Mormon Green Peter fell off the bed, face first, his lips and cheeks mashing into

the blue carpet, but he landed lightly. The floor felt surprisingly cozy, prickly soft carpet against his face, the tan comforter wrapped around him like a serpent. His mind was fuzzy. Peter wouldnt move from the sleepy, tumbling mess. After waking, lingering sleep pleasured him, this his single joy in a day. All that followed would be grinding existence. His lucid dreams in the light end gave him joy. Moments past and Peter eased his eyes open to another lithium-gray, Mormon morning, edged with guilt. He refused to rise. No one could force him out of his cocoon on the carpet. The lethargy he felt pulled him down like a malevolent gravity. Peter had transgressed. His soul bred the sin like a contagion that threatened to consume him and rendered him contagious, like a plague. He self imposed a quarantine. If only he lived in some other place. Even Rigby to the south or Saint Anthony to the north would be tolerable. But his roots grounded him in Rexburg, Idaho, and he was completely incapable of making it on his own elsewhere. Here, returning home from a Mormon mission in less than the honorable two years ranked near fornicating and drinking alcohol on the sin scale. He could hide sex or imbibing, but abandoning the calling was like exposing himself in Smith Park, shameful and unforgettable. He actually dreamt that several times, Peter walking down the jogging path naked, the park filled with watchers, all shocked, covering the eyes of their children. In reality, Rexburg could not help but remember that Peters presence back in town was too soon. The medicine, drugs, made his mind thick, and he shouldnt have needed them. His true problem was a lack of purity. Though not openly stated, Mormon culture equated mental illness with sin, medicine and therapy exacerbating a soul sickness. Relying on Xanax or Celexa amounted to giving up on faith, scriptures, and prayer. Faith consumed Peter, a true believer in the Mormon faith. He always paid tithing, attended church, studied the scriptures, and prayed. He never let doubt in God, his church, creep in. Through the lens of the Mormon religion, he viewed and interpreted the world. And, the world was destined to be overtaken by a tidal wave of missionaries. He perceived himself as weak or perhaps faking Page | 1

his illness. Was he faking? It was not beyond him to believe that Satan lurked inside him like a worm. Many Mormons believed mental illness to be a form of possession. He sometimes felt possessed by demons, and the medicines made him feel different but not better. He did not feel possessed by anything at all. As a young member, Peter had always felt like a like a hamster on a wheel, behind a glass cage, getting nowhere. Humans glimpsed him in passing. No, not exactly that. Something more passive like a fish, untouchable like the ugly orange and white coy in the tank at the Madison County Library who was so long ago a cute fishy, but now a grotesque monstrosity. Patrons only glanced momentarily, disgusted, looking for more stimulating attractions to catch their eye, a cute goldfish perhaps. Peter knew he was ugly and awkward. He possessed a minimal capacity to maintain the attention of other kids who were always searching for a more appealing companion. Even when he was hanging with Jake, his friend at Madison High School, Peter discerned from subtle gestures that he hoped for Jack or Paul to save him, any other face more entertaining or less gawky. Peter struggled with friendly chit chat, not knowing how to carry on a normal conversation. Yeah, I hate math, too. Oh, Mr. Finkle is so boring. He would simply reflect what the other person said. His acquaintances would glance at their cell phones, and then latch on to anything that could save them. Jakes favorite trick was to pretend he had an urgent text from Karen, his girlfriend. Abandoned, Peter would stand with his hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, looking at the ground, kicking a pebble. He empathized, after all. He would rather not be with himself. If he just didnt have to be around other people, he would gladly isolate himself for their benefit, but high school did not allow that. Study hall was a terror and lunch hour was hell. He had to be hanging with someone all day long or he was a loser. His worst memories. The time in Miss Berrys first grade class when after the bus safety video ended, Rob had pointed out the yellow puddle beneath Peters chair, his left foot right in the middle of stinky piss, pant legs wet. Or, the time he played catcher during recess softball in fifth grade, Joseph swinging a full 360 degrees at the slow pitch, the bat striking Peter soundly on the left ear, knocking him Page | 2

flat, the sky swirling, trying to stand, staggering and falling repeatedly while the whole school laughed at the spectacle. The time when Terry, all-star football team guard, pinned Peters shoulders to the hallway wall during lunch hour, slamming 250 pounds of force into his chest, the head a battering ram, Peter unable to breath, tears flowing. Or, the time he wept in the weight room, a mandatory class, when Lance, the full back, intentionally dropped a five pound dumbbell on his foot. Peter hated football players. These injuries of the past still haunted him, created his self image, and returning early from his mission represented the culmination of all past, petty humiliations. Four weeks since his return now, he seldom left his room. He had not spoken to any of his friends, avoiding them. None had called. He had not even gone to church. His parents left him alone to wallow in his embarrassment. Everything alright up there honey? his mother or father would call, climbing the stairs to check on him not worth the effort. He could be dead up there, and no one would know until the stink descended. His parents probably rationalized that he needed his space. Days would pass without physically seeing his parents. Peter did not mind. His eyes passively took in his chamber, the ocean blue walls, his pre-mission posters hung randomly, a potpourri of religious and secular images, Five Fingered Death Punch not too far from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Disturbed juxtaposed with the Prophet Joseph Smith. While the room was filled with these pungent colors of an old life, it all faded in Peters eyes as if from years of exposure to the sun, bleached neutral. The drugs dulled his perceptions, and he hated that anesthetizing filter. If he had any ambition, he would rip the ungodly crap from his walls. He didnt even listen to the music anymore. He listened to the sounds of an empty house. The meds robbed him of ambition to do anything. His window was filled with a monument of his former addiction, a pyramid of Mountain Dew cans, contraband for Mormons, but he liked his green tower. It filled the window and gave the blue room a greenish glow. He had given up the addiction weeks before leaving. Peter stood and then sat on the corner of his bed, still coiled in the comforter. His feet felt at home on the soft carpet floor, dark blue. Carpet was something he had missed in the Dominican Republic Page | 3

