I haven't seen or heard from Jesus since my fight with Lucy during the shooting. I'm starting to expect he won't be back for a while. Which is fine I guess. Everyone you love leaves eventually.

I got a job to pay back the butchery I robbed with Lucy. That seems like it was just yesterday. The work keeps me distracted. I take as many shifts as I can and avoid taking my breaks as much as possible. Any downtime just allows me to think, which is something I don't want to do.

It pisses my boss off that I don't take my breaks, but if they fire me for working too hard I think that would look good on my record.

Soon after I visited Lucy, Squid skyrocketed into fame. Surviving cancer and a school shooting is an impressive feat for a teenager. They're getting a special episode on Sixty Minutes—a whole hour dedicated to them.

Only there's one problem. For weeks Squid has been trying to get me to do an interview with them and an interviewer. Squid promises that they won't ask any stupid, triggering questions but as of now, I've told them I'm uncomfortable with all of it.

Squid stopped asking three weeks ago. First thing in the morning, they're getting on a plane heading straight for Los Angeles. From what I hear, this might be a permanent change.

"They're saying some people out there are looking to make a movie about my life," Squid says to me over the phone while I'm lifting some boxes at work, "They're actually going to have all of this as a movie."

I can't imagine myself as a movie character. It just doesn't feel right. I never wanted to be famous, never like this.

And what if people get the wrong idea about Lucy and she gets a cult following? What if copycats start forming because of what she did and Devils start rising from every corner of the world?

Whatever is coming next, I have to be ready for it. I have to prepare.

Delilah Lor has stayed in the top ten of all streaming apps since the shooting. With my permission, Daniel uploaded her last song to me. It made her soar to number one for a few weeks. She's number two right now and she's been staying there for a couple of days now.

"You did it gorgeous," I say to the picture of her my phone screen saver, "You're a legacy."

With the money from Delilah's music, Delilah's Dads have decided to open their very own orphanage. They've named it after her, 'Delilah's Eden'. It's a Christian-based organization whose mission is to give orphans hope and let them know they are already adopted into the Kingdom of Heaven and that they have a God who loves them. 

It turns out the guard Lucy killed in the butchery was holding onto the rights of the restaurant. Out of spite, the guard never gave it to the rightful owner of the restaurant. But now that they're deceased the butchery can go to its rightful owner. Who is the usurper? Well, it turns out it was always meant to be Jaclynne. Before Delilah's dad took his life, he left the restaurant to her, but the security guard intercepted that letter. Now Jaclynne owns a restaurant that she and all her people can reside at. I know they won't accept money from me, so I'm sending what I owe the restaurant anonymously. 

Stacy is on crutches now and still dating Daniel. They're going to make it. Daniel is taking her seriously, and Stacy is a changed woman after the events she's been through. She appreciates life in a way very few can, and she cherishes every second she has on this Earth.

Nick was promoted to commissioner soon after the events of the shooting. He deserves it after what he's done for me and the rest of Hawkins. Hopefully, he can mold and craft more bright officers with the talent that he has for his line of work.

Then, I guess there's me. Besides working, I eat, sleep, and do everything alone. I hardly see my mother anymore. She's buried herself in work as well. Really, all I've been doing is trying to learn how to live life without her.

Sometimes I still expect to wake up to her right next to me in bed; her peaceful, somber, face just barely asleep. Her eyes dance behind her eyelids as she dreams and dreams.

But then my eyes focus, and I realize she's not there—and she's never going to be again.

So I listen to her voice, really the only thing I have left of her that's still alive. And she sings to me calling me to a faraway place where there's no pain. No fear. No hate.

I haven't visited her grave yet.  After work, I'll visit her. I'd like to say a few things.

Her grave has an ostentatious amount of flowers around it—all blue, fitting her hair color.

I clear my throat, then just start talking:

"Hey, gorgeous. Sorry, I haven't been around lately. Just been dealing with—the amazing cosmic struggle that is life. You once said that you weren't going anywhere. That you were in this for the long haul. And I believed you. And when you died in my arms—I thought that was the last time I'd ever see you again. But no. You found me in that video. And hell maybe you cured Squid's cancer. And maybe you help get Nick that promotion. And maybe you're the reason Stacy can still walk! Because I've been thinking all these miracles can be coincidences. But don't a bunch of coincidences make a pattern?"

The hot wind blows against my skin. It's May and yet it feels like everything happened yesterday.

"You know the cemetery is closing soon," A man beside me says. I don't remember when he got there but I don't look.

"Yeah—I'm—I'm just about to leave," I tell him.

"Girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Yeah..."

"I lost my cousin. He was a good man."

"I wish she was still here."

"She is. If you listen."

"Nah. I mean—really here."

"Judas. Just listen."

