Demons are from Heaven

PART 10: MY GHOST, AFFLICTED

If you die . . . I'll die with you.

"You should bring your girlfriend along." My father said.

I doubted if Elwen could ever attend anything church-y. I had never asked her about it but I was sure she wasn't religious, let alone christian. But again, my father was being anointed and officially being declared a pastor, making it a significant occasion. The invitation was extended to everyone.

"Elwen is my friend." I marked. "But yeah, I'll ask her."

It took my father literally five minutes to shop, picking white suits for the two of us.

No, I had no choice in what I wanted to wear in his celebration. Nothing between the two of us had ever been a matter of discussion. After all, he knew best, as per his instructions. So he chose what's best for me.

Was it really best if I didn't want it?

All I could do was stand and agree with whatever the heavens he picked. Shopping couldn't get more boring than this.

I sighed, standing behind the man as he paid at the counter while fantasizing how fun this little itinerary would've been if I had done it with Elwen.

My attention geared towards a beautiful plump fifty-two-year-old woman, still inside the clothes store, visibly distressed as she debated between two plain unappealing dresses her husband previously selected for her.

"I'll go check on Mom." I said to the man.

"Tell her to take what I chose for her and stop wasting time, please. I don't understand why it would take so long to pick a goddamn dress."

Maybe because she doesn't like what you picked for her? Maybe because she has better taste than you good-for-nothing prick who cares about nothing except pleasing the eyes of the church? Better yet, maybe you shouldn't go around ordering people what to wear and let them dress the way they love? There's a billion reasons, Dad. But I kept all those thoughts to myself and sauntered off before he could change his mind and decide to ditch the woman behind, like the many times he had. What kind of husband were you if you can't wait up for your wife? It pained me to think he slept well at night with the horrible way he treated us.

Three steps away, I halted, observing the woman I called my mother go through racks and racks of dresses, noticing each one that made her eyes twinkle in a second, then die at the reminder that she was, unfortunately, his wife. The Pastor-to-be's wife.

She couldn't wear something short. Anything that went past her knees was the only eligible. She couldn't wear anything revealing, or anything she liked. She couldn't be her. I guess we had one thing in common.

I remembered seeing her wear a short dress once at church, years back. The thing barely passed a full inch above her knee, but the man barked at her like a dog for it.

She never wore it again, despite the countless compliments Pastor Tobit's wife showered her. Compliments she should've gotten from her husband and not random parties. I couldn't voice out my compliments either, but in my mind, I stood among those random parties.

"The baby blue one seems nice." I pointed to one of the dresses, making her finally notice my presence. "It would look good on you. Matches your eyes too."

Mother looked at me for a moment, internally questioning if, despite how right my words were, I had seen the despicable length of the dress. Not to mention its noodle-thin straps. Nothing a beautiful furry pink shawl couldn't fix, and as if by luck, it came along with it. But of course, she couldn't defy orders from the man who married her. Orders of the church.