where the floors were dirt or concrete. He rubbed his pasty, white legs, pimpled from the cool October morning. His long, skinny bones shivered, and his mind would not unfog. His mission clock read11:30 AM, even though he had set the alarm for seven, with some vague ambition of rising to find a job or register for school. He cursed himself for sleeping away the day again. But, realistically he knew that, even if he were awake, he would have accomplished nothing. Just getting out of bed sapped all his energy. His parents didnt care about his sleeping habits, probably figuring that he just needed time. He was vaguely aware that perhaps stowing him away in his room would prevent them the embarrassment of exposure to the outside world. Stretching out on the bed again, he felt life zooming by, dreams and doldrums his only realities. The meds usually dulled his dreams too. He hadnt even had a wet dream since returning from the Dominican Republic. How cruel was that? He slept another dreamless hour, so comfy. He slept deeply only when the sun was beginning to shine. He wrestled at times with a nightmare that he was back in the suffocating Dominican sauna heat. He was a vampire in a zombie narrative where viruses were turning the world into the walking dead. Whose blood could he suck? The walking dead? He hunted young girls who did not yet have gray faces and bloody eyes. He would wake rolling in his sheets and sweating thinking he was actually back on the island. In his bathroom, he winced at his emaciated, acned face that would not mature beyond the zitty peach fuzz stage. The Dominican sun had not even given him a tan. The lithium and deprakote antagonized his face, multiplying the acne as if the pills were fertilizer. The Xyprexa, an anti-psychotic, was supposed to make him put weight on his skinny bones, but nothing could do that. His body was an embarrassment, like the orange,1963 International pickup he drove in high school. Both were only slightly better than nothing at all. His face brought back a memory of Brenda, a tragic girl from high school with double his zits and a chin with more hair than his own. He had wished that he could have taken a small portion of her weight which would have done them both good. Though ugly, she had the advantage of being outgoing. She was Page | 4

a talker who didnt need a speaking companion. The two went out for a short time. In their brief romance, he had only spoken a handful of short sentences to her. He once listened to her on the phone for a whole hour without saying a word. They had never even held hands. She broke up with him his junior year, his only girlfriend. Not because of another boy. Brenda simply tired of him, found no boyfriend at all was better than having him. Screw the meds, he thought. They werent curing him. The drugs kept him flat, like the surface of water on a windless day at Redfish Lake, minus the beauty. The cures made him tired and groggy, like the zombies of his dream. He had no aspirations, no hope for anything. The future was lifeless, washed out, bleak. His shrink, Dr. Sumpky, probed him in a way that made him feel violated. Raped emotionally. And, he didnt understand Peter either. All he cared about were the drugs, experimenting until they found the right combination. Peter knew that he should also see a counselor, but his fairly wealthy family would not support too much mental health nonsense. Expense was not a problem for the parents. Anyway, the last thing he wanted to do was talk more about his feelings, and the therapist would probably become bored. For a psychologist, surely nothing could be worse than talking at a zitty teenager who knew less about himself than about other people. On the pot, he had the revelation that no one on the entire planet understood him, how he felt, and no one seemed to care enough to find out. Oh yes, people believed they understood him, which made them feel better, as if human beings were easy to label and file away. The home teachers had been over, doing their duty, checking off one more notch on their list for entrance into the Celestial Kingdom, the Mormon heaven. Brother Hicks with his Good to have you back, a lie since no elder is welcome home after just thirty days. Brother clair with his Not all young men can handle a two year mission, not a lie but a label. The two had pushed fervent prayer, a catchall for sinners and backsliders, who needed to grab a hold of the iron rod, just like those who stray from the path in Lehis dream, a story from the Book of Mormon that lay embedded in the primal memories of primary children. In the story hand rail of iron Page | 5

leads followers out of darkness and sin to the tree of life. Prayer and righteousness were represented by the iron rod, letting go symbolized sin and hard heartedness. He made no eye contact during the entire half hour lesson from the home teachers. If they only knew how much of his day was spent pleading to the Lord. Certainly no one in this tiny Mormon college town in the middle of nowhere felt his anguish and humiliation, and most sincerely believed that the best medicine for the mind was scriptures and prayer, grabbing the iron rod. Mormons didnt really believe in mental illness, only spiritual weakness. No one knew about the days and nights of his tormented praying to the Lord, begging for healing. He could not allow himself to think that God did not know him either or that He did not care. A non-Mormon visiting Rexburg and Brigham Young UniversityIdaho for the first time would think it was a village on religious amphetamines. This was the veneer, the image the church wanted to portray to the world, that we were special, chosen, the true church. Negativity and illness were secreted in the nooks and crannies of the city limits. The town was a homogeneous and exclusive zone where someone who was not a Mormon stood out like a Jewish person in a crowd of Aryans. Peters few friends throughout his childhood were all Mormon, and in fact, he did not know any kids his age that werent. Though he was baptized at eight, he felt like a nonmember now, stinging from exclusion. Since his return, and only in glimpses, he saw his church through the eyes of the rest of the world and found his culture a bit odd and exclusive. This thinking left him dizzy. How could a Mormon city be so far Christs teachings of acceptance and forgiveness. He hadnt spoken to any of his old acquaintances. He avoided them. He was an outcaste in Rexburg where the only valid reason for coming home early from the mission field was severe physical ailment or death. The populace of zealots seemed to accept nothing less than the appearance of perfection, a tacit intolerance of difference seeped, blood red, out of the communal essence collectively. Architecturally this even manifested itself in well kept homes with tightly manicured and elaborately sculptured yards, and militantly tidy streets. Unkempt houses did not fit in. Page | 6

