Props to
Sensory Offense Writing Prompts for being the source of my inspiration.
What is something that happened to me at home that I will always remember?
Most of my good friends have already heard this story on multiple occasions, but I figured it was about time I got it down on paper. The story of the Church Lady.
The setting for this story is (in agreement with the prompt, first) my home, circa 2001. I was in 11th or 12th grade and my parents were going on a cruise for a week or so. Somehow, I was in their good graces at the time and was entrusted to manage the household while they were gone. I assure you, that
I and I alone was in charge of all household duties while my parents were away. This was not a huge deal. The refrigerator was full of microwaveable foods and I was probably givin a hundred dollars or so to fend for myself for the week. All I really had to do was go to school during the week and make sure my little brother and sister did the same.
Where the church lady comes in is--she shouldn't have at all. My mom had merely told her in passing to be available if there was some sort of emergency. I must have been 17 at the time, and thus, not considered a legal adult. So the church lady was simply supposed to be responsible
in the event of an emergency, only because I could not assume legal responsibility in the event of an emergency. Why my mom chose this particular lady to be responsible in the event of an emergency is beyond me still, but I'm sure my mom still regrets the decision.
Anyway, the church lady took my mom's word as an invitation to be responsible for my siblings and me for the week my parents were out of town. She made it a point to check up on us daily and tell us what we should be doing and how we should be doing it. Why she did this? Because she was completely and totally insane. First, she was literally on dozens of different anti-anxiety, anti-depression, and anti-sanity drugs. This was probably a product of her being married to our very controlling and demeaning pastor. (The Church isn't the only place you find these wackos, but it's definately a good place to start looking, if, for some reason, you were looking.) Second, she was of the general I'm-gonna-shove-my-bible-down-your-throat-and-make-you-believe persuasion. Not really my favorite kind of person to begin with, but my opinions weren't fully formed at that point. I basically just ignored her or tried to not be around when she was at my house.
At the time, we were all taking part in a confirmation class at the church because we had only joined within maybe that year. My younger brother and sister were in about the correct age-group for the class (11-13 years old). I was obviously about five years older than most of the other students in the class. Growing up my family was never a regular "church family." This was my first experience in the church, and to become a full member I had to take the confirmation class even though I was very old to be doing so. My parents encouraged me to take the class and I agreed. The class was really easy, and other kids my age at the church had told me I should take the class. Church was a new experience for me, and I didn't mind it at the time. Besides, I'd met some kids at the church that I enjoyed hanging out with (read: slutty church girls). On a side note, if you want to meet loose and easy women, a church is definately a good place to look for them.
Attendance at this confirmation class was not mandatory, and I wasn't so in love with the class that I dedicated my life to it. The week that my parents were away, I decided I didn't feel like going. I dropped my brother and sister off at the class and headed back home to do whatever 17-year-old boys do with a house to themselves for a few hours (I don't even remember, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't that exciting). A few minutes after I get back home, the phone rings. I pick it up and it's the church lady informing me that I'm supposed to be at confirmation class. I tried to be polite at first, told her that I wasn't really feeling well and wasn't up for it, etc. She told me that I really had to be there, and being that she was left in charge while my parents were gone, I had to come back to the church. At this point I tell her she's not really in charge and hang up.
Maybe 10 minutes later, she is pulling up my driveway and at my door. Screaming at me and telling me that I'm a sinner and that I'm not honoring god, and yada, yada, yada. She tells me that she's going to call my parents and tell them that I didn't do what I was supposed to do while they were away. I hand her the phone and explain to her that she was definately not left in charge of me, that my parents are comfortable with me making the majority of my own decisions at this point in my life, and that she is more than welcome to call them and let them know I told her so. Of course, she wants nothing to do with calling, and instead continues her biblical tirade. I had a horrible temper at this point in my life, and at this point I had had enough. I lash out. First of all, lady, I think you're a fuckin nut! And you need to get the fuck out of my fuckin house fuckin immediately! I don't give a shit if god himself sent you here! This is private property and you need to fuckin leave! I obviously don't remember this convo verbatim, but I'm pretty sure I used the word fuck in every possible capacity--as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb--I may have somehow even used it as a pronoun. Fuck off you crazy bitch! I'll come get my brother and sister when I'm done jerking off or doing whatever the fuck I decide I want to do. This bitch was persistant. I mean she was a weak and sickly crazy old bitch going toe to toe with me at this point. At the time, I was in my athletic prime, and I was pissed. It's not like I ever would have hit her, but what kind of crazy bitch stands toe to toe with someone of twice her strength and half her age who was as pissed as I was. Jesus must have been with her. Or she must have at least believed that he was.
