Revelations by Julie Lynn Hayes Read Free Book Online

soundboard already, and I wince at occasional feedback from his direction. I wish I had some input into what that lot plays, but not one of them gives a fuck what I think or want. Personally, I’d replace all of them with a good stereo system any day. But Jesus prefers that they play, and what Jesus wants, Jesus gets. Amen. To be honest, Thaddeus does oblige me now and then with something more classical than not—he plays the violin, both electric and acoustic
    —and James plays flute, and together they sound pretty good, I have to admit. Call me old fashioned, if you will, but there’s a reason the music I listen to has survived the test of time. Where will the headbangers be in fifty years? Hopefully, all dead.
    I’m also partial to good choir music. Male voices raised together in perfect harmony in the performance of worshipful hymns. Beautiful. Touching. Very spiritual. When I play my tapes, as I’m wont to do when I’m working, and before anyone else has arrived, I continually receive queries as to who has died. Smart asses. I tell them they’re fucking heathens and that generally shuts them up. For the moment. Although I notice they never pull that shit when Jesus is around. It does no good to complain, though. He talks to them, they pretend to listen—the road to where is paved with what?—and then it simply happens again. I don’t care about them. I really don’t. Only him. Always him.
    I have a table set up with informational pamphlets of all sorts—nothing too radical, as I’ve found that simply puts up the locals’ collective backsides too quickly, before we have a chance to get our message across. Not that they’ll all get it anyway, or even care that they don’t. But you reach the ones you can, and pray for the rest, you know? What is our message, you ask? I’m surprised you really don’t know. Peace, love, and understanding—what else? Love is the key to everything, for if you love all people, you have no time for violence or hatred, or any of the other evils with which our world is permeated. Tolerance of others with different beliefs—does it truly matter how you worship your God, as long as everyone acknowledges him in some form? Intolerance is simply intolerable, whether it be because of the color of one’s skin, the way one chooses to worship, or one’s sexual orientation (not surprisingly a pet peeve of mine, for obvious reasons). It saddens me to think that even if I won his love, I couldn’t wed him—
    does it shock you to know I think of him that way? That I wish to marry him in the sight of God, his father, and live out our lives as any couple would? Perhaps you pity me for my exercise in futility, knowing he doesn’t feel that way, and that our story is already written and cannot be changed, no matter how I wish it? Well, save your fucking pity—there is nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.
    Don’t you think it hurts? Don’t you think it kills me to know I’m forever barred from something that should be a right of every person on this planet? Or do you believe Judas has no soul, no heart to harm…don’t believe everything you read in the scriptures. None of them knew me, or cared to know me. And dammit…
    As I was saying, I have an information table set up in one corner, and I’ve put my little Thomas behind it to oversee things in my stead. Sweet boy. Thomas actually listens to what I say. The only one that even pretends to care how I feel, or what I think. And the only one of them I’m sleeping with this time around. Nothing constant or ongoing, more of an “as needed” basis. I can hear some of you now—a substitute for Jesus basis. I won’t dignify that with a response. And before you ask, yes, Jesus knows. It’s a little hard to keep secrets in our little group. How else would I know the whore offered herself to Jesus—again? She didn’t tell me, he didn’t tell me—but only because he was aware I knew, I’m sure. No, others took great