He is Not the God of the Dead

When you die, you enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.

The New Testament describes heaven as “thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly” and a “city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God,” and a paradise where the streets are paved with gold and gates made of pearl.

Mr. Wilson was getting into one of his impassioned talks again. This was par for the course on a typical Sunday night youth group. First there was pizza for the weirdly-shaped high schoolers, then once they were fed and settled down, Mr. Wilson would whip out his guitar and they’d all sing a few worship songs from the songbook. Everyone was pretty familiar with these songs, and for a bunch of 10-15ish awkward teenagers, they weren’t bad at singing as a group, thanks to Anna Stevenson, who took it upon herself to sing harmony every week. No one asked Anna to sing harmony, she just did it. She was good at it, so why wouldn’t she sing harmony? After a particularly poignant song, when Mr. Wilson would rest his guitar in his lap and peacefully say, “Beautiful, just beautiful,” everyone knew he was talking about Anna.

Because they were high schoolers, a very common topic for youth group ended up being purity. Every other week it was prodded at. Jammed down their throats. Keep your bodies pure for your future husband. Or also wife. Hebrews 13:4 says “Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.” Honorable marriage was the goal, sex the reward, and everything outside of that worldview was baseless, amoral, and sinful.

Mr. Wilson passed sheets of plain white paper and pens around to the group of kids, who had made themselves comfortable on the large poofy sectional or sitting atop big, overstuffed pillows on his living room floor. Youth group was often held at Mr. Wilson’s house, or another student’s house. They were all different versions of the same home: upper middle class, two- stories, hardwood floors, brand new appliances, a piano, a pool, it always smelled nice inside from the lampe berger or oil diffuser. The parents were always married. There were no households with single children. Framed pictures of the kids laughing sat on the mantle.

Five-year plans and ten-year plans, Mr. Wilson said. Write them down. The girls grinned with excitement. This would be easy: they’d just copy down what they’d already considered, reconsidered, made alterations to, amended and perfected in their own heads. The boys squinted with frustration but still took the assignment very seriously.

When everyone was finished, Mr. Wilson asked everyone to go around and share their plans. Everyone was at least just a little ambitious, that was to be expected. Graduate on time, and if not go immediately into the career of their choice then certainly right into grad school. Or marriage. Or both. At the same time. When Kirk mentioned that he wanted to get married at 25 and then wait a year to have children, “You know, so the wife and I have some time to spend alone together,” the girls cooed. Not immediately pumping out children after marriage hadn’t occurred to them as an option. What a romantic.

Everyone was waiting on Anna’s response. Surely hers would be the most impressive. Anna’s the type of girl who always gets what she wants, so why wouldn’t she design the perfect future for herself? Anna neatly unfolded her paper and situated herself into the sofa before reading. Anna should be comfortable.

“In five years I’ll be 22. I’ll have a degree in music education, and I’ll have an MFA in music composition. I hope to be married between undergrad and grad school, most likely to my husband, who I would’ve met at college, and who is an architect.” Clark furrowed his brow at Anna, who didn’t look up from her paper. “When I’m 27 I’d like to be living in New York, and either getting a PhD in music theory, or playing for the New York Symphony, or having babies!” Anna giggled. “I can’t decide.”

***

“Oh Anna. Oh Anna. Oh Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna.”

“Shhh!!!”

Anna rolled her eyes back. Not in the sexy way, in the annoyed way. She was less worried about the sound coming from Clark and more weirded out that he was the one saying her name as he fingered her underneath the duvet. They were both fully clothed in her bed at one o’clock in the afternoon. It was uncomfortable enough.

She closed her eyes, relaxed her arms above her head, and tried to imagine that the gropey, needy guy pleasuring her was someone else, and not Clark.

“Kiss me?” Clark asked.

“What?” Anna pulled back, almost grossed out. “No,” she said, “we can’t do that.”

“Why?” Clark asked dejectedly.

“Because if we start kissing then it’ll lead to amoral and impure actions.”

“Right. Right” Clark nodded like he understood. He acted like he understood. He might’ve understood.

Clark went back to touching her. Anna tried to enjoy herself. And then she felt Clark start to grind into her leg. She jerked back to attention.

“Clark! Stop! What are you doing?!”