Peters illness emerged as home sickness in the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah, intense culture shock in the Dominican Republic, and an inability to sleep anywhere. The filth and the skillet hot streets he roamed mirrored his internal experience. At first he didnt even know that he was sick and just thought he was a bad missionary, an evil person. Staying up late, getting up late, lying in bed all day, dragging his heels while proselytizing were all signs of a problem missionary. In the streets during his first week, darkness clutched up at him from the ground as he was preaching and studying with endless energy. He didnt sleep because he didnt need to. He could accomplish so much instead of sleeping valuable hours away, unconscious. He could compensate for the days when not even God himself could pry him from the sheets. The first time he felt himself cycling up was like being on drugs, and he loved the rush. While his odious companion, Elder Ruskin, snored loudly, Peter embedded himself in the Book of Mormon, as it contained the most truthful and correct words on earth. He read it five times during that first up-cycle, and he felt God close to him. It was almost as if he could see him and talk to him. A couple of times Elder Ruskin called from his cot, sleepily, Who are you talking to? Go to sleep, freak. He said freak under his breath, but of course Peter was meant to hear it. Turn off the frickin lights Elder. He also wrote in his missionary journal for hours at a time, by candle light in order to avoid disturbing Ruskin or because the power was out. The words scrawled there turned out to be a lot of nonsense later, conversations he had with Joseph Smith, for example. Detailed descriptions of God, Jesus, and Satan. Wild tours through the Celestial Kingdom and outer darkness hanging on the coattails of Christ. In sum, his crazy mind in print filled the pages that he would show to no one. Peter was certain that Ruskin had read most of it. Peter could tell the pages had been rifled through, and Ruskin would allude to odd things that could only have come from his journal. Also Peter sent letters to all of his acquaintances in Rexburg. Peter had no recollection of the contents or the recipients, which now intensified his fear of seeing people at home.

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After those three or four days without sleep, his body slowed, blood thickening, gravity increasing. Life melted into sadness. He was walking down a street in the capital with Elder Ruskin who would always make sure to be several steps ahead of Peter, who was beneath him. When Peter cycled up, he would walk quickly, and Ruskin would practically run to stay ahead of him. When down, Peter would fall further behind, daydreaming in confusion, stopping to puzzle over a particular piece of garbage. In one bad episode, demons began darting here and there in his peripheral vision. He felt Satan creeping inside of him. Despite his efforts to fight it off, he became melancholy and muddled, suddenly more tired than he had ever been in his life. His body seemed to cease pumping blood. On that fourth day without sleep, the companionship was walking to an appointment, and Peter stumbled to a park bench alongside the Maximo Gomez Drive, slumping down prostrate as if it were a bed. Not seeing this, Elder Ruskin pressed on. He fell asleep instantly, dreaming of God with a lightning sword and Satan with spears of glowing red, a fantastic battle between the two. When his companion kicked the leg of the metal bench, Peter did not jump but just slowly opened his eyes, seeing the devil merge with Elder Ruskin. What are you doing freak? Ive been looking all over the capital for you. Do you know how long youve been gone? Any frickin idea? Any clue as to how much of my time you have wasted psycho? Four hours. Yeah, thats right Ive been hunting you down for four frickin hours. We missed three important appointments because of you. Sorry, I think Im sick. I dont care if the frickin grim reaper is hovering over you, get up. Im not sure I can, Ruskin. Oh, Im sure you can. You bet you can. President Guzman and the office missionaries are all out in their cars looking for you. And, you know whos in trouble? You know who has to eat shit pie? No, not you, me. Im in trouble because I lost your ass. Im going to call the President to let him know I found you, and then were going home in a taxi. Page | 8

Peter crashed for three days. He could only get out of his cot and mosquito net to piss. The net was a light pea green, draped completely over the bed like a small tent, making him claustrophobic. It was a necessary evil to keep the minion mosquitoes off him during the night. He felt an evil pinning him to the cot, the net a snare set by Satan. He felt like a bug snagged in a macabre web. Elder Ruskin, periodically called him a pussy or sissy and kicked his cot. Ruskin told him he was possessed by an evil spirit when one night Peter pissed his bed. In his dream, he was putting out the fires of hell with a garden hose. Ruskin didnt help him clean up of course. He assisted him in nothing. Peter wallowed in wet sheets for about twelve hours before he could muster the energy to escape his prison and give himself a sponge bath. The water was out as it was most nights. The city had a random system of shutting off the water and light for extended periods of time. He stripped the urine saturated sheets and put a fresh towel over the cot mattress. The days heat had risen over a hundred degrees with ninety percent humidity, the norm. He wretched at his own stench but did not have the energy to do anything else. Peter thought he must be in hell. Hell could not be worse than this. When the power went out, his fan turned off along with it, and he would just lie there sweating, slipping in and out of consciousness. Stinky freak. Youre going home. You know that? The President isnt going to put up with this mierda and neither am I. I didnt come on a mission to babysit a psycho who needs a diaper. Youre leaving in disgrace, and I cant wait. I told him you are hopeless. I agree. But God told me he is merciful. He told you that, huh. Oh, was that when you were talking to the wall during the night? Do you actually think you had a chat with God? Why didnt he tell you to get up and pee? Not only are you going home, you are going to hell. This is hell. Yeah, it is now. You are hell. Page | 9

Ruskin turned red and threw a glass cup at Peters fan, surprisingly breaking the fan but not the glass. The President didnt send him home right away to Ruskins chagrin, but he took Peter into his air conditioned, elaborately decorated office and gave him a stern lecture about missionary work and the fact that Heavenly Father had called him there. Can the Lord be wrong in sending you here Elder Peter Shaw? No President, I suppose not. Absolutely not. The Lord is perfect and knows you personally. He wants you here and he wants your all. Yes, President. If he didnt buck up, then he was quitting on the Lord. Peter knew that the President and Ruskin were right and if he couldnt serve the two years he, was a loser. You can do this, buddy. A slap on the back. Towards the end of that month, Peter started cycling up, and he embraced the rush as an addict heals with a fix. The full cycle went similar to the last, with the difference that members of the local ward were involved, which was bad news. Peter crashed near the home of Hermano Perez who found him crumpled against the front of a store as he was walking back from work at the Ralph Lauren factory downtown. The good man carried him a block to his little apartment, up three flights of stairs. Peter mumbled of demons and hell. Hermano Perez called the bishop, who called Elder Ruskin, who called the President, who called his parents and stake president at home. As Peter was leaving for home, the President changed his tone and was encouraging, expressing pity filled with hope. The old Mormon positive spin that Peter saw right through. He learned from the President that his parents, loving Mom and Dad, tried to convince the President to leave Peter out there at least another month to see if things turned around. A month was nothing, a few weeks. Peter felt betrayed by his parents while simultaneously wanting to stay too. He knew the humiliation that awaited him at home. Peter hadnt realized that his parents would be humiliated too. Page | 10

