Seraphim

By Birdie Garcia

The only thing that burns in hell is the part of you that wont let go of your life: your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away, but theyre not punishing you,
Theyre freeing your soul. If youre frightened of dying and youre holding on,
youll see devils tearing your life away. If youve made your peace, then the devils are really angels freeing you from the earth. ~Meister Eckhart

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781449007560

Birdie Garcia

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© 2013 by Birdie Garcia. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4490-0755-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-0756-0 (e)

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Contents

Sheol

Valley of the Shadow

End Time

Faith’s Sin; Officer Adams

Messiah

Eden

Covenant

Free Moral Agency

Resurrected

On the First Day

Amen

Apostle

Revelations

Faith’s Sin; Truck

The Minister

A Question of Faith

Repentance

Penance

Missionary

Genesis

Exile

Idolatry

False Idol

Omen

Sacrilege

Exodus

Seraphs were standing above him. Each one had six wings. With two he kept his face covered, and with two he kept his feet covered and with two he would fly about. And this one called to that one and said: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of armies. The fullness of all the earth is his glory.

—Isaiah 6:2, 3

Sheol

An angel! Or, if not, an earthly paragon!

—William Shakespeare

I’m tired of fighting for a life. Very tired.

I should sleep.

I’ll shower first. It doesn’t matter in this place. But I want a shower—haven’t had one since the city.

Not a place where I would count on hygiene, but in this lifestyle, nothing can really be counted on.

The water hits hard; the drops feel like small daggers shooting against my skin. Bar soap doesn’t lather compared to liquid soap, but its still soap. Nothing smells as good or looks quite as nice after leaving a place like this.

I can’t tell if it’s the eyestrain or if this room is just a mind fuck, but my own image seems to be illuminated by a dingy green light. I’m bloodied, I’m bruised, and I’m body-broken, but I still stand, staring into a reflection—peering through the grime on the mirror at a reflection that is complimentary to the walking corpse leering back from it.

A pack of cigarettes; a bottle of some cheap red wine; all the codeine, beta-blockers, and miscellaneous tablets I lifted from the other dancers at work. I stop trying to reason the why and how some of those females could score, tuck, and walk at the same time, but in the club that was how it worked, a quick smuggle.

Time to try this again. The first time was half-assed; I was emotional and rushed the process. I was told this pill idea never works, but neither does anything else. I’ve been waiting for it to happen by way of another person’s hand, but instead I was left to my own. When I didn’t fight I was always left alive.

This time I fought and I’m still here. I officially give up; death will come and it will come at my beck and call.

Twice in one night is showing off; make this one count.

The sounds—the bottles, water rushing from the faucet, and the absolute silence of anyone trying to stop me—are deafening.

My room is on the corner of the row. I can hear the neighbors fucking. Whoever they are, they came in about twenty minutes ago. A by-the-hour couple, I assume. Eventually the muffled thumping rhythm stops; deal should be done.

Any minute now the lights from a car or two will come sliding across the wall through the curtains and into my line of sight. I walk to the window, look out and see the sunset over the desert hills. Four bumps in the distant darkness, my last sunrise before my own sun sets.

An intense psycho mind trip propels me into PTSD flashbacks. I can’t help but replay times from before. The only clock in the room is the one on the VCR in the entertainment center, but I hear the synchronic measured actions from the absent tick and tock—the subliminal passage of their vacancy never missed me.

The TV is off, but the show in front of the screen is a farce. The pathetic mess from my actions of the previous night plays out like a rerun. What has brought me here, what has left me here.

Valley of the Shadow

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

—Ephesians 6:12

In my world everything happens in the dark. In the rare occurrence of light, I see too much truth. Too much of the fake, the false, and the illusion of a perfect world becomes reality.

There is a lot of assumption about strippers and clubs—some of it true, much of it false. Crime does happen frequently here, and a lot of misplaced behavior is permitted. I see it, but I don’t partake in it.

The stage is dark. The only radiance in a place like this comes from the red and blue stage lights and their reflections in the surrounding mirrors. I never complain about the darkness—it helps keep me from seeing the folded-face perverts and foul-hearted husbands with hungry eyes and empty souls. It’s most unfortunate I am one of the few who do this job and don’t run the bullshit. I’m here because I have no other choice. Nothing else I can do lets me live the way I want with the background I have. Some people live for the moment; I live for a series of moments. I’m still waiting for the first one to happen.

There’s my music. The DJ calls me up.

I grab the pole. The cold, smooth texture of it. And that smell of money, depression, and brass polish makes me shut down all sensory receptors. I’m not a person now; I’m not allowed to be. I have to be sexy and fuckable. To these patrons we are the holes in the wall; I suspect that’s where the turn of phrase came from, places like this one.

My hands don’t sweat anymore, that stopped a long time ago. I step up on the worn stage and grind for my money. After all is said and done, I don’t mind what I do. My job allows me to go on about my world and make a buck. I survive it all, every night; I do my thing. I can’t say I make a living at it, but as I mentioned before, I’m not really living for this moment.

Other than the occasional fretful trysts for a selfish man’s needs, this is as close to a sex life as I can get—by way of choice. If stripping weren’t indeed what it is, it could be considered therapy. Music is the true escape in my work. And the way I move depends on how well I do. I’m good at what I do. A real natural.

When I get down I’ll make my rounds and grab a silent dance from another one who’s going to preach, lecture, and solicit. In that order.

The cops are here again; not unusual. They swing their authority around and grab some free drinks while on the job, because in this town Johnny Law is the big John.

Most of them are just other angry drunks with a badge and a big stick.

At least my job lets me dictate my own dress code. I have all my weapons in plain sight, too; I work them into the costume, just like the cops do. I’ve had to get creative on more than one occasion here. I’m a kink, all black and chained, not what you typically see, some think it’s simply another gimmick. In reality, it’s protection. They all want to touch: flesh and the metal, the skin and chains.

There is only one that likes it too much, and I stay away from him. Unfortunately, he’s one with rank and reputation. I’ve been able to avoid him until now. There is something about him—something about him that is not… real. I don’t know what it is that I feel; I can’t see it, but what I do see is the same pimping behavior by a ruthless man in a position of authority in a small town.

His name is Officer Adams, and he gives his fatherly hugs to the girls who are willing to suck and blow for their Get Out of Jail Free card. There are so many of them and only one of me. If I’d known that my absence from his list was so insulting to this one, I would have taken the initial sexual beating. At least with that one it’s just in the alleyway for twenty minutes, and the worst any girl ever came back with was a black eye and a strange walk. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty.

Instead I choose the hero’s path and make the harder decisions, a strange thing to do for someone of my social status.

I’ve done lots of things in my life, but I keep my glorious ass out of the reach of characters like him. I