I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face. It feels good. I observe the little dots on the inside of my eyelids. Like a little galaxy of dots. My own personal Milky Way. I open my eyes, my cornea feeling like it’s being scratched by shards of broken glass. As I wipe away the gritty dirt of sleep, the red and green blur that is my vision slowly comes into focus, and I’m staring at a rose. A solitary red rose in a sea of grass and weeds. Is this the sign?

I look around. I’m lying in a ditch. In a field. Beside a road. My arms and legs are caked with mud and my mouth tastes like wet earth. I look down to see a grasshopper sitting on my collar, staring at me. Is this my sign?

I get up and walk along the road. Up in the distance is a farmhouse. There are two children playing near it. I can hear their laughter long before I see them. A boy and a girl. I ignore the boy. My eyes are welded to a red rose pinned on the lapel of the girl’s dress. This isn’t a coincidence. I have my sign. I look upto heaven, and I pray.

I approach the children. I thought they’d be scared by my appearance but they don’t seem to mind. I reach in my pockets and pull out some candy. They watch it hungrily. I offer to share it with them. That breaks the ice. The boy is Adam, 10. The girl, the chosen one, is Angela. All of eleven years old.

Angela. Ironic.

I wonder what she did, or maybe would do. She is beautiful, the way little children are beautiful. Her smile makes you want to cut those lips off her face and preserve them for posterity. Sometimes, I almost wish that God didn’t ask such things of me. Sometimes. Almost. But you don’t question God. Or his plan.

I ask them if they’d like to go for a walk. Adam is suspicious, but Angela, trusting as she is, agrees immediately. So we walk. Away from the farmhouse. Into the fields. Adam is lagging behind. The house is out of sight. It is time. I hit Adam with the butt of my knife. He’s bleeding. Maybe I hit too hard. Probably a concussion. Angela screams. Not loud enough. She tries to run but I grab hold of her arm. I tie Adam up to a tree. He’s not my quarry. Angela’s eyes seem to be bleeding terror. Poor girl. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Clichéd but true.

I cut open her dress and tear off her drawers. They have little pink hearts on them. She doesn’t know what I’m about to do to her. She screams as I enter her tight, virgin little cunt. It’s like a little paper cut. Tears are streaming down her face, in a torrent. This feels surprisingly good. Her little body writhes and tries to squirm out of my grip. No use. She’s still screaming her lungs out. All of a sudden, silence. She’s passed out. Good. I finish in peace, shooting little white men into her abdomen. Little white men. I laugh at that.

As I get up, I’m conscious of Adam staring at me with those little eyes, wavering between horror and hatred. I shrug. Not like I had a choice. I plunge my knife into Angela’s pale, rubbery little neck. Hot, sweet blood gushes out like a fountain. I love the smell and taste of fresh blood. As the life flows out of her, little Angela’s sphincter relaxes, leaving her lying in her own feces. Makes me think of the so-called dignity if death. The last act you do before you die is crap your pants. If you have any on. So much for a dignified death.

I walk away, my task done. Till the next one. God always keeps me busy. I am one of his special minions. I wonder who it will be next time. Not that it matters. I will do whatever He commands of me. Till then, I smile at the thought of all those good Christians working so hard for a berth in heaven, content in the knowledge that I have already ensured my entry into Heaven. God owes me.

Hallelujah.