He didnt want to be a quitter. All young men in the church were commanded to serve an honorable full time mission. But, he simply could not do it. No matter what anyone told him, he did not have the power. And, the President had made the authoritative decision to ship him home. From miscellaneous people, including the President, other missionaries, and later his family and ward members, he heard every clich and patronizing word of advice in the Mormon vernacular. You should feel good about the work you did while you were out there. Who knows how many souls you touched. You sewed many seeds for investigators that will be baptized later. You can continue your mission here by spreading the gospel. Only Heavenly Father can heal you. The members could produce no novel euphemisms for what Peter now was, a loser. Brother Benson, who had taught Peter in Sunday school when he was fourteen, stopped by uninvited and told him that he might be possessed and only Heavenly Father could exorcise him just as in scripture. He actually offered to assist in some sort of exorcism, which Peter declined, looking at the floor. Many ward members believed as Brother Benson and did not hesitate to share advice on curing the possession. In the name of Jesus Christ and so forth. The counsel caused Peter to weep at night, but none of it sounded unusual, fitting right in with the dogma he had been taught his whole life. He knew that his month and a half long mission (including the two weeks he spent in the MTC) was an absolute failure and reflected his true character. He knew himself as a quitter. He tried not to fault the members for trying to help and support. But, the patronizing sentiments were merely decorations covering a bunch of crap. Peter knew in his heart that he was a failure, not possessed, and he just wished that everyone would leave him alone. He longed to be invisible, a cipher. He could kill himself, and it wouldnt make a real difference to anyone. Not everyone is called on a two year mission. Every minute you stayed out there was a success. Page | 11

Yes, and every minute of the rest of his life would be a disappointment, each waking moment a reminder that he botched the best two years of his life. This was a unique experience, only one shot, and he blew it. His parents, in their big, expensive, house on the Rexburg hill treated him like a foreign object when he returned. It was almost like he was a different child. They did their best to make him feel alright about coming home. A real champion in the face of trials. The estrangement was eased by the fact that Peter felt numb by this point as the doctors in the Dominican Republic had started him on Lithium, Deprakote, and Xyprexa. He felt empty, no more highs, no more crashes. His personality had disappeared. A month after starting the meds, he felt near catatonic, a walking corpse who spent most of his time in his room. He didnt have a TV, and he didnt like to read, so he just lay on his bed most of the time, not really even thinking. Most of the people he encountered at home, except his shrink, encouraged him to get off his meds. He possessed a spiritual illness after all, and he needed more prayer, scripture reading, and fasting. His parents certainly fit into this group. And Peter agreed, tired of feeling empty. He could not feel the Holy Ghost on the meds. During one restive night, God told him in a dream that he had bourn enough and that he should stop taking pills. He spoke of another calling foreordained for Peter. From that moment, Peter never took medicine for his bipolar disorder again. He felt exhilarated by his decision. Peter wanted reality and spirituality or nothing. If he couldnt handle the real world, then he wasnt meant to live. Next morning, Peter rose from his small, childhood bed, and made his way to the his connected, private bathroom. As an only child, something rare in a Mormon family, he had the convenience of a bathroom of his own. For his parents, one child also meant they had no other hope for a missionary son. Peters presence at home was a constant reminder of that. His parents had tried but could not reproduce after Peter. Maybe now they would adopt. They seriously considered that option in the past which had made Peter feel insufficient and excited.

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He looked in the mirror of his medicine cabinet and was disgusted. His face was pale pink and zitty and he had a severely receding hairline, his hair already thin. At the age of 19, he looked like a morph of a teenager and a forty year old man. He was unattractive, a fact that he would never come to terms with, mirrors constantly reopening the wound with the too real reflection. Knowing that he was ugly was to admit that he was flawed in a society founded on beauty. He opened the medicine cabinet and began the task of dumping pill bottles. He spared nothing, not even the Ambien to help him sleep nor the acne medication. He wanted none of it. He replaced the empty bottles in the cabinet, knowing that his parents would never care enough to check his meds. He flushed them all together in what made for an oddly beautiful swirl of colorful little pills against the white background. Reality now. This was what he wanted. He believed the Lord could heal him, and he would put him to the test by studying the scriptures, praying, and fasting. In the afternoon, he left his house for one of the first times since his return, the first time alone. He went down to Broulims, the local grocery store, thinking he might pick up some favorite junk food that the Dominican Republic didnt have. Number one on his list was a big tub of Redvines. Maybe the sugar would give him a jolt out of his etherized state. Of course, he didnt even make it out of his old red Toyota pickup without seeing someone he knew. In the parking lot, he met the person he would have to call his best friend, Jake Patterson. He served his mission in Oklahoma, the full two years, successful. But Jake succeeded at everything he tried, talented in sports and academics. He was a jock, playing some sport every season, but basketball was his specialty, a natural talent. Handsome like his father, Peters Mom had once said, he still was going out with his high school love, Karen. Peter obviously didnt fit into his click, an ugly weak student who hated sports. Peter believed that, being as kind as he was, he had taken on Peter as a project, trying to help him fit in during high school. Mormons were big on projects like that, his own Mom being the champion. Since his return in January, Jake had picked up his old job at Broulims as a checker, and he was a fulltime student. He could have taken several junior college scholarships, but he said he liked Rexburg. Page | 13

