What if God... was?
By Carolina
super_carolina1@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: None of the ER characters belong to me.

Author's Notes: This is a little post scene to "Rock, Paper, Scissors". It's not a scene, more like a... a hell, just read it. Something like this will probably never happen on the show, but then again, none of the things we write will ever do, eh?



I remember once when I was a child, an old woman looked down at me as I was getting the milk for our breakfast at a small shop not far from our house and then looked back incredulously at the cashier. For a moment, I thought she had found my air of maturity at eight amusing, but instead, she scoffed and shook her head, "Damn kids, they don't yet know the world is going to eat them alive." I heard her quip before she walked away. I didn't take it too personal back then, mostly because my first impression of her was that she was a crazy woman, a skitnica. Instead, it angered me a little that she didn't recognize I was already a man, at eight. Ofcourse, now I know I wasn't, but back then we all liked to pretend we knew everything, that we had been born men. She didn't give me credit for "being a man" at eight.

On moments like these, I think of that woman, and what she meant. Back then, it was enough to throw stones with my friends to old crazy people, and then go home as if nothing had happened, until my father heard about it from a friend and I would get the beating of my life for not respecting old people. I think I first thought of this woman back when the war started, while I had two small children and a wife to protect. For the first time back then, I didn't feel as confident and mature as I looked, although I never let other people see this. I thought of the world eating me alive as we fled, and in my mind I was expecting somethingvery bad to happen as I told my children bedtime stories and convincing them that the war would be over very soon, you'll see, Jasna, and then we'll go back to the coast, to live in that big house you love so much. I always wondered if they knew, if they were aware their father was wearing a big mask because inside he couldn't handle all this himself.

I think that is when the world began to eat me alive, when I began to doubt myself, so much that after my family's death, I became a nomad, a nobody. I was not the only one who lost in the war, yet I was the one who fled. Every now and then I meet someone who thinks he or she is an expert in political science, and they tell me how brave I am for serving in the war, and for living in Vukovar through it. But they don't know I am just a coward, and the real brave men stayed behind, trying to rebuild what little they had left. I try not to think much of this because it makes my stomach rise and revolt with disgust for my cowardliness, although deep down I try to convince myself that maybe it was destiny, the reason why I am sitting on the roof of a hospital in the middle of a mild Chicago winter.

As I look down at the ground, I hear the traffic and feel the desperation of people rushing, trying to get home. It's always that way here, whether it's morning or evening. People always have places they have to be in five minutes in the big cities, they are always in a hurry. Despite the lights of the city and the hazy clouds, there are some stars in the sky, but I don't really care about that at the moment. My thoughts are back home. I am thinking about my family, my father and my brother, I always wonder what they think of me. I let myself ask them this once, and my father simply wrinkled the lines on his face and told me how proud he was for having such a good son. But I know that's half bullshit. I know they think less of me because I fled. I can still hear his words of wisdom, telling me there is nothing waiting for me in America, that I was going to find nothing here as long as I didn't find myself first. I hated that kind of psychological and religious talk, like he knew so much about life because he read the Bible and went to church every weekend. I always told him that if God was so fair, then he would find a way to give me what he had so crudely taken away. That in the end, I would find my way back home, or find another one.

I was kidding with that, although it was the argument which convinced my father everything I was doing was not so "crazy" after all. I never once thought there were better things waiting for me here or anywhere else. And that God part was all a charade; a white lie I used to make my old man feel better about himself. Isn't that what God is anyway? Just an idea that makes people feel secure when they are lost? What proof do we have that there actually is a God? We don't. I'm sure we don't. Religion was created to calm down the masses, to give them something to chew on while they wait for the main course. I have had many experiences which lead me to believe there isn't one, and I can't even use all my fingers to pick reasons as to why there is one. I guess family, which I lost. Friends, which I lost. A home, which I lost. Myself, whom I lost long ago.

But maybe it's my profession as well. As a doctor, I see even more cases which make me believe the world is not safe, and those who are good are not compensated as it says on the Bible. Where is the compensation of those who are killed by their husbands and fathers? Those who are crippled by drunk drivers? The ones who are raped and killed? The ones who are abused? Where is God for them? There isn't. He isn't. Instead, we are left to believe our compensation comes after death. I guess that means we are granted a free ticket to heaven. Bullshit. I don't want that, I want my compensation now, while I can enjoy it. I don't want fifty more years of this. If God is so fair and so very real, where is my compensation? I would like an answer to that.

