Scars

by Patience Prence

  Brock was silent for a moment, searching for a vocabulary to fit this strange situation. He then turned to a young sun-bleached surfer in a black-and-orange wetsuit streaked with blood.

  “This young man was surfing when this strange phenomenon happened.” He put the microphone under the young man’s mouth.

  “Yeah, man. . .way cool!” said the young surfer, his surfboard tucked under his arm. “I was way out there wading in the water trying to catch a wave when all of a sudden I saw all of this blood around me. I thought maybe a fish had croaked or something, dude, so I swam in as fast as I could—I didn’t want to be shark bait!”

  “Look!” Brock interrupted the surfer, his finger pointed toward the ocean. “The fish are dying. They’re floating on top of the water gasping. It appears that they are dying. . .hundreds of them. It seems they can’t breathe in the blood.”

  “That is a tragedy, Brock,” Suze said, shaking her head. “We can only imagine what kind of ecological disaster this will turn out to be.

  “If you have just joined us we have confirmation from the CDC that the red liquid is blood. It appears that all of the water has turned to blood. Do not touch this. The police have advised everyone to stay indoors.

  “We now join our sister station in Atlanta.”

  “Hi, Suze!” a muscular black reporter stared into the camera cowering under a blue umbrella. “I’m here in

  Atlanta, and as you can see on the streets behind me. . .it’s raining blood! Everywhere is blood—on the streets, sidewalks and cars, and even the pedestrians are covered with blood. It looks like a scene from some horrific horror movie!”

  Stunned, Becky and Momma watched, adhered to the television for hours as reports of water turned to blood came in from around the world. The ice caps on Mount Everest glowed red in the early morning sun. People huddled under umbrellas and in doorways as blood rained from the skies in London. No one could explain how any of it happened.

  Finally, Momma picked up the remote and turned off the television. The house was suddenly quiet.

  “We are all going to die!” Momma cried out. “This is the work of those two evil prophets in Jerusalem. They did this. I just know it. They must be killed!”

  She slumped over on her side and buried her face in a pillow. The house was still and quiet again. Becky stared at the tiny, black-and-grey image of herself and her mother reflected in the dead screen of the television.

  * * * * *

  The world fell into extreme fright. Riots broke out in big cities. An ambulance and fire truck rolled up with their sirens blaring to a well-kept house at the end of Becky’s street. They were there for most of the morning. She later learned from a neighbor that the family had entered into a suicide pact. Fear and thirst were taking their toll.

  Finally, on the third day, as mysteriously as it had come, the blood simply stopped flowing. Fresh, clear water poured from the faucets.

  Becky drank until her stomach hurt and stood under the shower and let the clean, hot water wash over her.

  The blood had stained the sinks, the toilets and tubs. Even the lawns were stained with blood from when the automatic sprinklers had clicked on. Nothing would get the dark stains out, and soon a horrible smell filled the house. Becky thought it smelled like a rotten, dead animal. Momma brought some green surgical masks home from the hospital for them to wear over their noses to help block out the awful smell.

  Then came the flies. The infestation was so bad the government imposed a curfew. Schools and businesses were ordered closed, and insecticide was dropped on the cities from planes.

  Peter Roma blamed the two prophets for the unexplained disasters. He called them “the antichrists” and said their destructive negative energy had caused the skies to shut up, creating the drought. He said they then turned the water to blood and brought the infestation of flies.

  Peter Roma demanded their deaths and put a bounty on their heads. But several attempts to assassinate the prophets failed and ended in the mysterious deaths of the assassins.16

  The legend of the prophets grew. They became the most hated public enemies. But, as much as people hated them, they also feared them.

  Becky knew the prophets were sent from God, and it comforted her to know she was not alone in her beliefs. She wished she still had her Bible—there was so much more to know.

  She tried to share her thoughts about the prophets and all that was happening in the world with her mother. But Momma refused to take her seriously. She treated Becky’s ideas like fairytales and scolded her for not “acting her age.”

