Pale Fragments

prophet

I grew up Mormon, as I've told you. Maybe that's one reason Grace chose me to relay these stories, because she knew I would somewhat understand Anders (though his version of Mormonism will be very different than what I was engulfed in as a kid.) If you feel lost in all the capital letters referencing specific parts of their doctrine, don't worry; that is its aim: to confuse, to make vulnerable people feel lost in jargon said (most often from native English speakers to foreigners they're meant to save in an unfamiliar tongue) with a comforting (if somewhat rehearsed) air using buzzwords that have infinite archetypal, cultural significance and meaning.

She first told me about Robert Smith when I asked her about the future of the Mormon church. She asked me why I cared. I began to weep as I told her the gap created between my family and I when I initially admitted to them my newfound atheism.

Sighing sweet empathy, the Goddess told me that someday, there would be a man named Robert Smith who, wearing the mantel of "Prophet," would deny his God and put an end to his Church and his own life in the name of integrity and honor.

"But," I remember her saying. "I don't tell you because you ask, you curious motherfucker. It's because his story is part of everything I'm trying to tell you. He was Anders' prophet, the one who shaped his fate."

She told me how she'd met and talked with him for an entire night before he hung himself. This was after all of the Elect were put soundly and safely to sleep, he their shepherd and veterinarian. She revealed herself to him, fully, and that seemed to give him peace.

-

The new Prophet, Mouthpiece, President of the Church (and her corporate Partners) Robert Smith, direct descendent of Joseph Smith (the only true unapostatized Prophet of the Restoration whose blood is expressly accepted by God in His servants,) will walk into the empty bathroom of the Upper Levels of the World Conference Center and Temple.

The door shuts and he stands, wrinkled smile pursed then curled and stretching itself into its native despair, then he sprints with apparently newfound energy into the stall furthest from the door, and vomits silent, pitiful, violent moans into the toilet.

Retch. Toilet paper rolling. Wipe. Flush. Steps. The stall door slams and Bob jumps, a look of exaggerated rage inappropriate for the moment breaking through his eyes.

Then he will see himself in the mirror, face downturned, shoulders finally relaxing with a disgusted sigh, chin limp and exaggerating his underbite, eyes staring pointedly up over his glasses sitting crooked at the end of his nose, first at all the edges of the mirror and finally settling (as the nervous lover moves from the side to hip to thigh...) into themselves.

He looks into his own eyes and knows they are dead.

In those dark central points which seem to stretch away endlessly into some misty midnight darkness, he sees for the first time, that his spirit has been dead for many years. Maybe all his life.

What was he doing?

What had he felt before?

Had he ever felt God testifying to him of the truthfulness of His gospel? Or had he simply shrugged away his soul's worried complaints and assured himself that the unfaithful wait for a sign, and the faithful are rewarded in time...

Had he been lied to?

But...he'd known, hadn't he? He'd known. But there had always been hope, always faith that he'd receive the answers to his doubts after his death, that moments of clarity were evidence of a Holy Ghost, but...

Two weeks of constant prayer since he had been set apart as the Priest at His Right Hand, as Adam had been (and he'd walked and talked with Elohim,) two weeks of hollowness, little sleep. He'd had hyperventilating anxiety attacks, something he'd never experienced before. He called his personal doctor, believing it to be a heart attack. When it was confirmed that it wasn't, he banished the doctor from his side.

Fasting most days. Innumerable tears shed from a dry body.

And...nothing. No angels. No God. No Jesus Christ, appearing to him in a pillar of light. No voices in his head. No note from his own newly-dead father explaining anything.

Nothing.

He turns on the sinks and returns to the last stall.

"Is this a test?" he whispers. "A final test of faith. But my salvation is assured! I have received the Second Anointing beyond the initial Washing! Well, thy son Himself fasted alone for forty days in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan at every turn. Is this my trial, Lord? I have never in my life before asked thee for a sign. Never. I will not succumb to that temptation now. I am afraid. Where art thou? I thought I'd find thee here, now. Come to me, Lord; 'abide with me, 'tis eventide'..."

He flushes the toilet and walks to the mirror, straightens his tie and face, makes sure there are no traces of vomit or sweat anywhere on him, looks himself in the eyes in gesturing recognition over top the plastic smile and practiced wrinkled mask of one who is always somewhat engaged in a revelation involving transcendent wisdom, turns off the sink, and walks quickly through the door. The guards straighten.

"All-righty then!" he says to them. "Onward Christian soldiers! Thank you Brothers for your service. I assure you, I encountered no danger in there! I, too, am just a man." The guards laugh at his joke (harder than you probably did,) and Bob beams, inhaling sharply as though sucking the souls of these men who would prick out their eyes and eat them if he commanded them. "Onward, Brothers," and he grabs an arm of both. "Onward through old age! Someday, you'll see, our Father will bless you with sturdy young men to support you. This I prophesy."

The guards grovel thanks, sniffling, and the trinity waddles back to the Conference Hall where he will address his people for the first time since he was set apart as their Prophet.

Not God's people. His. He now knows they are only his, and yet he feels that he belongs to them, lies ignorantly accepted and said in the past acting as the chains which imploded him finally into the ground.