I heard the door to the roof open and my eyes roll to the right for a second, enough to see a black coat and brown hair being tumbled by the wind. I heard her close the door and look at me for a second before walking my way. Her shoes entered my peripheral vision but I didn't move.

"Hey."

I heard her say as if she was a mother who had been looking everywhere for her child and has finally found him, but isn't neither amused nor angry, simply a little surprised of his hideout.

I looked up and saw for the first time she was holding two cups of coffee. She was smiling a bit, so I gave her my best smile, although I'm sure it came out fake and crooked. She handed me the second cup of coffee and for the first time in what seemed hours, I moved a part of my body to reach out to it, it took me a while. She sat on a wooden box in front of mine, her eyes fixed upon my head. My legs were stretched forward, and my back hunched and against the wall of cement which was there for no reason at all. Her legs remain close to mine but not stretched, they're short enough so she can sit as if that box under her was a chair. Her back is against a smaller wall... I don't know what they are called.

She took a sip of her coffee as she stared at me. "You know, they say hibernating doesn't quite works for humans."

I was expecting a joke from her, she always does that, and I let myself chuckle at it. She smiles but doesn't say anything else, neither do I. I am not bothered by her presence, but hers was the only one I could tolerate at that moment. I still wanted to be alone somehow, but at the same time glad she had come up here to find me, and was then sitting with me in the cold. It's been a while since I had someone looking for me, and it makes me feel less lonely.

I don't know how long we were there in silence, but I knew what she was thinking, what I was thinking. I recognized the look on her face when that drunk driver came in and I had to treat him, that look of disapproval. I don't know if she was here now because of that, but I knew what she was thinking.

She was no longer looking at me, but at her brown coffee through the small opening of the lid. Suddenly the silence became unbearable to me, although she seemed quite comfortable with it. I used my right foot to tap her left leg twice, like an animal wanting attention. She looked up at me, I kept staring at her black shoe. Suddenly I didn't know what to say, but I notice she is wearing her dark clothes, so I try to use that. "Are you off?" I asked, but then had to clear my throat because my voice was hoarse.

She looked at her watch and then at me, "Ten minutes ago."

I nodded, but I'm still not looking at her. There's no need for her to ask the same question, and now I realize there was no need for me to ask her that either, but I wanted to talk, and that seemed a good way to start. My coffee felt warm against my fingers, and for the first time I took a sip. It was black and very strong, two of sugar; the way I learned to take it and the way I still do. Hers looks more brown. I can't see it, but there are some dried drops outside on the lid.

I don't know what I'm thinking at that moment. Such an eventful day. Back in medical school, my teacher once said that a good doctor feels for his patients, but a good doctor never takes it personally. I'm sure I was there in class that day, but I must not have taken notes, because I always take it too personally. I have known to understand what he meant by that. At the end of the day the patients go home and you are left with an emptiness, a wonderment, a feeling that you could have done something better, something different which might have worked out for the best. I don't feel that way tonight, but I still feel the emptiness.

"Did you see the mother?" I asked her, still looking down at my cup.

She took a sip of her coffee and looked out into the city before answering. "Dr. Finch did. She's ok... physically."

Her voice seemed to regret those words and I am glad someone else feels the same way I do. I nodded lightly, ignoring the cold temperature outside. I was about to ask her about the Bishop, since he was the one patient who engulfed my thoughts the most. But then I realized she had not been his nurse, so I decided to let that go. My right foot is now leaning completely on her right leg, but she doesn't seem to mind, and that is comforting to me. I suddenly felt her head move down, her eyes trying to find mine for a moment, but I would not let them.

"Are you ok?"

I knew she was going to ask me that question, sooner or later, but I was a little surprised by the sincerity with which she spoke, the yearning in her eyes, wanting to reach out to me as she had been trying for months now. I suppose I could have given her a smile and tell her that I was, but I wasn't feeling terrible either, and that was the problem.

