Godshot

by Chelsea Bieker

“What’s global warming?” I asked my mother as she peeled into a parking spot, creating a cloud of dirt around the Rabbit. “I’ve heard of that a few times too,” she replied. “Maybe we should be a little more curious.” But I knew I wouldn’t mention it again, and my mother would never bring it up. Curiosity was the first rung on the ladder down to hell.

“Your mother’s got that emptiness inside her and she’s gonna fill it with something. Drink, church, men. Always switching seats on the Titanic.”

She took my hand. She squeezed. “Whatever’s happened to you can either make you beautiful, or it will ruin you forever. You decide.”

I pulled my hand back. “I’m not beautiful.” “I don’t mean beautiful like you’re thinking. I mean beautiful. I mean, deep and changed. Affected. Wise. When you see a woman like that, you know. She’s beautiful because of her undoing. Beautiful because she rebirthed herself from ashes.”

I wished God would tell me what to do himself, not through the mouth of a man.

It was probably not completely fair, whatever had happened to him, and now here he was, his untended wound blasting around the world, wrecking things.