When I was young, the older women at my father's shop loved to call me, and many of my actions, perverse. They called me this enough times that eventually, I rode my rickety bicycle down to the local library. My finger dragged along the dusty spines, the overhead light flickered intermittently. I broke my stride at the dictionary section. Warped spines, dog eared pages covered in water stains mirrored a hole from a leak in the ceiling tiles. Perutz… pervade… perverse. 

​

I’m starting to wonder whether or not it really matters, people's motives that is. If doing things for the right reasons is really all that different from doing them for the wrong ones. I never really thought about this until now. I wonder if those women saw me today, in another shop or on a news headline if they’d remember me as the boy so very perverse.

​

Six months ago could probably date the beginning of everything. Well, everything I’m willing to discuss at this moment. Six months ago was my half birthday, needlessly celebrated by throwing empty beer bottles off an overpass.  A flannel covered forearm removed the sweat from my overheated face. Two friends joined me, we had run all the way from one of their garages here, a pack for each. Maybe this was one of those choices made for the wrong reasons. Childish impulse, strictly hedonistic. On the other hand, my friend's dad was an alcoholic, in need of a liver transplant. Could it be that instead? A selfless, lifesaving act? A son, in his own way, nobly protecting his father? The empty bottles were piling up, arranged neatly by the boy with the healthy father, and we started to get bored. We decided to play God that night, the bridge was closed off but there was still the spare car cruising below. We built up the first throw, each of us winding up then backing down, like we were playing with fire, or a lightning rod out in a storm. 

​

“Do it!” We took turns shouting, followed by a string of profanities with each inevitable bail out. It took over ten minutes with no cars before one of us was brave enough to throw the bottle, watching it crash and shatter across the pavement. We erupted in laughter as if this was the most comical event we’d ever experienced. I couldn’t quite tell you why we were laughing, I suppose it felt good at the time. Glass was smashing like a symphony, one after another, led by theatrical displays. Spinning like a dancer with a half hearted point of a muck covered boot. 

​

Suddenly one of them screamed, “WAIT!” We watched the emerald bottle soar. What once looked so heavenly now petrified us. A dark blue minivan passed in perfect alignment with the bottle, like it was destiny, or it was fate. I wonder what exactly we expected, if somewhere deep down we wanted this all along. Childish impulse, carelessly hedonistic. The car ended up passing without incident, missing the bottle entirely. Disaster hadn’t struck even if it was led to. We were all quiet after that. Jovial cheering turned deafening silence. Or maybe we were just dumb kids that got bored of our games. 

​

Excuses for leaving followed one after another until I was the only one left. Unprepared for my night to end I chose to walk the town square counting each crack I found on the sidewalk. My counting was interrupted by the local newswoman Clara Evanson on the television display. “Meteorologists say this summer is predicted to be the most intense hurricane season Texas has seen in 40 years.” Something about her tone made me sneer, her formality and calmness when conveying catastrophe. There was a stark contrast between her and the man standing at the street corner, exclaiming in a panic, that God is coming and we need to be ready. Hurricanes could be an act of God, I suppose. When I got home my mom was asleep on the couch, still in her business clothes from the bank. I knew I wouldn’t wake her but I still crept quietly to my room. Sighing as I rested my head on the pillow easing into sleep. That night I dreamt about a hurricane, the man on the corner was strung up like a scarecrow and in Clara's voice he said that God was coming soon and then wished me a happy birthday. I jolted awake covered in sweat, disoriented. It was still dark out. 

​

I glided through school that day, barely there. Casually, I relayed that dream to my friends who assured me it was just a weird dream, probably beer fueled, and to forget about the entire thing. For the first few months I did just that. Until it happened again, and again. Every night, slightly different but its meaning was always the same. God was coming, the storms were bad, and something referencing my birthday. It wasn’t until a month before my actual birthday that I realized the scarecrow was being crucified, or maybe this detail developed later on. Each day I was waking up exhausted, eye bags developed, making my face look hollow. I began obsessively writing the details in a leather notebook one of the ladies had given to my father. Meticulously, I recorded each new detail or connection I would see throughout the day. I counted every scarecrow I saw, every cross. I drank coffee the whole day into the night. It didn’t keep me awake though. I started falling asleep in classes and during lunch. I was an okay student and it was the last month of school so my teachers decided to let it slide, believing it would be more effort than they thought was worth it.