I looked up at her for the first time and smiled mirthlessly. "I don't know," I said as if it was something funny, which in a way it was for me, not knowing how you felt. She smiled and I saw the small bags under her eyes gather up. They're not bags of exhaustion, not dark. They only appear when she smiles and her eyes squint. She was wearing make up today, I noticed that right away. I never really cared much about those things, she's beautiful either way. But today it makes her look younger, as if her life had been one easy ride. Her new haircut was giving the wind something more to play with, and I wondered if make up and a haircut would make me look less distant as well.

Even after I spoke, she didn't say anything. She has this way about her. After relentlessly hunting me down, she stops there with the spear against my chest, giving me the choice to either fight or give in. At first that bothered me, because I had not yet learned to trust her intentions and I didn't understand her technique. But now, I find that fascinating, as if it was something I had seen on The Discovery Channel. It took me a while to figure this out too, and even more to get used to her ways. I wonder where she learned to do that, and I wonder if I could learn to comfort people like that. My problem is being too aggressive, too straightforward. I try to comfort my patients but instead I scare them off. I want to learn to let them know I am there for them without words, listen without saying anything, without putting my foot in my mouth, without letting my feelings get in the way. Just listen, the way she does.

She was doing that now. And I have learned over this few months to read her body language, her gestures and movements. She was interested, interested in me. She wasn't here for the company or the coffee, she was here to listen to whatever I had to say. So I told her everything, about the war, my family, my life... I don't know why, I guess I was on a roll. She just stared at me, not moving at all, not even to drink her coffee which I was now sure was as cold as mine. I always knew this moment would come, a moment in which I would have to tell her what happened, not the fabrications I told Carol and Kerry. It felt like lifting a boulder off my shoulders, but despite letting it all out, I still felt empty. That was not what was bothering me tonight. It was easy for me to tell her because I was not out here mourning my family, the war or my life. She sensed that too, as if I was reading from a book and I had stopped right in the middle. So she remained quiet, knowing there was more for me to say.

I looked up at her, her eyes glued to mine, a blank expression on her face. I knew she was listening because nothing else was distracting her, not even the flock of ambulances which flew down the street and pulled into the ambulance bay. I noticed a silver necklace shining against the lights, wrapped around her neck. I remember seeing it before, she always wore it, and at the end there was a crucifix.

I smiled as I pictured it, because right now her coat was blocking it from my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled a little and there was a hint of a smile as she wondered why I was smiling. I looked at her again. "Do you believe in God?" I asked her, the words coming out as an accusation.

She nodded and kept looking at me. "Yeah," she said and I noticed the sincerity.

"Why," I asked her, although I knew that wasn't a fair question, and one she would most likely not answer.

She still looked at me, a smile on her face. "Why not?" she said.

That perplexed me, and I stared at her, trying to figure that out. That was the easy answer, but I wanted another one, I wanted a theory or proof, so I decided to push her further. "Even after what you saw today, you still believe in him?"

She took that in, and smiled upside down. "A lot of bad things happen in this hospital, but good things happen too, out there as well. I suppose, there has to be a balance, but we mostly just see the bad things, so it's easy to doubt, I have felt that way as well."

I looked at her intensely as she spoke. She had a point, but one which did not satisfy me. "I'm not feeling that way now, I have been feeling that way for a long time," I let myself say.

She stared at me, with a calmed expression on her face, despite how scary I was even to myself. "Well," she said and shifted on her seat, "I always thought that it was our job to prove to other people that there is good. You save lives, that gives patients something to believe in..."

"But who gives us something to believe?"

"Exactly."

I looked at her and she looked at me, and I realized she didn't have answers and neither did I. She was right too, and I suppose that was part of what came with the job. I thought about that for a while, and for some reason, Mark Greene came into my mind. I saw him playing basketball outside with an energy I envied often, and then I saw him trying to walk from the desk to the lounge all by himself, and I felt that emptiness again. "Where is God for Mark Greene?" That was meant to be a thought, but instead it came out, and I saw her look into the city and then at me.

"He was in a successful operation, waiting for a baby, getting married."