How did he know my name? I turn towards the man and I can't believe it. It's Jesus. Alive and well in a robe made of moving stars and the cosmos.

"How long have you been there?" I ask.

"The entire time," he replies, "I never left Judas."

"But I needed you and you weren't there! At least you never talked to me."

"Judas—do you hear that?"

"Hear what? I don't—"

Then I do hear it. The faintest sound of a guitar playing. It sounds like it's coming from all around us.

"What is that?" I ask. Jesus doesn't respond. The guitar progressively gets louder—like it's getting closer to us.

The sound of it. It's grungy and filled with despair. Then a woman starts to sing. And it's a voice that only belongs to one person, but it sounds even better. More refined. She sings to me:

"Slip away—behind the rain

I sing your praises

The light that made me change

Sings to my soul

Drift in sadness; heart with holes

Drift in soulless, all alone"

"There's—that can't be—" I say to Jesus. But he doesn't say anything. The song continues to progress to the second verse; the instrumental rising:

"Burn black heart

And lonely was her name

The pavement he found her

Writhing in her pain

Kept her breathing. Breathing..."

The cacophony of hopeful despair sounding becomes an entire orchestra; an army coming together to play this one song. Then she starts to sing again:

"She wasn't breathing, only bleeding

Broken and alone

Till he came to take away the pain in her bones

Oh she cried, 'Save me'

Oh she cried, 'Someone save me.'

Then, a woman emerges from behind Jesus in a dress made from the infinite ire of the universe, fitting what Jesus is wearing. Her ocean-green eyes meet mine as she picks away at her beautiful electric turquoise guitar. Her hair is this burgundy brown, cosmic blue, a mixture of purples, blues, and greens that culminate together to make this complex color I've never seen before.

I collapse to my knees. I can't believe I'm seeing her here—what I'm hearing, right now.

She continues to the next part of the song, putting everything into her muse; the band erupts with her:

"Burn black heart

And lonely was her name

The pavement he found her

Writhing in her pain

Kept her breathing. Breathing!"

The band ques her in, and she annihilates her guitar, singing these words with her soul:

"Somebody save me

Someone save me

Please someone save me

Somebody, please...

Slip away behind the rain

I sing your praises

The light that made me change

Sings to my soul...

Burn black heart

And lonely was her name

The pavement he found her

Writhing in her pain

Kept her breathing. Breathing"

The band plays her out, singing in unison and repeating the word "Breathing " occasionally. 

At this point, tears are flowing. The woman hands the guitar to Jesus and makes her way toward me, kneeling.

"Don't cry, Handsome," she says, wiping a tear away from my cheek, "I'm here now. Sorry, it took so long."

I examine her face and take in every detail this time. Her ocean-green eyes captivate me. I feel the storm inside me settling when I look into them. When she smiles, those killer dimples show. Her cheeks have an angle to them; it's like she's more slender now. She's filled into her body more. She's at her peak physical self.

Here I am never thinking she could be more gorgeous, yet here I am being proven wrong.

"Delilah?" I ask. Just to make sure.

She smiles, her perfect white teeth showing, "Yeah. That's me. Sorry about dying."

I almost tackle her with my embrace. Her body feels warm. Soft. Alive. How is this possible?

"Only you can see and feel her," Jesus says.

"Like you," I say. He nods.

"It's time I depart from you, Judas. But do not be afraid. I have entrusted Delilah with you from now on. Don't worry. I've taught her well. But for now, I must go. Someone else needs me."

Delilah and I stand, holding each other's hands. Usually, I'd be upset by this news. But I'm not. I have Delilah now.

"I love you both," Jesus says. "Take care of each other. Have faith in each other. Remember, Faith isn't stepping into the unknown. It's the opposite. It's stepping into what you already know—the truth."

With that, he bows deeply too us, turns his back, and begins to walk away.

The question burns into my mind. I have to ask her.

"What happens?" I ask. She turns her head to me and chuckles softly.

"What?" She asks.

"When we die? What happens?"

"Yeah. What the fuck happens?"

"So what does happen when you die, Delilah?"

"Speaking for myself?"

"Speaking for yourself."

"Myself. My self. That's the issue. That's the whole issue with the whole thing. That world, 'self.' That's not the word. That's not right, that isn't..." she smiles. 

"That isn't." She continues. "How did I forget that? When did I forget that? The body stops a cell at a time—but the brain keeps firing those neurons. Little shock waves—like fireworks inside—and I'd thought I'd despair or feel afraid—but I don't feel any of that. Because I'm too busy, I'm too busy at the moment. Remembering. Of course.

I remember that every atom in my body was forged in a star. This matter—this body—is mostly just empty space after all. And solid matter? It's just energy vibrating very slowly and there is no me. There never was. The electrons of my body mingle and dance with the electrons of the ground below me and the air I'm no longer breathing. And I remember—there is no point where any of that ends and I begin.