​

One day I fell asleep at the bus stop, awoken by Agnes Sumpty. Agnes was a strange girl, from a pious family. Wild curly hair covered her head, and she had long lanky limbs. She’d almost reminded me of a tree, incredibly wise, frustratingly mysterious. I was shaken in measured intervals, like she was counting between each series of shakes. I looked at her, confused, slightly annoyed, not quite understanding where I was or what was going on. Without waiting for my questions she offered an answer, “You were making noises, you sounded scared.” The bus was delayed so we sat in silence, looking out at the road. We tracked each car with our eyes, eventually she broke the silence. “So what were you dreaming about?” she asked, staring at her shoes. I scratched my head and mumbled about it being complicated. A few more beats of silence convinced me to ask her a question, even though I avoided answering hers. 

​

“Do you believe in God?” I asked. The words felt weird coming out of my mouth. It made me feel like that man on the street corner badgering tourists with his sign about the world ending. 

​

“Why would you ask me that?” she said coldly. I wasn’t quite sure why I wanted to know. I would always see her with old lace dresses like what my gran wore when she was young. Agnes liked to collect things in jars, like clovers, and old animal bones. She liked to oppose the teachers, not to be combative, she just liked asking questions no one else wanted to. Some teachers enjoyed this, praising her as witty and insightful. Others found her disrespectful. She looked at me with an accusatory glare, then her look softened and she sighed, “My father says not believing God is like not believing the sun and the moon, just plain stupid.” I nodded my head accepting her answer until she said, “Well, I’ve seen the sun, and I’ve seen the moon but…” I looked back at her surprised, then smiled to myself. She kicked her feet and snickered quietly. The two of us sat, sharing the moment, kindred spirits waiting for the bus to arrive. 

​

That night I slept without dreaming, quiet, peaceful, I woke late in the morning. My parents were still out at church and for a moment I’d forgotten about the dream entirely. It was Sunday and I had nothing planned. A day of rest I chuckled to myself. When I stepped outside the sky was dark, I always slept well during storm season, the dark sky and low rumble of thunder seemed to calm me down. I decided to walk over to Agnes’ house, it was quaint for the amount of people in it. The house was covered in a fresh coat of bright blue paint, the garden was lush and well tended. Her mother opened the door and instantly recognized me from my father's shop. She smiled, a lot like Agnes did, but her curls were suppressed into a tight bun. 

​

“Agnes!” she shouted. “You’ve got a friend that wants to see you!” I heard her shuffle down the stairs to greet me. She was wearing her church shoes and was ripping her hair out of a bun very similar to her mother’s. After a hushed argument between Agnes and her mother she told Agnes she needed to be back in two hours, lest her father have a fit. We started walking to the park near her home. I offered to stop by my father's shop to get her a Coke. She declined, and as we walked past the Evergreen Cemetery she halted. “You never answered my question,” she said, as a statement but the new question was implied. I explained that night with my friends and the dream that proceeded after. I also told her about the thoughts I'd been having, about good vs evil, and the meaning of things. 

​

“You know where we need to go if you’ve got questions about that kind of stuff?” she asked. I shook my head slowly. “Church!” she exclaimed excitedly. She grabbed the cuff of my sleeve and started out into the woods near the cemetery. 

​

I started to worry that I’d misread her, that she would just take my questions to the local pastor and they’d simply toss an old blue bible my way. I looked at her fingernails, caked in dirt. The source had been the wild flowers sticking haphazardly from her socks. She made me climb over a couple fallen tree trunks. It smelled like a storm outside, petrichor they call it. The brush was dense and I felt a sense of dread as the opening of the trail got out of eyesight.

​

I was looking back as she announced, “We’re here.” I looked up at an old white building with gothic architecture. It had a few broken stained glass windows covered in planks and rusty nails. The paint had all been chipped and parts of the roof were covered in a thick layer of moss. “This is my church,” Agnes said to me, beaming. She proceeded to give me the grand tour. The pews were covered in cobwebs and the floors creaked, announcing each step. There were thousands of candles, dried wax dripping from each one. “This is my favorite part,” she told me as she clapped two old bibles together releasing a cloud of dust. Light poured in through one of the windows and created a beam that caught each dust particle. I saw why she liked this place so much. 

