by Andrew Monge
Ellen turned the minivan into her driveway, parked, and laid her head against the steering wheel. Minutes passed. Tears ran unabated down her cheeks, dripping off her face and onto the floor, the silence in the car broken only by her periodic sniffling.
And then, laughter.
Ellen’s head shot up, looking in the rearview mirror. A trio of young girls from the neighborhood rode by on scooters, laughing as their legs pushed them faster and faster down the sidewalk. Ellen tracked their progress from one side of the driveway to the other before noticing the booster seat in the middle row of her van.
The empty booster seat.
Ellen averted her eyes, staring instead at her reflection in the mirror, taking in the fierce anger stitched across her face. Again, her gaze flitted, this time settling back on the steering wheel. Vision blurring, she punched it over and over until the skin on her knuckles split, the van’s horn keeping beat with her piston-like jabs. Dropping her hands into her lap, she tilted her head back and howled until anguish broke her voice. Deflated, she pulled the keys from the ignition and gathered her belongings from the passenger seat:
Sunglasses.
A black handbag.
A small pack of tissues.
A veil.
With a zombie-like gait, Ellen made it from the car to the front door, unlocked the house, and shuffled inside. Door shut, she leaned against it as tears flowed again, her belongings sliding from her hands and falling to the floor. After a few deep breaths, she stooped to take off her shoes. Losing her balance, she reached out a hand to brace herself and almost knocked a picture off the wall. Finished with her heels, she turned to set the picture straight.
A picture of him.
Heart racing, color flooding her cheeks, she lifted the frame off the wall and stared at the man looking back at her: thin build, tanned skin, blue eyes, full beard. A look of love on his face. The look of a man who longed to help in any way possible.
But in that moment, it was a look that sent Ellen into a blind rage.
“You,” she sneered. “You, with your puppy-dog eyes and your empty promises. You, who my husband and I dedicated our lives to while we tended your flock. You, who was supposed to be our protector, our redeemer, our savior. You…you charlatan!”
Ellen reared back and spit upon the face of Jesus, then swung the picture and smashed it against the wall. Glass exploded, the frame collapsed, and the print slowly drifted to the floor. Once there, she planted her foot on Christ’s face and ground it in – back, forth, back, forth – then stepped off the mess and powerwalked into the living room, nostrils flaring, taking in the additional articles of their faith. She made a beeline to the coffee table, snatched up her husband’s bible, and started for the kitchen.
“Where were you last week, hmm? The day your faithful servant drove to school to pick up his daughter, before being t-boned by a drunk driver? What was the matter that day? Hand of God not strong enough to hold back the pickup that caved in the side of our car, killing my husband and innocent little girl?”
Ellen opened the cupboard below the kitchen sink and deposited the bible into the trash can before heading back to the living room.
“And could you explain why they were killed, whereas the drunk driver was able to bumble out of his truck with nary a scratch? This man, who already had a handful of drunk-driving citations before his latest escapade killed my family? Am I supposed to believe his life is more important than that of my husband? That this waste of space will somehow do greater things than my beautiful daughter?”
Ellen walked up to the fireplace and pulled down the large wooden cross that kept vigil from the mantle.
“Or maybe, maybe, this was one of those cases when you needed two more angels up there with you in heaven. Surely you haven’t taken enough people, long before their time, to keep you company, right? Oh, you poor, lonely God. Meanwhile, we’re left with a person who has no regard for the gift of life, who would rather drown it out with alcohol instead of making a positive impact with the time he has.”
Ellen held the bottom of the cross, leaning the top half over her shoulder like a batter waiting for the pitcher to get set.
“We followed you. We gave our time, our energy, our money. We’ve traveled this country – no, this world – in your name, spreading your word and quote-unquote saving souls. And for what? My husband and daughter are dead. I’m left behind, being assured that people’s thoughts and prayers are with me. But, how does that help? And where are you in all this, hmm? Where are you now?” She extended her left arm, doing a slow turn, eyes roaming the empty space. “Hello? I asked you a question! Where are you now?!”
Silence, other than the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Ellen gripped the base of the cross with both hands and extended it before her like a lumberjack preparing to split logs.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Others might believe this flippin’ hogwash, but as for me…”
Ellen raised the cross above her head and swung it at the floor. Bam! Bam! One half of the crossbeam snapped off and skittered across the floor.
“…and what’s left of my house…”
Bam! Bam! Bam! The other half of the crossbeam detached, after which she tossed the main upright over her shoulder.
“…we will serve no one.”
Andrew Monge (Twitter/Bluesky/Substack: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, Shotgun Honey, Major 7th Magazine, Micromance Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and Pistol Jim Press. “As for Me and My House” is dedicated to his wife, Jennifer.
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