eternity?”

“No,” I said.

The desk trembled and a hand covered thick in tar and feathers came from inside the abyss, stretching up toward the bag. I grabbed it first, looked at my soul inside, winked, and pulled the drawstring closed. I knew now - this was mine. I snapped my fingers and the sackcloth became an old leather fanny pack with a broken zipper and a side release buckle. I cinched the strap and clicked the buckle behind my back and was immediately let go of whatever was holding me above the desk. My back bounced off the edge of the desk, and I fell to the floor just as the hand stretched toward me.

“What are you doing!” The bishop screamed.

“I can take care of this on my own,” I said calmly, patting my fanny pack. The hand had grabbed the edge of the hole in the desk and was lifting out the attached body. The entire body was naked and covered in the same tar and feathers I had seen on the hand. It dragged itself out of the hole and onto the floor where I had fallen. It was lying prostrate with its eyes and hands and head extending towards me.

“Please,” a weak voice scribbled. I stood and watched it breathe heavily. It was old and decayed under the tar and feathers. “Please,” it said again, “I will die…” The voice hissed out of hole in a bike tire.

“I will watch you die,” I said. And I watched it die. And the bishop watched it die.