Truth was, he didnt want to be far from Karen. They would be married sometime soon. Jake was retrieving some shopping carts after finishing up his second break. Peter tried to avoid eye contact, head and shoulders slumped toward the pavement, but Jake called to him. Hey, Pete. Oh, hi there Jake. Whats up buddy? Oh, you know, just getting by. How long you been home now? About a month. I meant to stop by you know, but you know. Yeah, no problem. I havent left the house much. You know, Pete, my Dad didnt serve a mission either. No big deal buddy. He slapped him on the shoulder. Jake spoke to him as if he were an orange going bad in the produce section, one just starting to form a white patch on the peal. Jake acted as if Peter had not even gone out to the mission field. Not going on a mission and quitting a mission were different. Apples and oranges. You goin to head to school, buddy? Dont know yet. I feel kind of out of place everywhere. Yeah. Do you know what I mean? Yeah, you ought to try out school, man. You never know. Its a lot of fun. I understand how you feel, though. Take your time. Jake didnt understand. Peter detected that immediately. Jake was speaking from his point of view as a normal person. The last torture Peter needed was to jump into school at BYU-I with his Dad the important physics professor who would expect perfect grades in hard classes. Peter was sure that his father already felt embarrassed in front of his colleagues each of whom had their own heroic return Page | 14

missionary, the two year kind. He didnt want to set himself up for failure again. Jake had no idea, just like everyone else. Shake it off, buddy. Shake it off. Peter hated sports banter, but Jake didnt know him well enough to perceive that. As far as the future, Peter desired deep within himself to do something big, to redeem himself a little bit, to show his parents that they hadnt wasted nineteen years raising a loser. They had wanted lots of kids, more chances to create the version they wanted. They desired, not necessarily the perfect child, but not a loser either. He didnt even make it inside Broulims he was so flustered. Hey, aint you going in? Oh, I cant remember what I needed. Well, well see you around, bro. He really botched that up. He pulled out as Jake turned to push the heavy row of carts into the store. Peter couldnt have gone in, an enormous building full of aisles, merchandise, and people staring, judging. Dizziness and anxiety from ditching the pills were already kicking in. He hid out in his bedroom for the next week. He would quietly sneak down the carpeted stairway at night to explore and snack a little. The upward swing of his cycle tingled his fingers, lightened his head, trickled energy into his body and mind. He had completely forgotten how intense the high felt. On the third night without sleep, he began writing in his journal again and reading his Book of Mormon which became increasingly gripping and vivid as he finished another reading of it. Nothing else held his interest, and his writing and reading became compulsive. He read and re-read for hours on end without fatigue. During one passage, he read for five hours straight, lying down on his bed, comfortable, and sleep did not come. The images in the Book of Mormon were unnaturally vivid and lifelike. The stories played through his mind like a movie, especially the descriptive violent passages of wars and murders, the Nephites raping and torturing the Lamanite women, the Lamanites violating, torturing, and feasting on the flesh of young Nephite girls. Some of this disturbed him, but nothing brought him down.

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At times voices would whisper, and he recognized the messages as revelation from Heaven. He felt himself drawing closer to that ethereal realm, a whirlwind of mysticism. A glimpse of redemption entered his mind, an eerie and hazy idea of what calling God had in store to rip him from the gravity of his black hole. The plan was in embryo, but the knowledge came in pieces at first. He believed God inspired his mind as he continued reading and writing. Mormons believed Heavenly Father could communicate with individuals, personal revelation. But, he had forgotten fasting. He would fast for further revelation and clarification of his plan. He felt on the brink of great discovery, a life changing moment, some awesome epiphany. On the forth night without sleep, he was starving, but his mind and body hummed with the spirit of creative missionary work and God. Peter migrated in the direction of several scriptural narratives. He focused on the fact that the Bible and Book of Mormon both warned against people who sought signs from God before they would believe. God required faith without observable evidence. The Book of Mormon was replete with stories of opponents to the prophets who violated this counsel. Sherem, for example, was an outspoken antagonist of the church and demanded a sign, a miracle, from the prophet Jacob. Only after evidence would he believe in Christ. After much insistence, Jacob declared that the sign would be that God shall smite thee. Of course, once declared by a prophet of God, that was exactly what happened. Another dissenter, Korihor, required a sign, something metaphysical and magnificent. He was also struck. Since there was no empirical evidence of the existence of God, it seemed likely that many would insist on something observable to believe in. Peter knew that he transgressed in this line of thought. However, there were other ways to interpret the stories, alternatives to simply instilling the fear of asking for miracles. The offenders were tormented, as always taught in Sunday School, but Peters mind began to migrate around and through the scriptures, seeing them as a visionary. The stories had profound implications. If he were a common nonbeliever back in the day, how would witnessing the wrath of God affect him? Of course, it would scare the crap out of him, but he would also be moved to believe. He Page | 16

would be grateful that Korihor or Sherem did the work of asking for him so that he didnt have to. Many others would reap the benefits of the sinful demands of the few. Rather than ask for the lightning to strike yourself, one would appreciate a martyr stepping up as the lightning rod. Peter would have been convinced and in the scriptural accounts many converted. Korihor and Sherem were in a way like missionaries. The miracles they provoked sparked terror and respect for God. Peter had a vision of a field white with ripe wheat. He stood in the middle, the whiskers of the stalks tickling his arms. God came to him there. Here he felt loved for the first time, communing with a beautiful, kind Father, charity pouring from his body in a soft glow. Heavenly Father was a normal fellow, Peter feeling as if He communicated with him in a highly individual way, just for Peter. If He were to talk to someone else, the communion would be different. God knew him and how to speak to in a manner unique to the two. I love you Peter, and you are beautiful. You are my son. Thank you father. Peter knelt down, nearly buried in the tips of wheat stocks. No, Peter, stand up. You are one of my chosen. How can I be? I failed you. Their minds merged, without verbal communication, a binding of all things in the universe, light and dark both necessary. The cosmos was complex and oversimplified by his culture. He saw good and evil, God and Satan as father and son, in a way words could not capture. They both moved through him, sanctifying him, and at once he realized his mission completely as if God had planted a module of information into his mind. He had no more questions, and he knew his mission. The module embodied the complete plan, down to the minute details. I understand this gift, endowment. We will be with you.

