When We Join Jesus in Hell by Lee Thompson Read Free Book Online

place.
    Fist says, “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
    Karen says, You can’t protect us from everything …
    And he fears she’s left off: You can’t even protect yourself …
    He squeezes the knife as if it’s a lifeline even though he knows its work is something completely different. It feels natural in his fist, as if an extension of his soul, a portent, a solid piece of his purpose. Fist keeps an eye on the corner ahead, not sure what types of monsters wait for them, but determined to fight them because to back away now would destroy him.
    Somebody clicks their tongue and the music starts playing again.
    He wonders what kind of place this is.
    No one has the answers. He thinks life is like that, so many people just doing what makes them feel good, not understanding half their choices, the repercussions of their lusts. He can’t wait to see Jesus. Fist doesn’t feel like the vengeful hand of God, he doesn’t think he’s righteous or good, he only wants the grief to lessen, to know that men who destroy lives are held accountable and not free to walk the streets, break down doors, force themselves into the lives of those minding their own business and doing their best just to live however they know how.
    He doesn’t understand why no one ever does anything about it. He had daydreams about being a super hero when he was a kid. To see wrongs righted. To lend a hand in the balance. But even as strong and brave as he felt, he can’t remember ever doing anything noteworthy or noble.
    Karen says, They’re scared, Fist. It’s natural .
    “I know,” he says. “I don’t blame them.”
    Bethany whispers, I hurt, Daddy . My secret spot hurts .
    Fist clenches his eyes shut. He can barely breathe.
    Karen pulls their daughter close and the cart rocks in Fist’s hands. The clock keeps time with his heart. They round the corner and a bright light glows at the center of a long corridor. Fist shields his eyes. Bianca stirs on his shoulder and he wonders if she can see a trace of luminance, if her sight isn’t as completely gone as he’d first expected. He hopes so. He wants her to see.
    Something rumbles far off. It sounds like thunder but he doesn’t recall any warning of rain. Fist wonders where God is in all of this. Or if the only God anyone has ever known is Chaos, a legion of dark angels, a monumental mountain of failed lives, wasted energy and selfish prayers. He knows at his core that the life he’s designed, every choice he’s made, any reaction that first formed in his mind, weighs heavily upon him alone. There is no one else to blame. No scapegoat god or bad relationship to point the finger at. It was always me , he thinks. The intensity of it all nearly crushes him. His wife pulls his daughter’s hair into a pony tail and kisses the top of her head but Fist can barely see them through the brightness and tears.
    He clenches the knife tighter and strides forward.
    Halfway down the hall he hears water dripping. A woman screams. A man cackles and a dog whines. As he moves he thinks the light should grow brighter but it dims. Slowly, pale shapes rise from beyond the light, dark things that look like hunched gargoyles. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and runs down his face. The gargoyles rise. Their red eyes glare. Fist steps in front of the cart between them and his family. His flesh feels scaly and his scalp prickles. But he knows somewhere beyond the guardians lies a feast, and in that quiet room where the lamb lays, he will have his fill.
    He expects resistance. Searing pain as the shadows blur and their claws dig into him, but he wants them to, thinks, I deserve to suffer a lot more than I have …
    A sudden coldness radiates from his wife. She whispers, Don’t talk like that .
    The gargoyles inch forward, their eyes like beacons in the night, and Fist hears some far-off horn blow as a ship breaks waves upon a choppy sea, and he knows he’s nearing the shore, that somehow, in this horrible place he never