​

She stood at the podium and in an old preacher's voice started declaring her own commandments. “Be kind to your fellow person, always season your greens, when in doubt ask the nearest woman, they will always be right.” She glared at me. I put my hands up in surrender. She’d already proven she knew more than me, so I took her word for it. She put her finger above her lip and yelled in a comical tone, “I DO DECLARE,” like the lawyers on the television. That made me laugh, the kind of laugh that caught me off guard. Keeled over, I tried to catch my breath, gasping and heaving, I ended up on the floor. My sides ached. I smiled wide. She laughed too, a high pitched scream laugh that sounded like a little kid. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, I’d never laughed that hard in a church before. I wondered if that was how my parents felt when they went to church, hopeful, heart full. 

​

That was the last good day. Agnes got home late and when her father found out she was alone with a boy he’d grounded her the whole week. The last day of school she signed my yearbook with a little doodle of the old church and a note that said, “meet me here for a grand birthday party at the church of agnes”. 

​

I had the dream once more. It felt different, like I’d experienced it for the very first time. I sprung awake, sweat soaked through my nightshirt. I sat for a moment, collecting myself until my mother and father barged in. “Happy Birthday Sweetheart!” my mother exclaimed. My father mumbled something to the effect of a happy birthday. I hadn’t seen Agnes in a week, but her grounding was lifted just in time for my birthday at the church. My mother made birthday pancakes covered in whip cream and sprinkles. My dad opened the shop later that day to spend breakfast with me. The news was on, Clara Evanson talked with her typical demeanor. “Today we expect to see a category two hurricane with 96 mile per hour winds and extensive damage to property. Now is the time to board up windows and cancel all non essential travel.” My mother groaned and proceeded to call her boss, my father decided to run by the store to make sure it was secure. “I’m sorry your birthday ended up like this darlin’,” my mother sighed as she rubbed my head.

​

Just then the screen flashed, with the sign that said breaking news. “This just in, local man in fatal car accident. This morning at 5:24 AM Nicholas Sumpty was fatally struck in head on collision on State Highway 24 headed east. More information will be provided as the story develops.” My face started getting hot, and my ears pounded. My breath started shaking. My mother offered a hand on my shoulder but I swatted her away gently. I mumbled about needing to leave, ignoring any questions that followed. I ran to Agnes’ house. The sky was already dark and the wind was getting heavy. 

​

When I arrived at the house, the bright blue dulled against the gray sky. Her mother was on the porch crying surrounded by family. My presence only upset her more. I think part of her wished Agnes was with me. I came to find out she had no idea where Agnes was, I assured her I had an idea and took off towards the woods. The brush was somehow thicker and more mangled since Agnes wasn’t able to lead me. Still, I made my way through and opened the door of the church. 

​

She sat in the front pew, her long limbs tangled into a ball holding herself, with her knees clutched to her chest. She didn’t move when I sat beside her. She wept quietly. We sat in silence for a long time until she eventually said, “A rock hit the windshield of the other driver. It swerved into his lane.” It was hard to believe something like that could happen. It came out of nowhere. No explanation. Not in the path for destruction and yet... Thunder rumbled low and tree branches started slapping the side of the building. 

​

“You have to promise me you will never set foot in a church again,” she said, more coldly than I'd ever heard. I promised her. She stood up slowly. “Good,” she said. Sometimes people do things for the right reasons, others for the wrong reasons, what if those reasons are neither? That’s what I’m struggling with. Agnes and I stole a jug of lighter fluid and some matches from my father's shop. She doused the pews and the floors and the podium. She looked at me and asked if God was good or evil. I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Agnes took my silence as her answer and threw the match into the front door of the church. It caught slowly but eventually turned to a roaring fire. We watched it for a while before Agnes turned to leave. She said her mother would be worried and then handed me a spiral bound notebook, covered in scribbled sketches and stickers, it read, Church of Agnes Commandments. 

​

The news said that the fire had been caused by a lightning strike. As I walked to my father’s shop I realized the man at the corner had left. No trace of him or his sign anywhere. The women were discussing the fire, one of them saying it was an act of God. I asked her if she’s ever really seen God. She scowled at me as if I’d said something so incredibly perverse.