I ghosted down the stairs at the devil’s hour, trying to ignore those mocking the Holy Trinity. I saw the shadow of a small figure through the glass of the door.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Hello,” came a whisper back. “Will you hold my hand?” they said, pushing it through the letterbox.
“Who are you?”
“I'm you. The born again you. Don’t you remember?” The voice belonged to that of a small boy. I took his hand in mine and kept hold of it despite the clamminess.
“No, I don’t remember. What happened?” I asked.
“They took you and put you inside the carcass of a dead cow. Sewed it up, leaving you to punch, headbutt, kick, rip, bite your way out. You rose again after three days like Christ. As me. I've been trying to find you ever since. It’s taken years; I was beginning to lose hope.”
I tried to let go of his hand but realised I couldn't. They were stuck together. We were stuck together. Panicking, I took out my pocket knife I always carry around with me with my one free hand and started sawing away at the other…
Oh yes, we’re entering the golden age of Mary Elizabeth Winstead. I want you to teach me about love. I want you to be my Father.