She paused for a moment, probably to gather her thoughts. I realized I was putting her in an uncomfortable position, or rather just asking questions she could not answer. In a way, I didn't need her to, but I wanted her to. She wasn't my girlfriend at that moment. We weren't a couple, or two people having sex, or whatever. She was a stranger who sat in front of me at the roof of an old building, and I want to know if she feels as empty as I do.

"It's ok not to believe, and it's ok to believe. I guess I chose to because if I didn't, I would have taken my life away when I had the chance. It makes life easier, you know? And it makes death easier as well. Imagine how much harder it would be for our patients if they knew there was nothing waiting for them at the other side." She paused for a moment to lower her stare, trying to look intensely into my eyes. I let her. "You have to believe in something, Luka."

I thought of those words for a moment, her last sentence. She was right, I knew that. I had a choice, one which would make my life easier and would allow me to find happiness again, and another one who would keep me on this path. Any idiot could have made the simple choice, but once you have lived on both ends of he chord, it's not as easy as it seems. It's not easy to abandon your believes, and it's even harder to go back again. I have seen good and evil, and I had concentrated more on the evil without looking at the good. I have lived that way for many years, pitying myself, living in selfishness, thinking the entire universe is against me. It's not the most healthy lifestyle but I have grown accustomed to it. I think I realized this when I talked to Mark today, when I saw him struggling to walk, yet I was standing easily. I understood what Abby had said because I saw it in Mark. He wasn't wallowing in self pity, or was even sad. He was looking forward to living his life. He had allowed himself to fall in love again and was now waiting for the birth of his second child. Did Mark Greene believe in God? I don't know that. But I envy him, cancer and all.

I come out of my reverie when she shifts again and my foot moves along with her. I didn't know what to say next, I don't think there anything left to say. I had told her what was bothering me and she had tried to make me feel better, and it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I felt gratitude, because a couple of months ago, no one would have noticed my down loop. Now someone does. Ironic how I had been asking for that since I came to this country, and now that I do have it, I get defensive. I keep chastising myself, my mind letting me know that after all my harsh actions, today and every day for the last ten years, I don't deserve what I ask for.

I looked at her and smiled, and she smiled back, little bags under her eyes. I looked at my cup of coffee and threw it away, and I stretched my arm forward. She took it, and I pulled her up but remained seated. My eyes were closing and I felt tired, like I had been awake for years, so I parted her coat like a curtain and leaned my head on her chest, wrapping my right arm around her waist and the other just resting on her hip. I immediately felt the flesh of my shoulder blades burn as I removed my back from the cement wall. Her clothes smelled of hospital, sweat, and that perfume I gave her for Christmas. I felt her small breasts against my head, her nipples hard, and it was then when I realized she was probably freezing to death. But I let her embrace me for a while, feeling her fingers playing with my hair, making me even more tired.

I start thinking about her, and I wonder if she comforts Carter this way as well. I don't know why, but that thought makes me mad. As selfish as it is, I only want her to share this with me. I want her to be here for me and no one else. I don't want her to stroke anyone's hair but mine, even if we stop seeing each other tomorrow or the next hour, right now I have to know that she's mine, and I don't want to share her, not with Carter, not with anyone.

Abby Lockhart makes my head ache. I don't know if she is a masochist, if she likes being treated badly, but she doesn't leave my side, like she knows something bad I don't know about myself. And she wants to tell me, but I don't let her. I always thought of her as a pigeon, those you try to get rid of but they always come back home.

Now, she knows about that story everyone in the ER is speculating about, and still, she doesn't pity me. I have met many who look at me as if I was some sort of abused child. I hate it. I hate it when people treat me differently because I happen to be from Eastern Europe. I hate it when they talk about the war, any war, and then stop to apologize to me for talking about it. I know that look, the look of pity, sorrow, and compassion. I saw that look once, when I had gone to work the wrong shift and Kerry sent me home, and as I walked out Abby was standing in front of the lounge door. That was the look I hated, and although it was mixed with concern back then, it was still mostly pity. I have never seen that look on her face again, as if she had learned her lesson.