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Peter felt the presence of God, Jesus, and Satan in the we. Both light and dark had to be embraced, transgressing a law to accomplish a spiritual purpose. He would embody Satan to commit a transgression that would allow him to accomplish the purposes of Christ and God. Peter regained consciousness lying on his bed, arms splayed in a crucifixion pose. He had not been asleep but in a spiritual trance that seemed more heightened than normal consciousness. He remained flat on his back, and his thoughts drifted to his mission in Santo Domingo and his asshole companion Elder Ruskin, with his orange hair, longer than it should have been for a Mormon missionary, and freckles so thick that they bordered on a tan. Ruskins freckles made Peter content with his acne. Ruskins face flamed red when angry or upset. Peter hated that bastard and during one of his highs nearly slit his throat with a kitchen knife. He got so far as to stand over Ruskins cot with a kitchen knife in hand. In one of Peters first experiences in the Santo Domingo, Ruskin had gotten into a heated battle with Hermano Guzman, not a member of the church, during a discussion about Heavenly Father. Ruskin had been working with the family for several months. Peter was bewildered by all the fast talking and scripture pages flipping and could not follow what was going in the palm wood framed hut with a dirt floor, tin roof, and four chairs. In fact, Peter could understand almost nothing during those days. He felt isolated. After the apppointment, Peter asked Ruskin what had gone on. Thanks for the help there Elder Petey I couldnt understand. I couldnt keep up. Ya medicuenta muchacho. I told Hermano Guzman that he is going to hell in a hurry. You should be able to follow that much by now. He asked for a sign from God before he would be baptized, and you know what that means. Yeah, yeah. What did you tell him? I told the dirt farmer that he better be very careful asking for signs from God. I read to him about Korihor and Sherem and asked if he wanted that. Page | 18

What did he say? That sounds pretty offensive. He said yes, can you believe that? He said, yes a sign like that will make me believe. You want to die or be tortured? I asked him. How did he take that? But I will die a happy man because I will know for sure. The crazy jerk. These third world idiots will live and die poor and ignorant. They are so stupid Doesnt sound very Christ-like. Youve been here, what, three days? Wait til youve been on this stinking island for two years. Youll see. You cant understand yet because youre too green. You have to be blunt with these people. Ruskin was such a frickin idiot. Arguing does not convert people. Hermano Guzman had a point that was confirmed by Deity in scripture, and Elder Ruskin was a simpleton. God clarified it for Peter though he didnt understand then with Ruskin. Now, Gods plan for Peter involved this very theme. The module God had implanted contained instructions for Peter to publicly demand a sign from Heaven, making a big time event that the whole world would see. A sacrifice as a martyr was his calling, so that through his actions many would believe. He was a missionary again, but this message more powerful. The point would be God lives and dont mess around with him. The manic cycle was at its peak. Peter had never felt so strong or committed. He could do this, but he knew that he must finish before the looming crash. He wished he had made it in to Broulims to get the sugar and caffeine he now craved. The fifth sleepless day, Peter prepared his sacrifice. He made lists on a yellow legal pad of the things he needed to do, pinning them to his bulletin board. He filled pages in his journal with notes written hastily in the thick of the Holy Spirit. The event would shortly prove to the world that God existed and that the Mormon Church was true. The Mormons possessed a God to be revered and feared. People would be baptized by the thousands. Peter was certain of this interpretation of the calling. He supposed

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there would be those who would think it was a fluke. But if he even brought one soul to God, his mission would be a great success. He spent the morning in fervent prayer, on his bed, facing the Disturbed poster, eyes shut tight. His parents left early as usual, his father to work at the college and his mother to her visiting teaching for October, the first day of the month as was her habit. In his meditations, he felt God and Christ beside him, realizing they had always been there, even when he was on the island. Peter had allowed other people to make him forget that. His parents, friends, and community did not support him, but God and Christ were his permanent companions. That meant everything. As the module in his mind instructed, he arose from his prayers and in a frenzy tore all the ungodly posters from his walls, wild destruction. He called the local news stations, a difficult task for him, pushing him outside his microcosm. The vast world needed to know about his divine charge. His work would fail if few people knew the details. Peter was soaring on the high of his polar swing. He no weakness or fear, which enabled him to make the calls and do the work on the internet. He had to get the word out. He used his Facebook page where he had a surprising number of virtual friends that he had never really communicated with. He also had a blog where he detailed his plan and what people should expect. With his Mac Book he filmed and posted a short passionate video on YouTube, in his missionary clothes. Maybe it would go viral. He spread the link to the video in every possible way he could think of. He wished he had the knowledge to promise that he would webcam the event. But, that was beyond the reach of his technical savvy. When he looked in the I am a Sunbeam mirror that hung next to where the band Hinder once was, acne and cowardice no longer jumped out him. He looked normal, like a real person. He saw power and the hand of God upon his head. Peter chanted words in tongues he could not understand, and he felt in his blood, the primal ups and downs of human life on earth. God told him that Peter was like Christs apostles who endured hate and violence after the death of Jesus, his namesake Peter hung crucified, upside down. He would make the Apostle proud. His spirit was prepared. Page | 20