  “Momma, can’t you at least consider the idea that those two men on television in Jerusalem are the two witnesses mentioned in the Bible? Some say they are the ancient prophets, Enoch and Elijah! And isn’t it possible that all those Jewish men preaching in the streets are the 144,000 from the twelve tribes of Israel?”

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “Rebekah, you know what Peter Roma has said. Those two men are wicked and are not from God, but of the devil. They’re using the destructive antichrist energy to do their evil work.”

  Becky realized her mother did not understand the prophecies were being fulfilled and knew she must continue to pray that her mother’s eyes would be opened.

  * * * * *

  The familiar scream of the emergency broadcast system sounded from the television again. The yellow flashing letters scrolled across the screen: “BREAKING NEWS.”

  Suze Graham’s face was smeared with mascara. “This is a WNN special report.”

  Becky’s eyes left the outdated teen magazine she had been reading and focused on the television screen.

  Suze Graham’s voice quivered, and her eyes were moist with tears. “We are sad to announce. . .we are sad to announce the death of the Lord Maitreyas. . . .”

  “What?” Becky’s magazine fell from her hands and splayed across the floor at the foot of the couch. “Did she just say Maitreyas was dead?” She grabbed the remote

  control from the coffee table and frantically thumbed the volume button.

  “Oh, no!” Momma said from the other end of the couch. Her face drooped as her eyes filled with horror. “It can’t be.” She placed both her hands over her mouth in disbelief and leaned toward the television.

  Suze continued, her face tight, trying hard not to show any emotion. “We are sad to announce the death of the Lord Maitreyas. Details are scarce, but WNN has confirmed that Lord Maitreyas was assassinated. The Lord Maitreyas was pronounced dead at 6:00 EST.”

  The newsroom behind Suze was a flurry of activity. Reporters and producers were running back and forth, throwing papers to each other and yelling across the room to one another. No one seemed to care that Suze was trying to deliver the news to millions of viewers.

  “This just in: the Lord Maitreyas was struck in the head with a bullet. We will report the details to you as we receive them. . . .”

  Suze continued to speak to the camera, haltingly, fighting to keep control of herself. Her face was pale, and her small frame shook visibly. She looked as if her own father had been killed.

  “We are reporting the details to you as we get them from our reporters in the field. Lord Maitreyas was coming out of the World Union Headquarters in Kufa, Iraq, when a man approached, yelled something to him, pulled out a gun and shot him in the head.

  “We now have confirmation that the gunman who shot Lord Maitreyas is also deceased.

  “We are being told the gunman was shouting obscenities to Lord Maitreyas. He called him ‘dirty Nephilim,’17 ‘Satan’s seed,’18 and the ‘son of perdition’ just before shooting him.”

  Becky stood and began pacing the floor in front of the couch. Her head was swimming.

  “Rebekah, sit down. I can’t concentrate on the news with you pacing like this.” Momma motioned for her to sit.

  “But I don’t understand this, Momma. It must be a mistake or something.” Becky sat back down onto the couch, shaking her head. “This wasn’t in the prophecies. Ma
itreyas was supposed to enter the temple in Jerusalem and declare himself God. That’s what it says in Revelation. How can he declare himself God if he’s dead?”

  “I can’t believe you!” Her mother shot a hateful scowl at her. “The man is dead, Rebekah! He was quite possibly the greatest man ever—the only hope we had for a better life. And now he’s dead—murdered by some scum-sucking, low-life, religious nut. And you are upset because it doesn’t fit nicely into your little roadmap you created in your head after reading a bunch of nonsense in your stupid Bible!”

  Becky picked up a pillow and hugged it close to her chest. She had never seen her mother so angry. For the first time ever, she wondered if her mother would hit her.

  “That stupid Bible got your father and brother dragged away from me in the middle of the night. And you are still here, talking about it?”

  Her mother stood and looked at the television. The picture showed mourners leaving flowers on the sidewalk near where Maitreyas was killed. Tears streamed down her mother’s cheeks as she turned to Becky.

