Seeing Jesus Christ while no one else can is complicated. For instance, when you go around through most of your educational career claiming you can hear the voice of God and act like you're better than everyone else, then everyone tends to think you're a self-righteous asshole. Rightfully so. I don't openly talk about it anymore. If I could go back and tell that little girl not to be open about everything she's experienced, I would. But if I did, I wouldn't have become the man I am now. It's weird how that works.

https://youtu.be/LmHmawgCAHg

I know some things we could avoid to save embarrassment

But everything that breaks you down can also build your character

NF said that. NF has inspired me to be the man I am today. We're both bipolar, so I find a lot of comfort and reliability in his music. That quote was directed toward a younger version of himself in a song called 'Nate.' Because of that song, I still debate if I'd ever intervene in my past in any way or change things to avoid pain. But if I did, I wouldn't be the person changing the past in the first place: The Grandfather Paradox.

"What are you thinking about, my son?" Jesus asks. Jesus is sitting across from me in my bed while I have The Bible open on Proverbs. I'm watching the sunset from my bedroom window when I shift to face him.

"Like you don't know," I tease, closing The Bible and setting it on my nightstand.

"I still like to hear you say it, to see the words spoken."

I sigh, "This. You and me. It's hard. Don't get me wrong—I love you. And I know you love me. But I feel like if you were never here—in my life—it wouldn't be so..."

"Troubling?"

"Exactly. I feel like I'd be better off without you. I don't know why I have you. And it's not like I can just whisk you away. We both know I've tried that. I just don't get why me."

"Why not you? I chose you, Judas. Like I chose Mary, and Peter, and Paul. We all have a purpose. We're all here for a reason. You haven't lived an easy life. And I would never wish ill upon you. But because of what you've experienced, you know firsthand how to prevent just that from happening."

"I know how to prevent kids from seeing a jew in their bed?"

"You know how to prevent pain. You have a perspective no one else has. You can stop the cycle. You can end it at the source."

"I think you're misplacing your faith."

"I can do no such thing."

Someone knocks at my door, then my Mom cracks the door open and pokes her head in.

"You ready, kiddo?" she says, a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth. I wonder how she'd react if she could see Jesus in bed with me.

"Yeah. Just reading up on some scripture," I tell her, getting up. My Mom closes the door, and I hear her heading downstairs.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't," Jesus says.

"Oh, don't worry," I start, "I'm gonna get hammered, blackout, and wake up with my clothes shredded to pieces and a dead guy next to me."

"If that happens, you'll have to leave town again."

My Mom hums the entire way to Chick-fil-A. It's seven p.m., the movie starts at eight, and it's about a fifteen-minute drive from Delilah. We'll have time to talk before the movie, and I can walk her home because the theater is pretty close to our houses. I just hope my Mom doesn't humiliate me on the ride there.

"Is that her?" she asks, focusing on Delilah in her work uniform. It doesn't matter what Delilah wears. She would be stunning if she were homeless.

"Yeah. That's her," I breathe, a smile forming.

"She's gorgeous. Are you sure she's a teenager?"

"I'm sure. But I know. She looks like she's in her twenties. It's crazy what puberty does to some people."

"I'll have to keep my eye on her."

"Mom. Please."

We park beside her, and she notices us from the glow of her phone. I get out of the car and open the back seat for her. She thanks me with a bit of a laugh. I guess she wasn't expecting such courtesy from the Korver's. Sitting in the back seat to Delilah's right, my Mom starts for the movie theater.

It's silent on the way there. Delilah is staring out her window, and I'm just staring at her, wondering what's going on in that little head of hers.

"So, Delilah. Why my son?" My Mom announces like a king making a decree.

"Oh my fucking God," I mumble, burying my head into my hands.

Delilah breaks her line of sight and looks ahead with one fluid, elegant motion, "You wanna know why?" Delilah asks. We're silent, awaiting an answer, "Well, what if I couldn't tell you precisely why? Maybe I just like his sky-blue eyes. And how he's genuinely authentic. Maybe it's his front left tooth being a little crooked compared to the right. Maybe because he's kind even to those who treat him poorly? I don't know. I couldn't really tell you why. Maybe he's just really hot."

I look over at my Mom to gauge her reaction, but her face is straight—stone. We then arrive at the movie theater, and Mom parks at its front curb.

"Honey, why don't you go on ahead," my Mom says, "I got to talk to your friend before you head inside."

"Mom. Please," I beg.

Delilah rests her hand on the top of mine, "It's fine," she says, a faint smile on her face, "Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl."

I scan her face, and for some reason, I trust her. I get out of the car and close the door behind me. Standing outside, I can't hear what's said, but I can see their facial expressions. My Mom starts talking, then stops. Delilah answers—in a short, deliberate sentence. Then my Mom speaks again, and Delilah's eyes widen as she leans forward and says something.

They have to be talking about me. I'm sure of it. My Mom dismisses Delilah, and then Delilah exits the car and makes her way to me, a grin eating up her face.

"Your mom is awesome," she states, "I wish I had one like her."

"I'm a lucky guy. What did he say to you?"

Delilah stands on the tips of her feet and leans into my ear. "I promised not to tell," she whispers. I glance at her, and she winks. Then, she takes the lead, walking me to the movie theater.