Again, time seemed to pass right through me and I don't know how long I leaned into her. Despite the cold outside, she was warm, and inviting, and all I wanted to do at that moment was to take her to my hotel room. But I contained myself. However, her body shivered a little, only a few seconds, and it made me aware of the fact that we should probably go back in, and go home. It took me a while, but I finally looked up at her, she was looking at the city and then when she felt my head moving, looked into me. I stood up, and ran my fingers through the side of her face, and suddenly her lips were all I could see as I leaned in and pressed mine against hers. Her lips were cold, and so was her nose, which was massaging my cheek as she moved along. It suddenly wasn't so cold anymore as I felt her hands on my hair and my chest. I tasted the coffee in her mouth, her tongue, her teeth; three of sugar and with creme. She rarely takes creme, but I assumed it was because there was no reason for her to stay alert anymore.

I had to stop kissing her because she suddenly put her cold fingers on my neck and I jumped back. She smirked at that and apologized, and I gave her a smile and asked if I could spend the night with her.

"I don't have a change of clothes with me," she protested as I grabbed her hand and opened the door for her.

"You don't have clean clothes at your apartment?" I asked her, knowing she didn't know what I was talking about, but I loved teasing her.

"Of course I do," she said.

"Well," I said as I grabbed my things form my locker, "As long as you have breakfast that's ok with me."

She wrinkled her forehead in confusion as she looked at me, and I just gave her a tentative smile. All of a sudden, though, the muscles of her face eased and she smiled. "Are you sure? What if the manager needs a doctor tonight?"

"Well, they'll just have to call 911," I said and we were out of the hospital, into the cold again. She chuckled a bit, and I could see in the shine of her eyes that she had been wanting this for a long time, like a little girl who was finally hosting her first tea party.

For some crazy and stupid reason we had decided to walk to work that morning, because Abby had refused to order room service and wanted to stop somewhere for a couple of pancakes. Now we would have to walk back to her home, because her apartment building is nowhere near a stop of the El. That didn't bother me much though. I was really tired, but I always found it comforting to walk. She was wearing her gloves and I was wearing mine, which made the hand holding a little awkward.

We walked in silence for a couple of minutes, and I don't know if Abby was thinking about what I told her, but I was thinking about it. Not about the war and my family, I had thought too much about that already, but about the other part of our conversation. Her words were still ringing in my ears, "You have to believe in something, Luka." I kept hearing them over and over and over again. Something. She wasn't necessarily talking about God, but something. What did I believe in? It had been a while since I thought about that. In fact, I'm sure I have even stopped believing in love.

Love. Something so harmless and wonderful, and I had stopped trusting it as well. I loved my job, well, my job, not the ER. But that hardly made my life worth living. My father keeps telling me to get married again, interrogated me every night about Abby, asked me to bring her home, made me promise to take a picture of her to send it to the family. I had tried not to mention her, because I wasn't sure where we stood back then, and although now our relationship is more defined, it is still a Picasso to me. Yet once he caught me making a phone call, suddenly the entire town knew about Luka Kovac going out with an American woman called Abby Lockhart. And suddenly my old friends brought their new wives home, because they thought the old Luka was back. I didn't like that look of disappointment in their faces when they saw it was still me.

We reached a corner and Abby made a left, but I stopped walking, and suggested we take another route. Abby said that this was the quickest way home, and I didn't want to be such a pest, so I let her guide me. She then began talking about her brother, who wanted to come to Chicago for a visit because his wife had just given birth and Abby wanted to meet her new niece. I nodded along, but my eyes kept focused on that church ahead of us. It had a long steeple, where a bronze bell hung, and I don't know if they used it or not, but it looked about ready to throw away. This was supposed to be the biggest church around, one Abby would go to when she had time, and one who employed a formal patient of mine. It was nine o'clock, and very dark, so I quickened my pace.

It was inevitable though. The Bishop was there, with a cane and some of his disciples. I don't know what they were doing, but they were out in the cold, despite my orders to stay in bed for a couple of days. As if he had a radar, he looked back and our eyes locked, and I tried to set mine free, but he had them hypnotized. He smiled and bowed his head, and mouthed something I couldn't understand, I have never been a good lip reader. Abby smiled and said, "Good night," but I just kept walking. Once we were farther, she looked up at me.

"Luka, the man said good night, you should have at least regarded him," she scolded me.

