Blood To Bleed
Modern Jesus
The first thing I notice is the blue patch on the bottom leg of her desk. I think of children with blond curls. Bubble gum. Then I wonder if she knows. Maybe she doesn't care. I take a breath and step into the room.
When you walk into the room you make your first choice, the one that affects the rest of your visits. I silently wonder if many people think about this. I doubt anyone does. Within the room there are three places to sit. A fluffy lime green sofa, the kind a person would lie on to tell their story, stare at the ceiling. This way they don't have to make eye contact. My second choice is a wooden chair and a desk. A pad and pencil on the desk, for the artist type. The anti-social. Choice number three, a nice comfy looking chair. The kind you would picture a person stretched out across. The laid-back type. I know the series of questions I get asked will all be decided by which seat I take.
When I walk into the room I try hard not to hesitate. She will notice the hesitation, notice and attack on it. From what I hear, the human mind works on impulse. So this is what I think about when I choose my seat. The human mind also pulls toward familiar or safe feeling. I choose the floor in front of the couch. Simple. Familiar. I cross my legs and focus on my breathing. I hope she doesn't notice. I hope I'm not counting out loud.
“Hello, I’m Cathy.” She said it with an air of authority. Like if we were on an out of control plane she’d be the first one saved. I half expected her to add, “And I will be saving your life today.”
“Good morning,’ I said indifferently, making eye contact for the first time. “I’m Jesus.” I played my fingers over the scar on my right palm. I‘d rather be hanging on a wooden cross than this.
It seemed to take Cathy five minutes to write all of this down. She looked over her clipboard at me with a bored, slightly curious expression. She reacted like she had never heard of Jesus. I wasn’t too surprised; people today just aren’t in touch.
“What is your full name?” the tone of her voice was sugary sweet, like cheerios in sweetened condensed milk. It makes me think of kittens.
“Jesus.”I reply, picking at my nails. I glance up to see Cathy looking at me, she has blue eyes. Pretty, clear...Clean blue eyes. Like God's, if God had blue eyes. But I'm sure he doesn't, they're probably red and puffy...
Cathy clears her throat, I got lost in thought. I wonder how long I've been staring at the wall, or if I was talking to myself. I'm sure that's what got me here in the first place. That or the scars.
“Will you please tell me about yourself, Jesus?” she asks in that voice that makes me crave a bowl of cheerios. I didn't realize how hungry I was, now I'm thinking of those little children starving in Africa. I start counting my breathing. In...Out...Talk.
“Well, I'm 16 and I go to the public school here.” I suddenly remember I don't know the name of the school. Those poor kids in Africa. “That's about all.” I finish lamely with a shrug. I go back to tracing the scar on my palm.
“Oh, okay.” Cathy starts writing on her clipboard again. I notice the grayish onyx nail polish she's wearing. It seems out of place with her cheerios voice and innocent blue eyes. It made her seem quite...monotone.
“Would you like to tell me how you got those scars?” she asks this in a nervous tone, like she might have crossed a line.
“People sin.” I shrugged. I picture her sweetened milky lips on a man not her husband. Those blue eyes, God should be proud. I almost want to mention those little children in Africa, or how her husband will be hanging from their ceiling fan when she gets home, but I don't. I decide God would probably rather me not. Or maybe he would, I wouldn't know, I'm only Jesus.
She looks at me curiously, her hand constantly crossing the paper. “Are you religious in any way?”
This strikes me as odd. “No,” I reply. “I don't believe in God.”
Cathy nods and engrosses herself in her notes. “Okay, I will be back in a few minutes, if you'll excuse me.” She gets up and leaves the room. I stare at my palms.
I wonder if God exists, how he would feel about all of this. Would he be jealous of blue innocent eyes, when his where red and puffy? Would he think about all the poor starving children in Africa? Would he make it rain cheerios? I don't know, I'm only Jesus. But I doubt he would. He'd probably rather hang on a cross somewhere. Who really wants to hear about starving children, or sweetened condensed affairs, or even the problems of a 16 year-old boy who says he's Jesus? No one...
“I think I have your diagnosis.” Cathy states with a smile. I jump, startled by her sudden appearance. “I believe you have a personality disorder.”
I stare at her, “Really?” I ask. I'm sure I don't sound surprised.
“I'm sure you will progress fast with a quick recovery to a normal life.” She smiles.
“Okay.” I’m craving cheerios again.
“You can go now, come back next Thursday and we will start the process to your recovery.” Cathy beams as she opens the door for me to leave.
“Thank you,” I reply as I step out and take my first breath since I walked in. Funny.
I go home and eat a bowl of cheerios, and think about those little starving children in Africa. I think of lime green couches and kittens. I wonder if God's eyes are red and puffy...and if he envies his children with blue eyes. Maybe Cathy has found her husband by now. I wonder if God would care if he existed. But how would I know...I'm only Jesus.
I always dream about nails and wooden crosses...