The movie is a blast. I imagine the rest of it is just as great as the first half, but I'm outside downing my third cigarette. Sometimes, I get overstimulated and need to take a break from everything. So I separate myself from everything and go to my little corner to smoke. It's rude, considering I'm with someone else, but I don't want to bother them with my own shit if I stay with them.

Someone sits next to me on the opposite side of the bench I'm sitting on. I choke on a puff of smoke and notice it's Delilah with a blank look on her face. She says nothing.

"Sorry," I say, stomping the cigarette out, "I just have to get away from everything sometimes."

Still nothing.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask. Silence, "Look. Delilah, I'm sorry, I—"

Delilah reaches into her pocket and pulls out a can of beer, popping it open. She hands it to me. I eventually take it. She then reaches into her pocket, pulls out another can, opens it, and drinks. She then holds the can with both hands down to her thighs. I'm staring at her.

"What?" She asks.

"I..." I'm at a loss for words, "Did you rehearse that move?"

"No. Maybe."

We laugh, "Where'd you get the beer from?" I ask.

"I have a fake ID. People don't question that I'm under twenty-one."

"My mom was right. You are a bad influence," I take a sip of beer.

"So... do you need to get anything off your chest?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been through a lot, haven't you? I see the way people look at you. How they talk about you."

"I'm so sorry. Being my friend comes at a price."

"Don't be sorry. I'm okay with it. Now that we're talking about it—I guess I never really realized."

"That I'm crazy?"

"No—come on. I never realized what you must've gone through. On your own."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. I can tell something is going on inside of you. Something's troubling you. You can tell me."

I want to talk to Delilah; I do. But is there anything I can say to explain how I really feel inside?

Sighing, I speak, "Growing up in institutions was Hell. In my first foster home, an older boy followed me into the bathroom and started groping me and feeling me up, so I pushed him. He got angry. So did I. Then I shattered his sternum. I was thirteen," Delilah's face shifts, her eyes starting to glisten, "In my third orphanage, a kid I played video games with killed themselves. I couldn't eat for months. After a couple of weeks in my fourth home, I got really depressed. My foster parents sent me to a mental hospital. Only, I never saw them again."

A tear flows down Delilah's face as she sips her beer. That's the thing that always surprises me. This thing that makes people cry: My life. It's the only thing I have. And when I share it with people, it hurts them.

"The pain is like the tattoos on my skin," I continue, showing my inked forearms, "It follows me everywhere. I'd see other kids get adopted. Leave the system. But not me. They never picked a broken piece of shit like me."

"Do you really believe that about yourself?" Delilah asks, sniffling and wiping a tear away from her cheek.

"Wouldn't you? After all of this happening to you, it's hard not to take it personally. And bad stuff just keeps happening. It never ends. But then... I look at you. Everyone loves you. You got a job. You got it all figured out. But not me."

Delilah reaches into her pocket and pulls out a brass Zippo lighter. She holds it out for me to take.

"Is that for me?" I ask.

"Now it is."

I take the lighter and notice words carved into its body. The phrase reads, I Will Never Know.

"What is this?" I question.

"A reminder."

"Just looks like a Zippo to me."

"That was the last lighter I had before I quit drugs. Did some things I'd rather forget to get it."

"And you still have it?"

"Yeah. I carry it with me everywhere. It reminded me that someone, or something, always loved me out there. And I'd never have to know why."

"I can't take this, Delilah. Especially if it means so much to you."

"No, that's exactly why I want you to keep it."

I flip the lighter's lid open and light it up, the flame dancing from its head. Then, closing it, I put it in my pocket.

"When I found Hawkins," Delilah starts, "I couldn't believe it was real. Everything before was Hell. Now it's different. It can be the same for you. You can start something new. You made it out, Judas. You survived. Maybe you can move on."

"Maybe you're right. I'm here after all."

"Exactly. That's the first step. And don't forget, I'm here for you. That's never going to change."

We watch the sunset, sipping our beers and enjoying each other's presence. After our beers, we decide to walk home, and I let her lead the way.

We're quiet the entire walk to our neighborhood. Delilah sometimes glances at me, and I pretend not to notice. What's her motive? Why is she so into me?

"You're a believer, right?" Delilah asks, breaking the silence.

"I suppose I am," I answer.

"What's that like?"

"Are you not one?"

"Honestly? There might be something out there. But I don't let it affect my life."

"It's... it's like being in a room. And you're on the other side, peering in through the door's keyhole. I can explain everything in the room, but it pales compared to you just being in the room with me."

"But what if I tried to enter the room? And I got nothing in return?"

"I just hope you trust that what I'm experiencing is human. I'll never try to force you into the room. I'll only give you the key, and you may enter when you wish."

I kneel to her and present my empty hand, an invisible key within.

"There's nothing there," she points out.

"It's a key. And it's there. If you believe it's there."

She tries her best but can't hold back her laughter any longer. She then pretends to take the translucent key out of my hand and places it safely in her pocket. I stand up, bow, and we continue to walk.

We stop in the middle of the street, our houses to our backs.

"Thanks for going to the movies with me," she says.

"Thanks for seeing me," I tell her. She smiles and then stands on her tippy toes, placing her hands on the sides of my face and her soft, smooth lips on my forehead.

"See you at school, handsome," she says, sending a shiver down my spine. She then turns around, and I watch her enter her house.

"Not what you expected?" Jesus asks, standing behind me.

"Not at all," I say, rubbing the spot where she kissed me. And for the first time, I'm excited about going to school tomorrow.