The Godly

Should she have attended my lesson about how cartilages wore out at a cellular level with age, she should have had an idea of how brittle her windpipe would sound if I thought of cutting it. "So... Professor Daniella Jones?" "It's Daniel." "Oh, okay. Danielle..." "No.no.no..." I waved my hand and felt how the shackles around it swung back and forth. I couldn't care much about that though, since I felt the need to send this woman before me back to kinder or maybe back into her momma's womb. "Spanish sounding. Single 'L' no extra 'E'. Da-ni-el." I dragged on my name, exaggerating how my tongue curled with the last syllable. "Would it be okay to call you, Danny?" her voice came out unexpectedly whole for the first time; I thought somebody else came into that white cube room to speak on her behalf. It wasn't like I couldn't see how her knees were wobbling under her knee-length black skirt, nor was I missing how her pen makes that tippy-tappy sound whenever her fingers shook while holding it above her Bible. I know that she fears me. Yes, I could even see how her goosebumps pepper her skin. "You don't call God as dog, nor or ogd? Why would you call me Danny?" I shot her my usual casual glance and saw her pressed her back against her chair. I smirked inside my head when her pen did an intensity-six wobble while writing down my name on that Bible. Confirmed, she does fear me. "So Daniel, I've read and heard a couple of things about you--" "Do you need help writing my name on that record, Mrs. Sigmund?" I cut her off; it really bothered me that the first letter of my name appeared like it was dancing the Lambada. I couldn't even tell if her letter was going left, right, or if it was planning to escape this room. Nonetheless, she stayed seated on her chair, which meant that it is alright for her to spend some time with me. That was refreshing. I honestly haven't so much social contact lately. "I'm not gonna stab you with the pen, Mrs. Sigmund. I just want to make sure you got my name right." I tried to calm her down when her skin began to take the same color as her hair. White. I smiled at her in the friendliest way I could. Flashing my perfect set of teeth. I lifted my ass from my chair and dragged the metal ball chained on my feet effortlessly, making that screeching iron sound on the floor. "Thank you," she breathed out after I signed my name, and like what I promised, I didn't stab her neck with the pen. Then I walked to the chair the guards asked me to sit on earlier and just relaxed my back. "How are you feeling right now, Daniel?" she tried another approach to get my attention. She didn't have to. She already had all my attention since she sat there. I could even tell her how many buttons are closing her oversized church blouse. "I'm perfect. They all knew that I am," I replied, hearing how my voice made her pen scratch the notepad as she wrote. "By 'they,' do you mean them? The cult?" She raised her eyebrows, inquiring innocently, and I felt the hairs on my nape stood. She just called my group, my family, my apostles a cult. Where was she getting the nerve to say that? "Have the news reached you that they were all dead after being mass poisoned?" Sighing out the grief that took over me for a while, I looked into her faded brown eyes and spoke. "For I think that God hath set forth us the apostles last, as it was appointed to death: for we are made a spectacle unto the world, and to angels, and to men..." "That's Corinthians." She raised her eyes from her note and glanced at me. "Does by God you mean yourself and that you are the one who poisoned them, Daniel?" I just c****d my head. It was impressive how she quickly grasped that, but I was beginning to dislike her as well. I couldn't even stop my fist from clenching so hard. Was it necessary for her to ask that? In the first place, why is she even here? I can't remember asking my dad to invite someone to give me a Dr. Phil talk. More so, someone from a fake church. "Thirty-years-old, member of Mensa, a professor, and a gene-technician. Why are you in this place, child? You're not supposed to be sitting in this cold place waiting for your hour," her voice sounded sad as if she was feeling something that I can't. I wanted to tell her that I was making a mental list of her validations to hell, but then I just arched my eyebrows and started tapping my fingers comfortably on my chair's armrest. I know that she was waiting for me to cry or at least show some remorse, or maybe tell her that I was insane and that I should have not done all those things. But I just really just don't care. She could wait until four-thirty this afternoon before I lay on that bed, and I swear I could even smile at her while they're injecting potassium chloride in my veins. "Because it's meant to happen," I replied. "And is the death of those twenty-seven women you killed meant to happen as well?" she asked in the sickest, softest, f*****g fake calm tone, thinking that her strategy would make me less apathetic about the fact that she was talking about me like I'm a circus monster. "Yes, it is meant to happen, Mrs. Sigmund." Nodding, Mrs. Sigmund asked again in a more weary voice this time, "Did these women do something wrong to you personally, Daniel?" "Some did. Some didn't." "How about the members of the cult?" "As I mentioned, It is meant to happen," I know I sounded as dead as my apostles. It's fine. I'll be getting where they are within the next couple of hours anyway. Closing her eyes, Mrs. Sigmund silently massaged her pulsing temple. She looks like getting a minor migraine while thinking about a lot of things, even bothered. Heaving a deep sigh, she looked at me again and uttered, "Mistakes cannot be corrected by another mistake, Daniel," She then put her Bible aside, leaned over to me, and grabbed my hands which were resting on the armrest. I don't like the pity I was seeing in her eyes. She was making my fingers itch to grab her throat. "You cannot just go on judging people because they did something wrong. You are not God." She blinked her eyes, seemingly trying not to cry. "You are a beautiful, intelligent woman who is in need of help. You have to let go of your past, Danny. Forgive your own. God loves you, child. God loves you so much..." I felt her squeeze my hand mildly, almost motherly, before straightening her back. She picked her Bible, then before I could even say something, placed it on my lap. She then started walking for the door, dragging her feet. Then just before she pushed on the doorknob, turned around, and looked at me for the last time. "This had been a good meeting," she croaked, silently letting me know how her chest was aching for me. "I'll be talking with your dad and Michael in a minute. I'll try to ask the guards if they could let you see them too." She nodded. "It's a pleasure to know you, child." I laughed emptily upon hearing the door closed. I can't believe that Michael flew all the way from New York to Haven Town just to be here. He wasn't required to. I already told him that even before my name got it into the death penalty list. Taking in what Mrs. Sigmund said, I silently made a checklist inside my head, filtering what was true or false with her statements. I still got two hours left to breathe the same air these sinners were breathing anyway. So I might as well make use of it. False number one, I'm not a child. Actually, it is the other way around. She, Mrs. Sigmund, is considerably my child. False number two, I'm not a beautiful, intelligent woman. I used to be, some decades ago. False number three, I'm entitled to judge everyone as much as needed based on the concern and based on the things they did. False number four, There wouldn't be an option for me to let go of the past as I can still see remnants of my only mistake everywhere. And finally, She said I'm not a god and that God loves me. Tsk! Poor hopeless, Eve! It's still surprising how she remained the same from Genesis up until now. She's still an error. I must have been very drunk with vodka when I made her. Does God love me? Of course, who doesn't love himself?  I. AM. GOD.