fictitiouswhimsigot | The Scarlet Eyes of God (Reply)

Mary Walsh talks to God.

This is not, itself, unusual. Most people who can see God talk to it at some point or another.

God was, after all, a permanent fixture in people’s lives. It looked out at the world with unblinking scarlet eyes that lurked in every shadow and patch of darkness and in the space between stars.

So Mary whispered to God at work, and chatted with it on her way home. She told it about customers who were rude and about vacations she could never afford. She told it about how her manager just never seemed to get her and how she was absolutely going to read that book her sister got her for yule. “It’s just a big commitment,” she’d say, “What if I reach a cliffhanger and then have to go to work, or answer a call?”

God never spoke back, and that suited Mary just fine. Everyone had heard about that time in Montana, after all, though people were saying that it’d be safe to go back in just a few more years.

But sometimes, sometimes people would come to Mary’s apartment and knock on her door to ask her for help. They’d tell her they were looking for a lost child or sibling or husband. That they’d met someone in their dreams who had stolen their heart and they just needed to know if that person was real.

Mary would invite them in, offer them some tea or coffee or hot chocolate and then ask them to have a seat while she set up a few things. Then Mary would go to her bedroom, close her door and sit down on the floor with a lit candle in front of her and a pen and notepad in her hands. She’d carefully put down the notepad and position her writing hand over it, pen poised. She’d take a deep breath and reach forward to snuff out the light, and then tightly shut her eyes.

Then Mary would let the pen go and count the seconds.

Her current record was twenty seven seconds before the pen hit the floor with a quiet click. Then Mary would say thank you to the room in general, reach out and light the candle by feel, and open her eyes.

Mary never read what was written on her notepad. She just tore the pages out, neatly folded them and handed them over. She always asked them to read them later, and would quietly usher them on their way. People sometimes asked if she wanted a reward, or offered to pay her, but she never accepted. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything, really.

Once they left, Mary Walsh would sink down into her comfy, beat up sofa. She’d spare a glance at the book her sister had given her before turning her TV on and settling into a rerun of her favorite sitcom.

She’d laugh along to the same old jokes.

And from the dark places of her home, God watched along with unblinking, crimson eyes.