“It’s just…” Clark fumbled around for an explanation, “I’m so sorry Anna. You’re so beautiful and I don’t know how you can keep doing this without wanting to…”

Anna took her hand and waved it in front of Clark. Her purity ring, holding a spot for where her wedding ring would go one day, glistened silver and polished. Her face was mocking and annoyed.

“Because of this,” --wiggling her ring abrasively in his face-- “we’re not going to do it. You can go bang some girl like Kelly or Meg or Lindsey if you really need to get it out of your system, but not me. I’m saving myself.”

“But I want it to be with you!” Clark sighed pitifully.

“Too bad,” Anna announced. This was becoming boring. She had things to do and Clark’s pathos was making her uncomfortable and impatient.

“How come you’ll let me go this far with you then? Why won’t you touch me back?”

“Because I need to remain pure for my husband,” Anna said with finality.

Clark was quiet as he thought.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to do that.”

“You don’t have to,” Anna said, “it’s just a personal choice.”

“Oh,” Clark thought.

They were quiet for a second. Anna’s impatience was becoming real; it manifested itself as a slight tension in her jaw. Proverbs 16:32 says “Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.” Proverbs 15:18 says “A hot-tempered person stirs up conflict, but the one who is patient calms a quarrel.” Ephesians 4:2 says “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

“So does this mean you’re leaving, or what?” Anna asked. “I have work to do.”

Clark got out of the bed.

“I can take the hint. You know I don’t want to be an architect.”

“Huh?” Get out, Anna thought. Dear God, make Clark get out of my bedroom. If You love me at all You will make him leave.

Anna met Clark’s accusatory stare. “Your future architect husband,” Clark said. “He’s not me. I get it.”

Anna wanted to laugh, but in a moment of kindness, she chose not to and instead just stuck with the appalled look on her face. “Husband? Clark, we’re seventeen.”

“Yeah, but you’re letting me… you know. And I thought we were getting kind of serious since we went to Homecoming together.”

Anna didn’t laugh at this point, but said something along the lines of, “Oh god.” Her jaw twitched with unease. Clark’s affection was funny, but it would be 1:30 soon, and she had homework to do.

“Listen,” Clark continued, “if I was taking this the wrong way then--”

“Just go,” Anna said firmly.

Clark grabbed his backpack and his car keys from her bedside table. He walked hesitantly towards her door, then turned around at the last minute before opening it.

“Sure you don’t want me to finish you up?”

Anna wanted to scream, but Anna never screamed. Instead she smiled politely and said, “No thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Clark left Anna’s room, Anna heard him say, “Bye Mrs. Stevenson,” as he walked down the hallway. Anna sat up in her bed, letting her body become completely silent. She heard the delicate response of her mother: “Goodbye, Clark,” right outside her door. Anna pushed herself off of the bed and got out, storming over to her doorway, jaw tense.

“Mom? Were you standing outside of my doorway?”

Anna’s mother peered in from the hallway. She held a laundry basket full of Anna’s clean clothes, already folded. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Anna’s mom said, “I was only bringing you these.” Anna took the basket, thanked her mom, and retreated back into her room. Her mother followed her inside, shutting the door behind her.

Anna’s mother was a petite woman who wore pastel colors and gold jewelry: every piece held some significance, like the watch that was an anniversary gift from Mr. Stevenson, or her grandmother’s pink sapphire wedding ring that she wore on the middle finger of her left hand. Most prized, however, was a tiny gold cross necklace that Mrs. Stevenson wore. Anna had a matching necklace. Mrs. Stevenson bought the pair last Christmas during their annual mother- daughter shopping trip. It was an early Christmas gift.

Anna’s mother set the basket down on the floor near Anna’s bed, then she sat down on Anna’s bed, patting the space beside her for Anna to sit. Anna remained standing instead.

“Clark’s a nice boy,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “Why did he leave?”

“I have to do homework,” Anna insisted.

“Are you going with him to Prom?”

Anna’s mom looked up at Anna hopefully. Prom? Anna would rather take the ACT for the 9th time. She needed to say something that would satiate her mom so that she would leave. “I don’t know. He hasn’t asked me. But he probably will. If he does, I’ll say yes.”

This should have made Mrs. Stevenson happy, but instead she seemed disappointed. “He hasn’t asked you?”

