I Didn't Meet God

*Note: Sensitive themes include profanity.

Trigger Warnings include: Unstable reality, feelings of derealization.

I look down at the address scribbled on the stained napkin and refer back to the house in front of me. A quaint little cabin conveniently placed in the middle of nowhere. I really shouldn’t have to check the address, but with my foggy head, it’s become a habit more than anything at this point.

I don’t remember much of the voice that called me. I think it was a man. Trying to remember, I vaguely recall he sounded like a garbled voice put through a machine, the kind you hear in movies to let you know there’s someone on the other line, but you can’t make out a damn thing they’re saying. Like listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher, it hurts my head to think about now. It may have been a bad idea to swallow the xanny with liquor… Doesn’t matter, he gave me the name, the address & description of the guy he wanted out for good.

Now I’m sitting in my car stalking him. I don’t see him in any of the windows, but I do see smoke rising from his chimney. A tasteful gray against the white of the snow & surrounding black trees. It isn’t sundown yet, but it will be soon, and that’s when I’ll stuff him in the trunk.

Satisfied with the timing & that this is for sure the place, I get out of my car, slamming the door behind me. Typically I gotta be more cautious, so nobody hears me coming, but this guy is making it easy! There’s no one to hear a damn thing for miles!

The snow crunches loudly underneath my boots. I hug my jacket close, it’s light for the weather & I see my breath cloud in puffs as I wish I brought something more heavy-duty.

The house reminds me of something, like from a horror movie or something, but I can’t place my finger on it… It’s creepy. I walk on till I’m on the steps of his porch. The creak of the steps makes me think there’s something underneath that’s gonna jump out and - I dunno - “get me.” I try to ignore it, fiddling in my pockets for a cigarette I don’t seem to have.

I curse under my breath & hear a noise from inside. My head snaps to the door. Nothing. Now I got a choice: Knock, or kick it down.

I’ve learned from a few years of doing this, if I knock, the deadman is more than likely aware of his predicament & is able to ready his defense or flee before I can nab him. So I go for the easier, and frankly more fun, option. I take my scuffy black boot, rev back & slam it at the lock.

BANG.

The door swings open like nothing, making contact with the wall. It comes back at me, and I wave an arm out, catching it like a movie villain, sauntering in like the director has an immunity spell on me. Killing people ain’t particularly pleasurable, but the skills I’ve picked up do make me feel kinda cool sometimes.

I stop just beyond the door. The wind whistles in, a draft crawling like a shadow into every room of the house. I look around. I don’t see anything. I listen. Nothing…

A shuffle.

I look suddenly to my right & hear a door slowly creak. Then nothing again. It’s in my best interest to stay put & wait him out. Element of surprise is a lesson I’ve learned a few times, but I’m feeling impatient with the cold. I know the guy’s supposed to be short & skinny, so I’m sure I can take him without much of a fight. Forgetting the possibility of a gun, I walk into the house & around the corner.

Fortunately for me, he’s just as small as was described & wields a wooden bat. He looks ready to swing at any moment until-

“Evander?”

What?

He stares at me. He’s not scared, he’s… confused? No… baffled.

“Do I know you,” I ask him, almost equally confused.

His eyes are wide, scanning me. I’m used to people sizing me up, but this isn’t what he’s doing, he’s… studying me? Like, trying to figure out if I’m real or not? I’ve gotten a couple clients calling me to kill off a paranoid or two, and it’s easy enough to brush off… but this feels too damn familiar. Like… he actually knows me… and my reality… No.

I shake off the weird thoughts & ready to attack when the guy speaks again. His voice is kinda high, not in tone but in vibration. He lowers his bat, clearly not scared of me and says, “You want some tea?”

He brushes past me like a breeze. He didn’t ask like we were friends… more like imaginary friends. This guy must be hanging on by a hinge.

I follow him anyways. I may be here to kill him, but I can take him up on his offer for tea. Just gotta watch him. I haven’t been poisoned yet, and I don’t intend to be.

He’s walked off into the kitchen, a small little thing, open plan. I hear the stereo turn on, a little radio on his kitchen counter. He’s pouring tap water into a metal kettle as You Always Hurt the One You Love by the Inkspots plays, a very familiar tune, though I can’t place why.