  “Get this through that thick skull of yours,

  Rebekah.” Her mother spoke in a low, deliberate tone. Her teeth were clinched in anger. “That Bible of yours is nothing but a bunch of wild fairytales written by men who have been dead for thousands of years. Those stories have been corrupting men ever since, causing wars and enslaving millions of people. That’s why it has been banned, to put it all behind us and let humanity move forward.” She pointed at the television. “This is reality. Maitreyas was a man of peace. He was ending war, hunger, poverty, hatred. He was doing what the Bible only talked about doing. Now he’s dead. Not because of some stupid prophecy but because of some stupid, crazy person like you who is convinced the Bible is real.”

  * * * * *

  Becky spent the next few days in her room. She could not stand to watch the round-the-clock coverage of Maitreyas’s assassination on the news. The world was in shock over Maitreyas’s death. People mourned by wearing black clothing; her mother did also.

  Frustrated, Becky sat at her desk and stared at the blank screen of her computer monitor. Since Momma had turned off the internet service to save money, she could no longer search for impending news. She decided to take her mind off things by calling T.J.

  “T.J.” The hot-pink phone automatically dialed the number at the sound of her command. She frowned as the annoying voice from a recorder echoed, “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected and is no longer in service. . . .” She began to worry that something might be wrong at T.J.’s house. I hope everything is okay. Maybe Momma will drive me over to her house. Yeah, right. Like Momma will do anything for me anymore.

  Disappointed, she pushed T.J. to the back of her mind and decided to write in her journal; she needed someone to talk to. She retrieved her journal from its secret hiding place and sat back down at her desk.

  Pen in hand she began to fill the blank page with blue ink. “Dear God,” she wrote, “it’s been a few days since I’ve written, and so much has happened. Maitreyas is dead. He was shot and killed a few days ago. I thought he was the Antichrist. Isn’t he supposed to sit in the new

  Jewish temple and claim to be God? This is so confusing. I wish I had my Bible. I wish I could talk to you in person. And Momma—I wish I could talk to her. She won’t listen to me when I try to tell her about you.

  “I’m so sad. She actually believes Peter Roma’s and Maitreyas’s lies. I’m so afraid for Momma’s soul, Lord

  Jesus. When it comes time, please put it in her heart not to take the mark of Maitreyas.”

  She stopped writing and reflected on her mother’s words: “Rebekah! Can’t you see? Lord Maitreyas has brought much needed change to our crumbling world. I believe him when he says he can help save our planet from the destructive effects of global warming. Rebekah, all we have to do is become one with him. We’re to let him into our true inner selves, and then we will all be like gods!”

  She glanced over at an old photo of Momma and her that they had taken one summer at Ventura Beach. They were hugging each other as a large wave crashed onto the shore behind them. The wind whipped their hair, and their fair complexions glowed in the warm sunlight. Her mother’s face was so tranquil in that photo.

  Becky picked up the photo and laid it face down on the desk. She continued writing. “I cannot and will not give up on Momma. She’s all I have left. I know I must keep trying to share the truth. Please, please open her eyes and let her see the truth, that you are God and—”

  “Rebekah! Rebekah!” Momma’s shrill, agitated voice startled Becky. She turned and looked toward her bedroom door as she heard her mother running up the stairs two at a time.

  Becky quickly stashed her journal under her pillow and tumbled down on top of her bed knocking a magazine to the floor.

  The bedroom door swung open wildly. Momma had tears of joy in her eyes.

  “Rebekah! He’s alive! He has risen!”

  “What?” Becky tilted her head to one side and tried to understand what her mother was saying.

  Momma sat on the side of her bed and took her hands in hers. “The Lord Maitreyas, he is alive! He is ‘the Christ,’ Rebekah! Now you will believe! He was dead, and now he’s alive. . .he has resurrected!”19

  Becky had missed the feeling of her mother’s warm hands on her. She was stunned by the unexpected news and now understood the prophecy20 and how Maitreyas would enter the temple and claim to be God. She stared into her mother’s eyes. They were bright with ecstasy. She thought of the photo on her desk and hoped her mother would not notice it lying face down.