I remember I am energy. Not memory. Not self. My name. My personality. My choices. They all came after me. I was before them, and I will be after them. Everything else is pictures picked up along the way—fleeting little dream lets printed on the tissue of my dying brain. And I am the lightning that jumps between. I am the energy firing the neurons, and... I'm returning. Just by remembering, I'm returning home. And it's like a drop of water falling back into the ocean of which it's always been a part. All things... apart. All of us... apart. You, me and Squid, and my mother and my dads and Lucy. Everyone who's ever been. Every plant. Every animal. Every atom. Every star. Every galaxy. All of it. Apart. 

There are more galaxies in the universe than snowflakes on top of the Rocky Mountains, and that's what we talk about when we say 'God.' The one. The universe and its infinite dreams. We are the universe dreaming of itself. It's simply a dream that is my life every time. But I always forget this. I always do. I always forget my dreams.

But now—in this split-second—in the moment I remember—the instant I remember—I comprehend everything at once. There is no time. There is no death. Life is a dream. It's a wish. Made again and again and again and again and on into eternity. And I am all of it. I am everything. I am all. I am that I am. I am she."

My mind is open and tears are streaming down my cheeks. She wipes them away with her thumbs.

"I need to make a call," I say. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Squid. After two rings, they pick up the phone.

"Hey Squid, do you still have room for me to come to LA with you?" I ask.

"Of course!" They say. "Be at my house at two thirty in the morning."

"Cool. See you then."

I hang up the phone and Delilah lays her head on my left shoulder.

"We heading to the city of fallen angels?" Delilah asks.

"Yeah. Who knows. It might be permanent. A fresh start would be good for us."

From where we're standing, the entire town of Hawkins can be seen below us. It's evening, so the town's lights are on, illuminating the valley.

"Lot of lost people to seek and save in LA," Delilah points out.

"There's that too. And with you by my side, I think we'll be unstoppable."

"I could teach you how to play! We could take the city by storm with our music."

"Then it's settled. We're moving to LA."

Our eyes meet and our lips clash with each other. I am still determining what Los Angeles will hold for me. But the feeling in my chest and the sweaty feeling in my hands tells me that this is the right way to go. This is the path God wants me to go down. There's no doubt about it.

Acknowledgments 

You can probably tell, but this is the first book I've ever written. It's been a long time in the making. It took me two years to finish writing, but I came up with the concept in the fourth grade; back when I first discovered I wanted to be an author. It went through many iterations, but I'm finally settling on something like this to get this story out of me. I've always wanted to be a writer, even when I tried not to be. And these characters have been a part of me my entire life. Now, they're a part of yours if you let them.

Typically, you thank the people who've helped you get to this point, which I'm grateful for their help, they know who they are, but I don't want to dox myself, so I mainly want to thank you. I know this will be hard to believe, and you can call it BS, but I would die for you. I believe you're worth it—more worth it than me.

For context, I have a pretty negative perception of myself (I discovered this in therapy). It turns out it's not normal to find your life completely worthless compared to everyone else's and to put everyone else's needs before yours. It's gotten so bad at points I've taken my life because I believed I was a burden to this world. Like—I successfully stopped my heart and breathing. Only to be revived by paramedics or loved ones. I've hurt a lot of people. And I've lost count of how many times I've taken my life and hurt those around me.

It's a significant reason why I've written this book. If you have yet to catch on by now, that message at the start of the book, "This book is for you. I hope it reaches you in time." isn't to a specific person I know in particular. It's to a past version of me right before I decided to take my life. Because if I had never made that decision to hurt myself, I wouldn't have lost her. I had a suicide pact with my first love. And I initiated it by taking my life with my first suicide. She followed me down and took her life as well. Only I was revived, and she wasn't.

I killed my girlfriend.

I guess it's obvious where my inspiration for Delilah comes from now, huh? That will always be my biggest regret. And every time I've tried afterward to join her, I always come back. It's like something won't let me leave. Not yet.

This book exists to remind me to keep going, to keep me alive. I read it every day. Just so you know, my farts smell great. But it's my pride and joy, my life's work. And if it helps just one person who decides to read it, then the thousands of hours I poured into this were worth it.

So thank you. And please, don't hurt yourself anymore. Cherish your life because I cherish yours. If you need advice or someone to listen to, talk to God. Because she's the only one who will listen. Even when you think she isn't. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you. It's hard to look at you with empathy. Because sometimes I feel like I've become what you were scared to be. It is hard to care for you because if I'm feeling bad for you, then I'm feeling bad for me. And I feel like we don't deserve that. It's why I'm always looking down on you; I know that hurts. I'm sure you want to leave. And I've been trying to find a reason for us to stay. But I'll be here for you if things get worse.

https://youtu.be/JxBKHVM6SRY