Anna’s jaw tightened. Her back teeth were starting to grind into each other. She sat down next to her mother. “Mom,” she said, putting a calming hand on Mrs. Stevenson’s lap, “It’s January. Prom is still three months away. Nobody’s made plans yet. It’s perfectly normal.” Anna forced a smile, hoping that her mother would feel compelled to mimic the expression and feel relieved. The corners of Mrs. Stevenson’s mouth turned up slightly. Slightly. Get out, Anna thought. Get. Out.

Anna’s mother moved just barely, as if to leave, but then she stopped. Her shoulders slumped and she looked at Anna, pouting. “I just want what’s best for you, Anna,” she said. “You’re so perfect to me, you know that?”

“Yes, I know.” Anna said flatly.

“You’re my only daughter and I want you to have everything, a perfect husband, a perfect family, because you’re my perfect little angel. I wish you’d stop growing up, I really do.”

It was hard for Anna to have a reaction to this; she had heard this line from her mom every other day. Her mom’s version of “perfect” was what her mom had: the husband and two children, the two-story house, the pool, the poofy pillows, the lampe berger… Anna never had a problem with any of these things until they became her birthright, an assumption of what her vision of perfection was. Of what comfort was.

***

Anna snorted a rail of adderall off of her framed All-State Honor Band certificate.

She licked the residue off of the razor, off of the glass, off of her finger, and off of the twenty that she used to snort it with. Anna was efficient, if anything, and Anna wouldn’t miss a single speck of the drug, if that speck could make her type a millisecond faster, or think a millisecond more clearly. Colossians 3:23 says “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.”

She wiped the frame delicately and placed it back on her bookshelf, next to the other three framed All-State Honor Band certificates, Honor Society certificates and pins, academic letter certificates and patches, and trophies for various marching and symphonic band competitions. It was less of a bookshelf and more of an altar.

The adderall wasn’t hers. Anna’s friend Erin gave it to her for free. Anna knew a handful of kids with a prescription, but, being Anna, some people were willing to give her things like drugs and snacks and test scores just to get closer to her. She couldn’t get her own prescription because she didn’t have an attention deficit disorder; she’s what a neurologist or clinical psychologist would deem as “typical.” She didn’t need the help to get ahead, but she used the help to get leaps and bounds further than everyone else anyway.

Anna pulled out her planner. It consisted of several items that needed to get done by the end of the day: finish a paper, practice her flute for two hours, read an essay for class, calculus homework, and… she looked at today’s date on the calendar.

Her friends were having a party tonight. There was no question about whether or not she would attend: she didn’t go to parties. Complete waste of time. Especially on Saturdays, which are perfect for getting ahead on schoolwork.

She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It read 1:29. She should be able to accomplish everything in her planner for today, but just for that extra edge, she went over to her bookshelf and grabbed another framed certificate. One more quarter of a pill should do the trick.

***

It was 11:46 and Anna still had calculus problems to do. Any normal high school student would turn in at this point, because it was Saturday, and there was still a whole day left in the weekend to finish homework. But Anna wasn’t any normal high school student.

She decided that she’d let herself be indulgent and find something sugary to keep her mood up for the rest of the night. She knew her parents didn’t keep candy in the house, so she decided to drive to the nearest gas station for some candy and a diet soda. The drive would be a nice break anyway.

She loved driving; she could control the temperature of the air, the music that she listened to, the speed of the car, how far back the seat reclined, how close it was to the steering wheel… these things were of comfort to Anna. It was because of this, on this particular night, that she decided to drive more of a distance to a gas station on the farther side of town. About a minute into her drive she realized that this break was well-deserved, and in fact, quite enjoyable. She listened to her favorite soft rock Christian band and, as always, sang along in harmony. She was so comfortable, that she even considered stopping by at her friends’ party. But then she changed her mind.

Let’s not get crazy, she thought. Gas station, then home.

When she pulled up to the gas station in what looked like the middle of nowhere, she noticed that her car was the only one in the parking lot. The convenience store wasn’t closed, it was just a late hour in a suburban area, and so she was the only customer. This was also to her advantage: less chance of running into anyone at school. She didn’t want any of her peers to see her in a dingy convenience store, let alone at this time of night, let alone buying candy and a diet soda, let alone by herself. It was not her fashion.

