A broken pipe and an unopened Bible (revised)

Life had hit him hard, and repeatedly.

he was punch-drunk and prostrated; an effete of waste of space.

He had known for ages what he should have been doing, but God's hand seemed a bit unsatisfying, at least until now.

He was out of money, out of love, out of heroine... which had really been all the same to this point, and he stood alone in a bummed out room with a broken pipe and a tattered bible laying open, with the spine up against a wall. He held a note balled in his fist that he had reread and reread a million times in the past hour, not out of disbelief or anything like that, but out of inability to really comprehend it. There was nothing confusing about the language, only what it was asking.

You may hate Him, but He still loves you. He'll help you up and clean your face along with everything you are. Just ask Him.

He loves you, and so do I.
I hope to see you again someday.

-Bekky

He didn't understand. He believed in God. He also believed God hated his guts and didn't care if he stayed face down in piece of crap apartment forever. God had taken everything he had made himself to be, everything that was important, everything that would have been good for him and eradicated it right it front of his face.

He was angry... so incredibly choleric. He tried to get himself riled with this rage that he had become so comfortable in. It was so much easier to be pessimistic, to pick up his gear and keep going the way he had always been going... But he couldn't go that way anymore. He'd run face first into a barricade that he was just too fatigued to climb. He couldn't push himself back to his feet, and no one on earth would still want to help him.

He was angry, but only at the fact that he was helpless. he didn't know how else to react. he rolled on his side.

There was the Bible, tattered, with the pages bent up against the wall he had thrown it at earlier. He opened his hand. He read the note once more.

"You may hate Him, but He still loves you. He'll help you up and clean your face along with everything you are. Just ask Him.

He loves you, and so do I.
I hope to see you again someday."

Love.

He knew what love was. He had people who used to sign their letters to him in "love." They either left without warning, died, or stole his cash and supplies and then left. They loved him long enough to get what they wanted... and why not? That's precisely what he did to them; an eye for an eye. it was fair. Love was fair, all strings attached.

he rolled on his side to set his view on the Bible. It was a bunch of words written by old, middle eastern men who thought they knew something no one else did. They knew love like Bekky knew love. Unconditional, forever-and-ever-no-matter-what love. That was then Jesus walked around healing people. It was easy to love when a God is roaming the streets performing miracles left and right. These days love is harsh, miracles don't happen, and cities don't welcome the nice guy with palm leaves and cheers...

And for a split second he stopped thinking. He stopped his pain, his muse, his anger... everything, and just looked at the Bible.

There had to be some sort of love. Bekky had it, or she wouldn't have given him that Bible.

He loves you, and so do I.

He reached for the Bible, pulled it towards him and moved the kinked and ripped pages back into place. He then closed it and pulled it towards his chest, and embraced it.

He held it tightly, helplessly, hopefully. He needed something, and nothing in that room had helped. Tears started to run down his cheeks and onto the floor as he squeezed the Bible closer to his chest; so close that he could feel his heart against it.

he was still prostrated. he was still disoriented. but no longer effete, no longer worthless. to himself yes; but not to God. He didn't know how to love himself, so God loved for him.