By noon of the forth day, he had called Channels 3, 7, and 8 along with the long shots like CNN and MSNBC. Without exception, they thought he was crazy, and though Peter anticipated this, he felt a lack of persuasion in his voice and words as he spoke to the jaded news people, with their dismissive comments and sarcastic tones. Yeah Ill run this by the team buddy. I doubt that theyll get up about a weird churchy story. They all called him buddy as if that were his name. It seemed as if everyone called him buddy which made him feel nameless. Fox News wanted to know if he was a polygamist and was momentarily interested, but when they found out he wasnt, they hung up. In his heart he prayed for strength and words to fill him. Miss Caldwell from CNN asked him where the hell Rexburg was. MSNBC, a man this time, told him that he got a hundred calls just like his every day. Peter tried to argue the impossibility of that, but the man finally hung up. No story was exactly like this. What an moron. The failures were weighing him down until he spoke with Channel 8 News, Miss Perez sounding surprisingly interested. Perhaps Peter sounded more impassioned now because she was his last chance, or maybe he just sounded pathetic. He believed, however, that God was filling his mouth with words he had not thought of. He sensed that she was writing down information because she would ask him to pause and then continue. Miss Perez also asked follow up questions. Youre really serious here right, Peter? She remembered his name. Absolutely. This may sound silly to you, but I am definitely being straight with you, and I will be struck by God in some powerful way, maybe even by death. All I ask is that you show up, and then you can decide what to do with the story, but I am going through with this and the world will eventually know about it. This could turn into a huge story for you. Just imagine if I am struck by lightning or start bleeding from my eyes, and Channel 8 is the only station with the video. When Miss Perez called back fifteen minutes later to verify information and to let him know that her producer gave approval as long as nothing important popped up, Peters whole body pulsated with an unearthly pleasure. His first real success. He didnt even mind the implication in her words that his story was not significant. Page | 21

Even if Channel 8 alone showed up, the story would still spread. This was too big to remain quiet. The masses thrived on blood, gore, and the unearthly. The movies they watched proved this. And, God would help him. In euphoria, he lay back on his bed, looking up into the eyes of Jesus and Joseph Smith, pictures he had hung on the ceiling during pre-mission days. The images blurred together. Peter heard the whisper We are one. He heard a mild echo effect between the two voices. As he watched, their eyes fill with crimson tears. The red contrasted sharply with the gray that had filled endless days. Peter know they were expressing love for him. A swirl of color engulfed him, and suddenly he felt tired lying there. No, he told himself, snapping straight up. He could not let the darkness come before completion. He sprung up from the bed. He had discovered on his mission that the fatigue could be kept at bay quite awhile. Sugar, caffeine, and pain helped. He made a run to the Maverick store, loading up on junk, thankfully not seeing anyone he knew. A couple of Mountain Dews and a box of twenty Redvines later, a rush flooded his body. Life was exhilarating, his new mission a passion. He walked to his old oak dresser, rummaging through clothes and papers until he found the red Swiss Army knife and wet stone that his father had given him when he turned eight, a symbolic gift initiating him into the scouting program. When he made the Eagles nest at age fourteen, his father had given him an expensive pocket knife from Toledo, Spain, but he still preferred his first. It reminded him of an easier, simpler time. He felt love from his father then. Boys are easier to love when they are small. He opened the sharpest blade, and with the wet stone, sharpened until it cut through a pencil as if it were a sheet of paper. Knife in hand, he pushed the tip into the soft flesh of his pink palm, the left, carving an x in the center. The angled points of flesh in the wound could flip open like the gill of a fish. He slit the same mark in the right. Blood did not emerge immediately, but slowly began to ooze out, eventually dripping, thick droplets. The sharp slices penetrated deep, exhilarating. His head felt light for a moment, the sight of blood and the dull ache that followed the carving. He sensed a rush radiating from his hands, through his body.

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He pushed his thumb into his left palm, the pressure electrifying. He empathized with teenage cutters, the thrill filling the emptiness at the core of the soul with unique sensations. Peter left his room only a couple of times in his four days of wakefulness. He had no need except to use the bathroom which was really part of his bedroom. He denied the meals his hardworking Mother cooked each night and brought up to him, or he tossed it out the window, lying to his mother about how tasty the meatloaf was. Ruff, their large black lab, loved it. The further into the cause he went, the more important fasting became. The empty stomach made him feel weak at first, but then tingly and a little light headed. The fast made him more holy, his body feeling weightless, his stomach registering a longing throughout his body. His Church promoted monthly fasting, and the benefits were obvious. Technically, this was not a true fast because of the junk food, but he believed this necessary and acceptable to God. The fast facilitated his communication with the heavenly realm, sensing a separation of soul and body somehow. His soul freed itself from the weight of the body. He spoke with Moses, Abraham, and Peter, prophets long dead encouraging him. He was surprised to find that Moses was far more eloquent than he gave himself credit. On the morning of the fifth day, the sun rose on Peter, kneeling and weeping in prayer. He had massaged his palms through the night when he felt tired. They were just bloody wounds in his palms now, no shape. The spirit pulsed through him, and he was motivated to testify to someone, to preach. He pushed away all doubt and fear fled during the night, and he felt an immediacy to act. Peter could move heaven and earth, and his past missionary failure was fully secluded in a different side of the universe. He suppressed all negativity. Peter had not spoken of his new mission to his parents. Now, they would only doubt, but they soon would be surprised and finally proud. They were already off this morning. He heard them both leave about the same time with slamming doors. His mother always seemed busier than his father, though her work was of a different kind. His father left to his office and physics classes at 7:00 and returned shortly after 5:00 every day, but his mothers labors had no fixed routine or boundaries. She was rarely home Page | 23

