Work Text:
Your name is Chris Tam Helm. You were born on January 8th, 1956. You were eighteen minutes old when you first opened your eyes, and saw a bright white light. And it was beautiful.
You were eight years old when you were baptized. What a wonderful feeling it was, to see the church’s ceiling mural be distorted by God’s holy waves, cleansing you. It was painted a few years ago by a group dedicated to raising awareness. And it was beautiful.
You were twelve years old when you first found yourself falling. Your stomach flipped and churned when she looked your way. And she was beautiful.
You were thirteen when you were first rejected. You sat in the church alone, praying that she may find forgiveness. You curse your dark thoughts. Your bathed in God’s holy light. And it was beautiful.
You were seventeen when you found her. The one. She has always stuck with you. And she is beautiful, on the inside and out.
You were thirty-two when you got married. After years of waiting, you finally felt it was time. Your wife, your wedding, the sun, it was all beautiful.
She was born on August 19th, 1999. People say it’s a little late to have a child, but you never cared. You’re sure you never screamed as much when you were born. But she was still beautiful. Even when the lights burned her eyes.
She was six years old. Many in the church had called her a demon child. She had to be dragged to the pool to be baptized. She looks at you betrayed, forced to make a promise she didn’t want. Yet she was beautiful. Even when she refused to speak for a week after.
She was ten years old when the pastor suggests physical punishment for her misbehaving. And it works. And she was beautiful. Even when she cried. Even when you hated it. Even when you stopped after a month. When you couldn’t take it.
She was twelve when she stopped misbehaving. She would always pray and happily take part in church activities. You were so relieved. And she was beautiful.
She was thirteen when you gave her her first iPhone. She was completely overjoyed, despite the rules you introduced. Her mother is worried she might be able to contact a bad crowd. But she was beautiful when she smiled.
She was fourteen when you saw something was off. She would hide her phone, and always seemed frightened. Despite her fear, she was beautiful. Your be beautiful little girl.
She was fifteen when she ran home crying. Someone had drawn something on her forehead. A slur, you found out. She fell asleep in your arms crying after you helped her clean it off. And she was beautiful.
She was sixteen when you found the truth. What a whore she was. Filthy. Doing something as unholy as this, in the sanctity of your home? In rage, you cast her out. Out into the pouring rain. And she was not beautiful. Unholy.
She was only sixteen. And she was dead. Splayed out on the road. No light shown in her eyes. They hadn’t for many years. And especially not in the last three days. Why didn’t you call someone sooner? And she was hollow. Her deceiver, a fellow sixteen year old girl, laid beside her, her arm over her body. You removed her arms from your daughter as you wept.
They were only sixteen. Laid to rest. Forever. Her mother called you a filthy murderer. And it was true.
You were sixty-one when you overheard the doctor telling your wife something about “early Alzheimer’s”. Weren’t you getting tested for heart problems? You felt hollow.
Your daughter is missing. It’s been three days. You need to go find her. Why would you ever do something like this? Where is she? Why is your wife crying? You feel hollow.
There are people wearing white coats. You laugh, joking to your wife about how they’ve finally come to take her away. She doesn’t react. She is hollow.
Your wife is dropping you off somewhere. She looks strange. You cant recall why she is. She hands you a white blank doll as she leaves. Who was that again? You feel hollow.
It’s 2015. She’s finally home. She’s completely soaked. You smile at her. You reach out for a hug, happy she’s home. But instead she hands you something. A blank, white doll. You swear you see angel wings behind it. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Didn’t you ask for wat- oh. She’s gone. It’s 2019. She’s still not home. And you feel hollow.