He extends an arm, motioning for me to take a seat at the table. Without much thought, I oblige. I’m feeling a little fuzzy, even though nothing has happened yet. I refrain from holding my head. It’s not a good idea to show weakness when meeting the man you’re gonna kill.

The air is cold, the door never having been shut, but there’s a hum, like the guy wants to say something and is figuring out the words to say. When he finally does say something, it’s far from what I was expecting.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you. Fact, I kinda thought you were… dead,” he chuckles. “Forgotten.”

He turns around, hands on the counter behind him & exhales, studying me again. The kettle is on the stove, I can see the blue flames tickling the bottom.

“I know I’ve been out here for a while, but I don’t think I’ve gone that crazy,” he continues.

I get the feeling he’s beating around the bush about something. He won’t say what he wants. I certainly have nothing to say, so I sit quiet, trying to understand why I know this guy. Why is he so familiar?

His eyebrows are close, perplex a constant emotion on his face.

“Ho-?” he stops, considering. “How did you get here? Why are you here? How…?” He waves his hands in the air & settles on the question, “How did you get here?”

I want to laugh. Then I realize… I don’t really know…

I took the freeway from my place to his, didn’t I? Like… from my trailer to this house, it wasn’t a far drive… Where am I anyway? What state is this?

I hear him chuckle. I look up to see he’s noticed how confused I am myself.

“What brings you here,” he changes his question.

I think. Usually a question like this begs a lie, but I have a gut-urge to tell this guy the truth. I do.

“I came here to kill you.”

His eyes are fixed to the side of the room, away from me, searching for something stuck in his head. I’m uncomfortable, but relaxed. It’s strange & I don’t know how to feel about it…

“Did you…” his words come out slow. He shakes his head from that question. Then, with dead seriousness in his eyes, he asks me, “Did you get a call about me?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“By whom?”

I can’t answer that. “I can’t answer that.”

That seems to annoy him. His expression becomes darker, but not unfriendly.

“Do you even know,” he presses.

“No.” I don’t know why I’m being so forthright with this guy. It’s unlike me.

The small man is looking at the ground, searching for answers. The kettle begins to scream, steam piling out of the small tip. His vision unfocuses from the tile on the ground & he turns off the heat. From the cupboard he pulls out two mugs, both small like what I’ve seen middle class use for things like espresso. They’re mostly minimal, with images of floral design printed on the front of them.

“What tea,” he asks me, hands in the cupboard.

“Black.”

He laughs. “How did I know?”

From another shelf in a different cupboard, he pulls out a box of tea & places two bags in each of the cups. He pours the water onto the bags & swings back around. I completely forgot to check his motions for a secret poisoning. A steaming cup of tea is placed before me & I hesitate.

“It’s hot,” he says. He sits across from me, adding, “It isn’t poisoned. Just hot.”

I believe him.

“So,” he says. His arms shuffle into the crook of his knees. The light from outside is dimming slowly on the right side of his face, a large window softly illuminating the room at the side of us.

His square jaw, barely lined with fuzz for a beard, is taught. He’s stroking the whisps under his chin, thinking hard. I’m becoming uncomfortable with the silence, but I still have nothing to say. I don’t feel like now is the time to act either, so I stay still. I don’t notice my shoulders square, or my breath hitch in my lungs. His stare is intense.

“I don’t know how - or what… I wanna tell you.”

Well that’s fucking confusing & vague.

“I know, vague…” He sighs heavily after practically reading my mind. “I’ll just fucking tell you. Evander, I wrote you when I was in middle school.”

What.

“Yeah… I don’t know how you’re here, or where I am, or how we’ve made it into the same room we are in now. I’m very confused, and I’m sure you are too, and maybe angry, I don’t know… I kinda gave up writing you freshman year of high school, so I don’t know you too well, but.” He shrugs. “We’re here.”

I feel my heart… my… my Life. Stop. I suddenly don’t feel real. I don’t think I am real. I feel the tendrils of panic grip my heart with a pang and my breath freezes, my vision ceases, pinholed at best.

I feel skin on my hand, I look up with wide eyes. The man has placed his hand gently over mine.

