God: A Story Of A Failed Lord

Hot Cocoa and a Fireplace

He was weak. There was nothing left for him. He entered the Victorian styled home and curled up on the couch. The flames in the brick fireplace danced and flickered against the wood as it burned. The windows clouded up, snow on the sills. His face nuzzled in his scarf. His warm winter coat bending and conforming to his body. His 3 layers of socks, just to be extra warm. His shoes, which were drying by the fireplace.

The cream, off white walls of the home seemed comfortable, and calming. The still quietness that was perfect in the moment. The fact that he was alone, no one to disturb him. All he needed was a warm cup of hot cocoa and a few blankets to go the extra mile and make it even more luxurious than it already was. To him, it was elegant, and top notch.

To others, however, it was average. Boring. The normal thing to do. Chuck never stood out in life. He wasn't special to others. If only they knew, he loved everyone. He is their creator, after all. He would do anything for them. Now, with all of these thoughts in his head, he fell asleep. Warm, on the couch, in a home he does not call his own.

"What the hell are you doing on my couch?" yelled the owner of the home. This man's voice was crisp, like the autumn air. It was melodic, but loud and clear. Chuck rubbed at his eyes, before speaking.

"I've given up, Ryan."

"On what?"

"Everything." There was a pause. It was silent. An uncomfortable silence, that is. Just the heavy breathing of Ryan, and the smooth, calm breathing, almost too slow, of God.

"You can't give up," he reasoned.

"It's too late."

"People need you Chuck."

"What people need is to learn from their mistakes and not rely on me to step in."

"You're being so mean."

"You sound childish and pathetic, Ryan. I didn't make you this way."

"Yeah? Well I made myself this way. Get off my couch, and piss off."

"I am your creator—"

"Get. Lost." And with a sigh of resignation, Chuck stood up, put on his now warmed shoes, and exited through the front door. Our inhospitable host, Ryan Brooks, feels a pang of guilt. Chuck is, or, for lack of a better word, was, his friend. He now follows the same routine as Chuck did, taking the shoes off by the fire, but making a cup of hot chocolate and getting a few blankets, before settling on the couch and falling asleep.

As the night grew closer, someone else also fell asleep. Chuck lied in an alley. A pillow made of snow, and his coat as a blanket. He was freezing, alone, and hungry. It was a type of hunger that lingered in your stomach, that wouldn't go away for a long time, that tempted you to try to eat things you shouldn't, just to satisfy it.

He was used to pain. He shouldn't have been. He was God. He should be able to control his world and life. But like he said, he had given up. He didn't care anymore. Which, in hindsight, was a horrible mistake.