This must have been the turning point. I'm screaming at her, she's screaming at me, and an early logical sense must have kicked in. I start thinking. This is commonplace for me now, but back then I was 160 pounds of shitty temper. I channeled it into football and wrestling, but I could still be a mean son-of-a-bitch. But for whatever reason, I decided arguing with this lady was not the answer. A clear stream of thoughts came in my head and I came up with a plan. I knew that she was really dumb and could easily be convinced if I pulled a complete 180. And I knew she had a variety of medical problems while I was in peak physical condition. The entrance to my house was on a 2nd-story porch. I knew there was no way the lady could even get close to me in a footrace up a flight of stairs, so I decided I'd take a new approach. I'd simply lure her down the stairs, run back up them, and lock her out of my house. I calm down completely. I tell her that she's right, that she's convinced me. I apologize politely. Say that I don't know what came over me, that she's in charge and that I really should be in confirmation class. Man, is this lady a dumb shit. She falls for it hook, line, and sinker. So I tell her that we'll walk down to her car (she should drive so
I can calm down). She agrees and we head out. We get to the bottom of the stairs where I turn around and sprint back up them. She follows me, weezing immediately. She was no where near me when I opened my front door and entered the house. But, there was one thing I didn't plan on. The front door of my house snags on the welcome mat. I can't force the door closed as the lady catches up to me and starts pushing from the other side. It's an old wooden door with 9 small glass panes forming a window across it. I push too hard, and my hand goes through the glass.
At this point the lady is already halfway in the house, so I concede her the victory and accept that my plan is a failure. I feel a slight pinch and look down at my hand. The funny thing about severe lacerations is that they don't hurt nearly as much as you'd think. I don't say this to be a macho man or anything like that; I've just found it to be very true. Including this one, I've had two bone-deep lacerations in my life--neither was even close to being as painful as a good punch. I've never broken a bone, so I can't draw a comparison to that kind of pain, but I'd say the most painful things I've experienced are a badly sprained ankle and getting a tattoo. Both of those experiences were far worse than this cut. So I was surprised when I looked down at my hand and saw the amount of blood I was losing. I figured it was just one of those things where I'd been cut in a certain way that caused a lot of blood. At this point, I'm completely calm as I head over to my sink to rinse the blood off my hand. When the water washes all the blood away, is when I realize just how badly I've cut myself. This is when I freak out. With all the blood out of the way, I can see that my pinky is nearly severed. All I see is white on the inside. The bone is what creeped me out the most. People are not supposed to see their own bones. Later, the doctor told me that I may not have--that I more likely saw tendons or ligaments. All I know is that there was about an inch gap between where my hand ended (where my pinky should start) and where my pinky did start. In between there was a mess of white. If i had my hand under water. If I did not have my hand under water, there was a mess of red. I still didn't feel a great deal of pain, shockingly. I did at this point feel a great deal of fear and panic.
The church lady, crazy bitch that she is, is still screaming at me. Although now, her screams are somewhat sympathetic. Maybe sympathetic is a stretch. If you'd just done what you were supposed to do this never would have happened! Lord Jesus, save him! Save him! He was supposed to listen to me but he didn't! Now he's bleeding too death! I, of course, young, dumb, and full of...well you get the point, am blaming the whole thing on her. Internally. I've been beaten down past the point of attempting to speak to this woman. I wrap my hand in a towel, say I'm going to the hospital, and walk out. She tells me that I can't drive with my hand like that. Begrudgingly, I realize that she'll have to drive me. Not so much because I couldn't drive, but more because I've only been driving for a few months and have no clue how to get to a hospital. And I figure I'd rather bleed in her car then mine.
We take off. On the way to the hospital, she closes her eyes and prays while we're driving. The only quotes I do remember verbatim: "Dear Lord Jesus, please help Jim get through this trying time. He's lost, and he needs your help to find his way. We trust that you'll heal his hand, and that you'll guide him towards the righteous path--" I could not take it anymore. This is the point where I really flipped out. This may be the point where I lost my faith in god. If not, it's certainly one of the points in my life that will ensure my eternal damnation if the bible-thumpers do turn out to have it right. Again, verbatim: "You fuckin bitch! Jesus is not coming! Jesus is not fucking here! He's not gonna heal my fucking hand! And he's damn sure not going to show me the righteous fucking path! You shut the fuck up and drive this car to the fuckin hospital!"
We did not speak the rest of the way to the hospital, but I'm sure the church lady prayed silently for the remainder of the trip. Perhaps the worst thing was that since this did actually qualify as an emergency, she had to stay at the hospital with me and sign all the neccesary insurance paperwork. I was ready to kill her, but was of course treated as a typical insane patient at the hospital. She was the rational caretaker, of course. Talk about two-million spoons when all you need is a knife.
If my eternal damnation was not ensured on the trip to the hospital, then it was certainly ensured a few months later at a party thrown by the church lady's daughter. I lost my virginity in the church lady's and pastor's bed. Right under the crucifix. You gotta love slutty church girls.