  “No, Momma.” She shook her head and suddenly felt heaviness on her chest. She did not want to see tears in her mother’s eyes again. She continued as though speaking to a child. “Maitreyas is not the Christ, Momma! Jesus of Nazareth is the one and only Christ. Maitreyas is the Antichrist.”

  The sparkle disappeared from Momma’s eyes as they narrowed and her mouth tightened. Slowly she gritted her teeth. She leaned toward Becky, lifted her right hand and swung hard, catching her full force in the temple.

  Becky felt a hot, sharp, burning pain on the left side of her cheek.

  “How dare you! You ungrateful child!” Momma scolded her harshly. “Lord Maitreyas has proved himself, and you still refuse to believe?” Her mother stormed out of Becky’s room shaking her head. She slammed the door behind her.

  * * * * *

  Her mother kept the television constantly tuned to the news. Becky could not stand to see the stories of the millions of people around the world rejoicing for

  Maitreyas’s resurrection. She fought hard to keep her comments to herself and secretly prayed Momma’s eyes would be opened and she would learn the truth21 that Maitreyas was the false Christ.

  Becky was deeply saddened when the news reported that the two great prophets that were preaching in Jerusalem had been mysteriously killed.22

  Several days after the death of the two prophets Becky and her mother watched in horror as Suze Graham reported on a devastating earthquake in Jerusalem. As Becky watched frantic people running through the rubble-strewn streets her mind flashed back to the Hollywood Quake, and she grieved for the people of the holy city.

  “If you have just joined us, a major earthquake has struck the holy city of Jerusalem leaving many people dead, injured or trapped under mounds of rubble. About a tenth of the city was completely leveled late this morning when most students were in school. Children are believed to be trapped under collapsed school buildings while others were trapped at work or in their homes.”

  Momma smirked. “It was probably those two prophets doing their evil work from hell!”

  Becky took a deep breath.

  “Momma,” she said calmly, “what if those two men weren’t evil? What if they were holy men—witnesses of God?”

  Her mother turned and stared coldly at her. Becky continued, undaunted.

  “The Bible said God would send Hi
s two witnesses to Jerusalem to prophesy for many days clothed in sackcloth; then they would be killed, and they would lie in the streets for several days. And then. . .there would be a giant earthquake. It has all happened, just the way the Bible said it would.”

  Becky sat perched at the edge of the couch watching her mother’s expression intently for any sign that she was listening.

  Momma’s neatly plucked eyebrows raised, and her forehead wrinkled. For a moment Becky was hopeful; her mother appeared to be thinking about her words. She was not going to dismiss Becky’s words as mere fairytales.

  “Rebekah, Peter Roma has made it very clear that the Bible has been misinterpreted for centuries.”

  Her heart sank as her mother continued, her voice becoming louder and angrier. “What part of ‘the Bible was misinterpreted’ don’t you understand? You really need to just get over it, Rebekah, and accept the new way of thinking. Peter Roma says it’s because of people like you and those wicked fundamentalists that this world is falling apart.

  “You’re really lucky I don’t turn you in to one of those camps to get re-educated.”

  Becky could not control her own rising anger. Now her own mother was accusing her of causing all the problems in the world and threatening to send her to some camp.

  “Momma, Peter Roma is not Jesus! You are a smart woman. How can you believe he is Jesus? He is the false prophet of Revelation! Jesus showed23 his scars to his disciples to prove he was the one crucified! Peter Roma has no scars.”

  “There you go again.” Her mother stood and wagged her finger at Becky. “You are basing everything on that Bible. Peter Roma has clearly explained the reason he has no scars—because when he ascended from the sixth ray he was given a new body.”

  Her mother sat down again and stared at the images of smoke rising above Jerusalem. Her voice was calmer now. “If your father was here, he’d straighten out that thick head of yours. Why are you so blind that you cannot see that Peter Roma is Jesus and that the Lord Maitreyas is the Christ?”