I didn't answer that, because I knew we would end up fighting if I told her my reasons, or she would end up thinking less of me, or I would have to sleep on the couch tonight. I do think I deserved to be scolded. She stopped talking, and began to walk in silence. I hate it. I don't mind casual silence, the one which happens when you run out of things to say and you are thinking of something trivial, like what to wear tomorrow or going over your bills in your head. But this silence I cannot tolerate. This is the silence of disapproval, of alienation, and of awkwardness. We had had enough of those, so I decided to fix it.

"What are you thinking?" I asked her, without a hint of hesitancy.

She looked up at me with an innocent confusion, the one you see on little girls while you are talking to their mother about their illness, and they don't understand what is going on.

"About what?" she asked me and rightly so.

I looked down at the ground, my long legs talking big and lazy steps, her short ones taking small but energetic ones. Me next question is probably the weirdest thing I have ever asked to another human being, and it made me feel embarrassed, but it came out before I could put a stop to it. "Do you think less of me because I don't believe in God?" That was it.

The look of confusion hadn't disappeared form her face, and I felt like crawling under a rock. She then looked forward and only answered after a few seconds had passed. "No, um, I mean, I can understand why you don't," she said.

I shook my head, "It's not like that, Abby," I said. She looked at me again, her eyes wanting an explanation, but she had a rather hesitant look on her face, like I was about to drop a bomb. It made me feel queasy, the fact that she was scared of me at the moment.

I didn't answer right away, and she seemed to accept that. We reached her home and she unlocked her door and threw her bag on a small space next to the door. I hadn't been there much, but it was a very nice apartment, with a fireplace and a homey kitchen. I suddenly had the urge to cook something, but decided to wait until the morning, maybe I would bring her breakfast in bed, women love that.

Abby went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, and I walked into her bedroom. Her bed wasn't made, and there was a book on her night table, along with an old glass of water. I wanted to know what she was reading, because I haven't read a book in a long time, but that felt like prying, so I just sat on the bed and removed my shoes. My shoulders ached, and my eyes were beginning to sting. I wanted to lie down but I decided to wait for her, because I felt our conversation wasn't over, although I knew the subject would never be dropped.

She came out of the bathroom and handed me a new tooth brush, one I would most likely keep here for nights like this. I brushed my teeth quickly before she had the chance to fall asleep and came out, she was reading that book. I stood in front of the bed for a moment and her face submerged from the pages of her book, and she gave me a questioning look.

I shook my head and chuckled, and just took my pants and my shirt off, I would have to sleep in boxers. "I don't have any clothes here, we are going to have to stop at my hotel tomorrow," I said as I laid down next to her.

Abby put the book down and removed her reading glasses, ones she probably didn't need, but used because her optometrist wanted her to buy something. "Well, you can wear my underwear, if you want to. You're gonna have to let me take a picture, though," she joked.

"I'm just a piece of meat to you, Abby. Aren't I?" I joked back. She laughed and it felt like music to my ears. Her bed was soft and a little cold. Her pillow smelled of that liquid soap she uses, one that leaves her skin soft and perfumed. She had a bottle at my hotel room, along with a puffy thing which came with it, because apparently you can't use your hands with liquid soap. I did love it though. I loved to smell it when she was next to me at night, particularly on her neck. I had tried to use it once, but it was too slippery, and it almost made me kill myself on the tub. I haven't touched it since.

She turned off her lamp and the room became dark, along with the rest of the apartment. I don't know how Abby can keep a place like this with her nurse salary, but she once said her ex husband had a condo, so I assume this must be it. Before she could fall asleep with her head on my pit, though, I turn so I can face her, and she opened her eyes for a moment.

I still wanted to talk about this, but I didn't know how. It's still eating me alive. I have had many patients die under my care, hell, too many to count. But that Bishop, that had crawled under my skin and I could barely think of anything else. I had read somewhere that at one point, every human being questions the existence of God, and that 95% of the world population believes there is a higher power. I don't know to which percentage I belong.

"Do you think less of yourself?"

I came out of yet another reverie when Abby said something which she had to repeat with less confidence. I thought about that for a while. "I don't know," I said and felt very ashamed, so I looked down and began to play with her bracelet. "I don't know what I am feeling, I don't think I am feeling anything."

