Sick of screaming outside churches at night after the pubs had closed, I begged God to come into my life and save me from this dark bellyache.
It took me a while to ask.
In the meantime I drank too much and wrote love letters that I flushed down factory toilets or sailed along muddy rivers at dusk.
My mother sobbed, Please donít kill yourself. I hugged her but I felt cold. Cold enough to kill myself.
My dad took me to see Bob Dylan in concert which warmed me up a bit. We went to the local pub afterwards. They locked the doors and we took speed and sat up all night talking about music.
I didnt kill myself. Now what was I going to do?
Walking the streets late at night with my friend Jack, feeling sorry for myself after another girl had rejected me, my heart like a busted old shoe in the rain, Jack stopped and said, Ask God for help. Go on
So by the steps of a video rental store I fell down on my knees in a puddle under the sneering moon and wept, God help me
God help me
please! and I think I felt something happen.
Jack said I had Gods finger inside me.
Before I went to bed that night I wrote REMEMBER YOU FOUND GOD LAST NIGHT on a scrap of paper and put it beside my bed and went to sleep for the first time in weeks.
When I got up in the morning I sat on the end of the bed and stared at the scrap of paper. What happens now? I thought, as my dads gruff voice drifted up the stairs like cigar smoke, Come on. Youíll be late for work.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 35 | Winter 2012