She walked inside and made a determined beeline for the candy section. The girl behind the counter was very plain. Anna accidentally made eye contact with her.

“Hi, Anna.”

Anna’s mind drew a blank. Who was this person? They probably went to school together, but the girl looked like every washed-out face that passes by her in the hall between periods all the time. Chelsea. Sheila. Charlotte. Sham… Shamu? Shampoo. Shampoo!

“It’s Shelby.”

“I knew that.” Anna grinned smugly.

“We were in Ms. Parker’s third grade together. And Mrs. Tabor’s fourth grade. And Mr. Amoroso’s fifth grade.”

“Right. I know.” The look on Anna’s face was that of such conviction, not just to convince Shelby that this was true, but mostly to convince herself.

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Oh, you know.” Anna smiled in her perfect, wife-of-the-senator-type way. “Getting some midnight snacks.”

“Got the munchies, huh?” Shelby winked at Anna.

Anna’s smile completely transformed into a look of stone-cold seriousness. Shelby responded to her look with concerned embarrassment.

“I’m kidding!” she said, and pointed to the middle aisle. “Snacks are over there.”

Anna escaped to the aisles and found her candy, then headed over to the fridge where she grabbed a bottle of diet soda, then changed her mind, put it back, and decided to get a large 40- ounce styrofoam cup and fill it full of fountain drink soda. She deserved a treat.

She wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Shelby again, but she had to pay for her snacks. Fortunately, it wasn’t a huge debacle, and Shelby felt enough shame due to the poor taste of her joke from before that she didn’t say one word to Anna as she rang her items up and put the candy into a paper bag.

Anna turned to hurriedly leave when the bell dinged! to signal the fact that someone else was entering the convenience store.

It all happened very quickly. The person, dressed in black, wearing a balaclava, pointed a gun right at Anna, who had little time to react. She dropped her candy and soda, which cascaded to the floor, landing with a very short, sharp sound, but spreading far and wide and brown and sticky, everywhere.

It’s funny what your brain does when there’s a gun pointed at you. The fight or flight response is a very peculiar thing, since it presents itself in many different ways. Very few people act heroically, so no one is faulted for not acting in such a way when the time comes. Most people would have responded with fear, as per the flight response. But most people aren’t Anna Stevenson.

“Why are you pointing that thing at me?” She shouted very angrily at the intruder with the gun. This garnered no reaction from him. Anna pointed a very accusatory finger at Shelby. “She’s the person working behind the register. Shouldn’t you be waving that in her face? I’m just a witness and I already don’t know what you look like!”

Shelby’s arms were raised behind the register. She looked at Anna in dismay, and could only manage the word, “What.”

The assailant seemed to make up his mind at this point. He pointed the gun at Anna’s stomach and fired.

“The fuck,” Anna said. There was no immediate pain. The body creates shock so it can’t feel the muscles, tendons, and ligaments being violently torn apart. All that Anna experienced was discomfort due to the fact that she felt her shirt getting wet and wearing wet clothes when the skin is dry feels cold and uncomfortable. Anna hated to be uncomfortable.

The convenience store ceased to exist around her. She felt extremely present in her own body. She was lying down on a sticky floor, then remembered that she had dropped soda everywhere.

She hoped that her not having sex was all in vain. Oh god, she thought. What if I can’t get into heaven because I let Clark finger me? Or worse, what if I could’ve been having sex all this time because heaven doesn’t even exist?

This isn’t heaven. This is literally her version of hell. Lying on a linoleum floor, in a pool of blood and soda, probably the two stickiest liquids ever, and this is how she’ll be discovered by the ambulance. This is what they’ll write about in the newspaper. “Anna Stevenson, would-be valedictorian, found dead at a gas station on the outskirts of town, surrounded by soda and candy. She didn’t finish her homework.” What was the point?

She tried to move her fingers, but her grasp felt weak. She closed her eyes and hoped for a sight of angels in joyful assembly, or streets paved in gold, or gates made of pearl. And she waited.

And she waited.

And she waited.

Haley Moore is a screenwriting and film MFA student at Louisiana State University. The companion to this piece is entitled “But of the Living” and has recently been published by Anti-Heroin Chic. She’s currently working on the script for a mockumentary and lives in Baton Rouge.