“It looks like you’re gonna have a panic attack,” he tells me coolly. “I don’t blame you. I want you to know you’re real at this moment. Remember where you are. Drink some tea to ground yourself.”

He’s so sincere, it pisses me off. I feel nausea bubble in my stomach, and as much as I want to reach across this table & strangle him, get the job over with, I can’t move.

“What kind of fucking mind joke is this?!” I yell.

He has the gall to smile & laugh! “It’s not manipulation, Evander. I promise.”

I want to throw the hot tea in his face. He removes his hand, like he saw my thoughts behind my eyes. I struggle to move my hand to grip the mug. I do. My fingers are tingling and I can only focus on one thing at a time. My breathing becomes ragged as I struggle to grip the handle of the small mug.

“You can listen to me & feel better, or you can be a fuckin’ dick & have a panic attack about it, up to you.”

His arms are crossed & his face is lined, even. He sounds like my mother. I finally pick up the cup & throw it at him. I miss horribly & the mug shatters just next to him on the ground.

“Hey!” he shouts, pissed off. “You know how long it fucking took me to get that you son of a-!” He quiets himself. “Fuck you, dude. Chill out. Feel how cold the air is. Grab the table & breathe slowly.”

As he says this, I feel how cold I am. I grip the lip of the table & feel how frozen my fingers have become. No wonder my throw was so off. I feel my lungs sting with every breath, and with every breath I inhale slower. It’s not helpful to be a chronic smoker.

“That’s better.”

I glare at him, like he’s behind this whole thing! His expression softens as I calm down, like he actually cares about me. It’s aggravating.

“I don’t know how you got here, I don’t know why, but we’re presented with a few decisions here. One: You kill me. Who knows what happens to you then, Ev. I wrote you into existence. Clearly you’ve existed this long without me, maybe you’ll continue to exist after me, ya know, I’ve always thought all my characters technically exist without me in their own universe, but I don’t think you wanna chance that possibility.

“Choice two: You get in your car & go home. I have a feeling if you start driving back to wherever you came from, you’ll end up back there. I mean, do you even remember how you got here,” he asks me sincerely.

With panting breaths I tell him, “No.”

I wince and feel tears prick at my eyes. I hate this freezing feeling. I’ve had panic attacks before, but nothing as existentially horrific as this. I’ve never questioned my… reality… before.

“Hey,” he coos. “Maybe this is all just a really fucked up dream, mm?”

It does make me feel a little better. It makes sense too. It’s just a fucked up dream.

With intense focus, I consider the options he gave. I feel my nails digging into his wooden table. I’m real.

One: I follow through with the hit. This is all some mind trick this highly intelligent son of a bitch is playing to get me to leave him alone. There’s no way I’m a fictional character! It’s bullshit! I laugh audibly. I kill him, and nothing will happen to me, simple as that.

On the other hand… I do feel connected to him in some way… Comforted by him. Like he’s the imaginary friend. Maybe I’m the one going crazy…

He gently passes his mug of tea across the small table to me. “Don’t you fucking throw this one,” he warns.

I sip the warm tea, considering, my thoughts are sluggish, like I’m thinking in water. I don’t like this place. I don’t like the cold air breathing down my neck. I don’t like how cordial he’s being. I don’t like that his words hit like a God to a mortal. My ears are ringing & I’m reminded of the stories of Angels my mother used to tell me when I was kid hiding in bedsheets.

The silence of consideration reaches a climax & I can’t sit still anymore. Without a word I stand up, chair crashing down behind me, and I walk out the door. All this shit is too much for me. If the client wants this guy dead so bad, he can call someone else. Seems like a call for my uncle. I don’t know if it’s better or worse he’s already dead.

I stomp down the porch steps & jog to my car. I get in & slam the door. I feel like I can finally breathe, I’m no longer swimming in water. I stab my key into the ignition & start the car. The stereo cries, startled, I punch it off, breathing heavily. I throw my car into reverse & look up, I see him.

He’s stood calmly on the porch, shoulder leaning on one of the white posts, watching me. I feel a shudder down my spine as I rev from reverse into drive and speed the hell out of there!

I drive and I drive, hours pass on the road in complete silence. I’m not taking anymore calls for a while.

20.20

Apr. 24, 2026

🌔 Waxing Gibbous