One

The doors slammed shut behind him and he stalked out of the church. The cheap stained glass quivered in its lead casing, making the angels shudder. Sunday was never the best day for engaging in a rational conversation; he should have gone to the pub with his housemates. But no, there had been a Spiritualist hurch on the corner, and he'd never been to one of those. The Baptists hadn't liked him, the Catholics barred the door, but surely Spiritualists would be more open-minded.

It all started very nicely; there were some interesting prayers, then a bible reading (no hymns, which was a blessing). Afterwards they gathered in a circle and asked each other searching questions. That was when the morning began to go downhill. The "But if God loves us so much, why is there so much suffering?"s and "Is it true that animals have no souls?"s (in which case why does the word 'animus' mean soul?) seemed petty issues in the face of what he needed to ask:

"How come you get voices in your head but I don't?" That was when they asked him to leave. He didn't. "Perhaps I can rephrase that," he said, "you must hear God - he talks to you all the time. I talk to him all the time, but he never replies."

"Maybe God doesn't talk to you in the way that you expect."

"How would I know he was talking to me then?"

"God doesn't always use words - sometimes he uses feelings."

"Sometimes when God doesn't reply it makes me angry - is that God?"

"I think it might be best if you left, you're upsetting the children."

Angrily he stormed out into the street, the rain pouring down on him. This was just another disappointment. Perhaps this was God talking to him?

Soaked, he climbed onto his bike. The rain made everything slippery, but he didn’t care. He grudgingly pushed away from the church, and onto the road. The traffic streamed past him in an angry rush, everyone desperate to get to where they wanted to be, first.

He knew his anger would do him no favours right now, but he pushed on anyway. Weaving in between the traffic was one of few ways he could feel alive, and was all the more important to him at a time when he didn’t want to be.

People honked, and flashed their lights at him, but he couldn’t make himself care. Insects, all of them, and none with any more right to be here than him. But soon it became too much. Cornering a junction, some half-wit in a hatchback came to close and nearly knocked him off. Swearing loudly, and gesturing wildly, he focused all his anger on this one idiot who couldn’t drive.

As the lights turned red, the traffic slowed, and Jeremy came to rest beside his auto-antagonist. He looked over to the man, some greasy twenty-something, wannabe gary-boy glared at him from within his wheeled armour. The boy lazily lifted his hand, and put up his middle finger.

Enough was enough, and it all became too much for him. Rage surged through Jeremy, and he felt the blood pumping painfully through his head. The red traffic light seemed to bleed out into the world, and time began to slow. Jeremy raised his fist, and punched the window.

The blow shook the car, and it rocked gently to one side. The boy inside recoiled in fright, but quickly regained his composure, and began shouting and swearing at Jeremy, and gesticulating wildly. But he didn’t notice. Jeremy lifted his hand again, and focused all his hatred into his fist, driving it again into the window.

Cracks this time, as the sound of the impact ricocheted off the surrounding buildings. Again, and again he punched, each time the cracks growing bigger, and wider. The boy inside was wide eyed with terror, disbelief petrifying him were he sat, as Jeremy pounded the car window.

But with Jeremy’s final blow, the lights changed, and the car leaped away from the junction, leaving a trail of broken glass on the road, and Jeremy seething in its wake.

Download this chapter