When Jesus Walked on Water
It's 4 a.m. and she's waking up again. She always wakes up around this time. She doesn't know why. It's been happening for as long as she can remember.
She kicks the covers off her body and rolls onto her stomach. She looks at the bright green digital numbers on her clock. 4:03.
She plays with a loose thread on her nightgown. She's had this nightgown for a while. Her body hasn't grown much in the last couple of years. It all comes with getting older she supposes.
She thinks it's ironic. A baby, as soon as it's born, begins to grow and die at the same time. Each day they live, it's a day closer to death. It's a day closer to rotting six feet under. It's growing closer toward the inevitable halt of your heart's beating and your brain's activity.
What is it like to be dead, she wonders. Are you aware of the fact that your body is decomposing? Can you feel your flesh decaying? Do you acknowledge the worms and other such insects that are burrowing through your corpse, where they will breed and make homes for themselves?
You probably can't feel anything, she thinks. And your brain doesn't function anymore, so there's no thinking involved.
People like to call it an eternal sleep, but that's not accurate. Even when you sleep, you're still conscious on a certain level. You're still alive. Death is probably like nothing. No emotions, no thoughts—nothing.
She looks back at the clock. 4:14. Usually, about this time, she would go into the kitchen and take two sleeping pills, but she doesn't. Instead, she walks to her parents' bathroom. She's always liked their bathroom better because it was bigger than her own.
She turns on the shower and steps in, clothing and all. The cold water beats against her body. She washes her hair and gown.
She had a shower before she went to sleep, but she feels dirty. She hates feeling dirty. She scrubs at the imaginary filth and turns the water off. She steps out, dripping wet, and walks to the kitchen without attempting to dry off.
She grabs the pill bottle and walks back to her room, leaving a trail of splattered water and puddling footprints in her wake. She wonders if that was what it looked like when Jesus walked on water. Did he leave footprints on the water? Did it wet his feet? Could he kick some up like a child would dirt and still stand upright?
She climbs into bed and lies on her side. She covers herself and looks at the bottle of sleeping pills. It's half empty.
She wonders if that would be enough to feel nothing. Can a person feel nothing? She isn't sure.
She thinks. She knows she could swallow the bottle's contents easily. Does she want to make the Nothing permanent, though? She knows she wants to experience Nothing, but should she? How long would it take for the pills to work? When would they find her body?
When Jesus walked on water, was he scared? Did he know the waves could give way beneath him at any moment? How could he have been sure that he was safe?
When Jesus walked on water, did he leave his imprint on the shifting waves or did they wash around him and wet his feet?
She grabs the bottle with her hand. She pauses. Her eyes move to the clock. 4:47.