She looked at me for a moment, and I could see the shadow of her face illuminated with the street lights, none of us moved for a long time. She kissed my forehead all of a sudden, a gesture which made me think of the days in which my mother would walk into my room and instead of reading me a book or telling me a bedtime story, we would pray. Every night it was the same prayer, although sometimes we would learn some others. We would pray for our family, our friends and basically every human being. I can still see my mother's face as she did so, so serious but so serene. She had always been a very quiet women, always pondering about something, always had something wise to say. This memory made me want to cry, and it did, and that made me feel even more ashamed.

I buried my face into Abby's neck and she took me in. I don't know what was wrong with me, but all I remember was telling myself to stop. I don't know what Abby must have been thinking, but frankly, after a few seconds, I stopped caring. It had been a while since I cried, probably because there was no one who could trigger that emotion in me. But I cried now, for reasons which are still unclear to me.

"I'm sorry, Abby," I whispered into her hair, and I remembered her saying that it was ok, and I remember her arms slowly massaging my back. I suddenly wished she were taller, because her tiny body was not enough to embrace all of me. She kissed my forehead again, and made me look at her because she said I had nothing to be ashamed of. Then she wiped my tears and kissed each of my cheeks warmly, and that kindness made me want to cry some more, but I stopped.

She made sure I had gotten myself together again, and then let me rest my head on her chest. "Luka, just because you are angry at God doesn't mean you have to stop believing in him."

Normally I would have been mad at that accusation, but the state of vulnerability I was in made that sentence very clear. "I don't want to, Abby."

"You don't want to what?" she asked as she played with my hair, rolling it on her fingers.

"I don't think he deserves me believing in him," I said, and damned my lack of eloquence in English.

Abby thought of that for a while, and for a moment I thought she had fallen asleep, because she had stopped stroking my hair. But when I looked up, her eyes were still open. I wasn't expecting her to guide me back to the "right path", but there was a part of me which wanted her to save me, for a lack of a better phrase.

"But you do?" she asked all of a sudden.

Did I believe in him? I supposed that to be angry at something, that something has to exist, or you have to believe in it. I nodded my head without much hesitation. She didn't move, almost as if she didn't want to upset me, like when you come face to face with a bear in the woods, and you have to pretend you're dead.

"Maybe you should talk to someone... at church?" she said in a low tone, as if she didn't want me to hear it.

 "I don't think so," I said sharply.

"Luka, do you see how much this is bothering you?" she asked but her body didn't move, only her tone changed.

I supposed she was right, but how can I forgive God after what he did to me. It was almost like the relationship she had with her mother. No matter how much you try to hate, you just can't, and you're left feeling like a scum for even attempting in the first place.

For a long time I laid there, and I know she was battling to stay awake, but eventually exhaustion got the best of her and she fell asleep. My eyes were closing as well, but I couldn't sleep. For the first time in my life I understood the angel and the devil in each shoulder phrase. It felt good to be angry, it's healthy actually, in small doses. But hating something which has been a part of you since birth, it's too much for me. It backfires and makes me hate myself, and it makes the world eat me alive much faster.

I can still see the Bishop's face, so peaceful and wise... like my mother's. He keeps bowing his head over and over, saying good night, telling me everyone deserves to be comforted in their darkest hour. Was that drunk driver on his way to heaven now? Was God opening the doors to him simply because he asked for forgiveness the last minute? That didn't seem fair to me. What was this man's punishment? Aren't people supposed to be punished when they sin?

But I try to forget that. I have slept through this feeling before and I would have to sleep through it tonight. I looked up, at Abby's sleepy face, and I removed my head form her chest and laid it on the pillow next to hers. I tried to sleep, but the shiny crucifix resting on the base of her neck was distracting me. I don't know where the light was coming from, but the silver of it was producing a light of its own. I pressed it against her skin with my finger, just playing with it.

My mind is still scrambled, despite how simple my life seems. I want the Bishop to stay out of my thoughts, but he keeps pushing himself in. He's asking me to visit him, at his house, the house of God. I know he won't rest until I do, and I will, but I can't promise anything.

The End