When All is Said and Done

"God is, and has always been, watching," were the words Father Romero uttered as we sent a loved one far away into the heavens last June. I remember that day quite well. It had been raining non-stop from dawn to dusk. In fact, the wind was so bad that it nearly blew the vehicles, as well as the hearse carrying the body, off the road during the funeral procession. What a perfect, dark setting for a funeral. By the way, that funeral came totally unexpected.

Indeed, it was only a month earlier that I was walking across the stage at my college graduation ceremony during what was definately one of the proudest moments of my life. The family threw a big celebration for me that weekend and I got to see, and say goodbye to, many of my dear friends. It seemed like my life was headed down the right path. It only seemed that way though.

The funeral was only the first of a series of troubling events. I must note, however, that at some point in time my memory gets a bit blurry. Of what I am able to remember, none of it is pretty.

About a week after the funeral, I arrived at my family's house in Northern Mississippi to find that it had been robbed, vandalized, and completely desecrated. "What kind of people would do such a thing?" Childhood photos of my brother, sister, and I were ripped to shreds. Family portraits were spray painted with Nazi-like symbols. Why? Why would someone do this?

In the midst of rummaging through the destruction, something caught my eye as I glanced out the back window. It was a wooden cross planted beneath the willow tree in the center of the backyard. I set out to gain a closer perspective. What I found was astonishing. There, carved nicely into the heavy wooden planks of the cross were the words: "Here Lies Sweetie. The Meanest Dog Ever." My dog (might I note dog of seventeen years) was dead. Why the hell didn't anyone bother to tell me? Oh well, that wasn't the issue of the hour. What was more important was why the hell someone had desecrated the house! I needed some answers. Oddly enough, nobody was home. Maybe they were down at the police station filing a report or, better yet, kicking some hoodlem ass (pardon my french). With this in mind, I hopped into my Caddy and roared down toward to the police station.

On the way there, an explosion lit up the sky just ahead of me on the highway. I immediately slammed on my breaks and got out of the car to see what was going on. It appeared to have been a car accident. As I got closer, though still at a distance, I could see that there were several bystanders who appeared to be selflessly rescuing one of the drivers from the firery wreck. I began walking a little closer to the scene in hopes of providing some assistance. To my horror, things were not as they seemed!

I wasn't sure if had unconciously smoked some crack or what but, those "rescuers" I had seen, the ones that were apparently helping, were not helping at all! No. To my fear and disbelief, they were eating the wreck victims piece by piece. Seeing this, I vomited all over myself. "This can't be happening! What is WRONG with me?" At that moment, one of the "rescuers" made eye contact with me and signaled the others that there was "fresh meat." I was the fresh meat. Suddenly, in what was a marathon race for my life, I was running back to the Caddy with flesh-eating beasts right on my tail!

Thankfully I made it out of there alive. When I got far enough away I dialed 911 only to get no answer. "Those darn people need to get their act together!" I wasn't sure where to go from here. What I began to call "Flesh Eater's Highway," the sole route to the police station, was a no go. I couldn't go back that way. Thus, I pulled the Caddy over and began thinking for a moment. Suddenly, I saw a familiar face walking along the sidewalk. They didn't look zombified so I decided to take a chance and get out of the car to talk to them.

"They" were an old boyfriend, Luis Polatsky, that I had dated back in my early college days. Funny, but I never quite new what had happened to him after we broke up. He was always the wild-child, screw-the-world kind of person who, eventually, I remember, got into a lot of trouble of some sort.

"Luis?" I said. He turned around with a big smile and said, "Hi! Are you making out okay?"

Was I making out okay? Of course I wasn't making out okay! The family house was desecrated. My dog died. Not to mention the fact that I had almost become the dinner of a hungry bunch of former humans.

"Yes," I said. "I'm doing good." Then, he said, "Well, you seem to be taking it pretty well."

Pretty well? I must admit, that was a long time ago that you slept with my best friend. I am totally over it. I have moved on. Wait a second! What the heck was he talking about?

"What do you mean by 'taking it pretty well'?" I inquired. "Oh," he said. "You don't know?" and I replied "Apparently not. Nobody ever tells me anything anymore!"

What he said next would open my eyes for an eternity.

"You always looked good," he said. I thought to myself, "I am not in the mood to be hit on right now!" Then he continued, "Yes, you always looked good. Even at your funeral." [Pause]

A rush of memories suddenly shot through my mind and then "God no! Noooo! This can't be happening! This isn't true." Oh, but as time would tell, it was all so very true.

I was dead. That was MY funeral. This, as Luis would later point out to me, was my own hell.

Because of how I once lived, I am now eternally damned to the fear that comes with the desecration of the things I once loved, the fear of being eaten by flesh eating zombies, and the fear of what lies ahead.

If only I would have tried harder. If only I had been better. If only.

"Not everyone who says to me 'Lord, Lord, will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven." - Matthew 7: 21

by. Holly

Have a Happy Halloween!