by L.C. Barlow
* * *
I passed out there on the floor, spent the night across from Brian and Patrick, both of whom were also asleep. The three girls were in the bed. There was a fire in the bedroom's fireplace.
Right before I tried to fall into unconsciousness, I whispered to Patrick, "Why do you want to believe in God?"
He cracked one eye open at me and said, "Oh, you know. So the good people get what they deserve. All children who die get a second chance. All the people who really try and help others, who love, get healthy and strong."
"Ah," I said.
"And so those that have murdered and raped and tortured get to experience that for all eternity."
"You believe in hell?"
"Yes, of course. Of all things, I believe in that." He swallowed, and I heard a click. It was as though we were in another house, in front of another fireplace. "I want that there is a place for people like Hitler, people like... You know, the evil fucking bastards of the world. The ones that go and murder families in their sleep. The ones who do no good, who..." he smiled, "never go under bridges and donate first-hand to the needy. Who never help friends. I hate them." When he said the latter half, he looked far more aware than he did before.
"For all you know, that could be me you're talking about," I whispered.
"No. It could not. I mean the real, real motherfuckers out there."
I did not press the point. "Why do you want... hell so much?" I asked him.
For a long while, he didn't say anything. Then he sighed, squeezed his eyes closed. He turned his face away from me, pushed his forehead into the carpet. "I'm fuckin' tired," he said. "Let's go to sleep." He rolled to his other side.
But I could not sleep at all that night.