during the day, but out visiting grandma, shopping, gardening, monitoring every family in the ward as Relief Society president. When she returned she worked even harder keeping house. She followed the counsel from the prophets for wives to avoid employment if possible. Their job was mothers and teachers. Peter had always believed that Mormon women worked harder and possessed more faith than their male counterparts. They certainly were more spiritual. Peter wondered why, and why God had chosen to give men all the power in the church. Women knew how to use authority with moderation and kindness. He went to his bathroom, moving to the mirror with a penetrating look. He see his real face in the mirror because he was reaching the maximum end of the cycle. Under normal circumstances, the crash would have hit by now, but the adrenaline, Mountain Dew, and pain kept him moving. Before long the mission would be over. It would all be over. He believed that he would not live through this and found the thought exciting. Relief from a life of pain awaited him. He possessed no regrets. Looking back at him in the mirror now was Christ with a gentle smile. Jesus was really there, and Peter reached out with unintended force to touch him. His hand penetrated the seeminly liquid surface of the mirror, only a vague awareness of pain and shattering glass. He touched the beard of Christ. Jesus reached, grasped his hand. Peter felt the spirit in Christ so intensely that he shook. Peter wept. He felt himself sweating from the intensity of the moment. His right hand was sweating blood from the touch of Christs hand. When the vision vanished, he ran cool water through his greasy hair and washed his face which felt foreign, bumpy and boney. His image in the mirror was hard to make out. He was fragmented, in pieces. He smoothed his hair down, but could not really make out his odd distorted image. He was dressed in his missionary attire, but his image was of least importance now. No other preparation was needed. He left the house and arrived at the appointed spot kitty corner to the temple, his hands red and slippery on the wheel of the truck. News crews were not yet there. No one was, just the morning traffic coming and going from the temple on the other side of the street. Classes must have just ended as he could see the scurrying students down on campus and the traffic was heavy, Page | 24

students moving from class to class. Strange how a college campus can be dead one minute and bustling full the next. Being near the temple of the Lord pumped him up as he stood awkwardly waiting, leaning against the stoplight pole. He rehearsed the exact words he would say, with a rhythmic compulsion, rubbing his right hand against his pant leg which was becoming damp. He tried to keep his increased shaking under control. At 9:30 the white Channel 8 van pulled up and parked on the side of the street behind him, stopping near the edge of the cut wheat field. Peter was surprised and realized that he had not trusted them to show up. Miss Perez was the first to emerge, exiting the passenger side, staring at Peter with worry and concern. She had a rare, Latina beauty, giant brown eyes. As quickly as possible in her red high heels, she approached Peter. The cameraman jumped out and busied himself with equipment. Both seemed hurried. Peter, is that you? Yes. Miss Perez? Pleased to meet you. She offered her hand to shake, but he could not reach out his own, conscious of blood. Peter are you OK? Do you need help? You look terrible. Youve got blood all over you. No, Im ready to go. The world needs me, and Ive never been better. I tripped on the pavement on the way here and cut up my hands. Are we ready? I mean, weve got the go ahead to shoot this video.I dont think any of the other channels are coming. Looks like you get the scoop. He grinned weakly. But this will go viral. I guarantee it Miss Perez. Youll be famous. Yeah, I saw your stuff online. I must admit Peter, it all sounds very strange. God is strange Miss Perez. You actually searched my stuff, huh? Great. I know its kind of goofy, but I wanted to get word out however I could. Was it effective? Miss Perez ignored the question. Students and other passersby lingered, trying to see what was going on, a small crowd forming. Miss Perez leaned in close to Peter. Her concern was obvious, and Peter

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had an inkling of how he must look. But part of his high was like a narcotic, dulling the pain, eliminating fear about his condition. You look like you need medical attention. Youre a wreck. Oh, its nothing. Ill fix it up when were done. Im ready. Can we get on with it? Hang on a minute. I have to chat with my producer real quick. As she walked back towards the van, he called lamely to her Im fine Miss Perez. Near the van, she whipped out her iPhone, punched buttons, made the call. Peter was still struck by here face, so perfect. He felt conspicuous standing there with the people staring at him, asking him questions. At least twenty people had gathered, the cameraman in front of Peter, setting up his tripod with quick habitual movements. Miss Perez paced back and forth, phone to her ear. Peter worked his thumb in the palm of his left hand. Fresh blood wet his hand. He tried to ignore the people. Are you in trouble, dude? Whats going on? Were you hit by a car? Those crazy students go too darn fast through here. Miss Perez returned to Peters relief. Look Peter, my producer said we could shoot the piece if you will agree to let us take you to a hospital right after we are done. Hospital? Why? Theres no need for that. Ill probably be dead anyway. You freak me out Peter with that kind of talk. You arent going to die. Thats how it has to go down or were not doing it. OK, whatever. Lets do it. Peter had no choice but to take their deal, but the hospital worried him. Death would be better than ending up in an institution. He couldnt end up in an asylum. It scared him more than hell, Satan. Miss Perez and the cameraman were in action preparing to shoot the footage. Ready the cameraman said. Miss Perez moved towards Peter and positioned him. We want the crowd and the temple in the frame. Jim are we in frame here with the temple? She positioned Peter like a doll, and he tried to follow her instructions. The cameraman looked through the lens and stuck his thumb Page | 26

up. He was ready to roll. Miss Perez positioned the microphone, smoothed her hand through her hair. Am I OK Jim? Thumbs up again. She put her arm around Peter, lightly touching his back. The human warmth felt nice. He was shaking with nervous energy, the adrenaline constantly pushing back the downward spiral. Into his ear, Youll be just fine, Peter. The cameraman stuck up three fingers and counted down to the cue, a smirk on his face. This is Lucy Perez in front of the beautiful LDS temple in Rexburg. Im with a resident here, Peter Shaw, who has an unusual church project that you will be interested to learn about. Some might think it is crazy, and frankly I am uncertain myself. But I will leave it to you to decide. He is a nineteen year old Mormon recently returned from a mission in the Dominican Republic. He is not here to bash the church. He is not a disaffected member. Peter, why dont you fill us in. Peters cue, but it took Peter a moment before he could process this. There was an awkward silence as Miss Perez positioned the microphone in front of him. Finally, the spirit urged him to open his mouth. The pause would be edited out. We Mormons have some beliefs that outsiders find peculiar. For example, we believe that our prophet, President Monson, speaks with God. I am here to explain another unique belief we have and my mission connected with it. In our Book of Mormon, the truest book of God on earth, we learn that a person who asks God for a sign as proof that he exists is punished. People want empirical evidence that he is out there. They dont want to believe. They want to know. But God says that we must have faith. God strikes down the seeker of signs. So asking for proof from God brings a curse? Yes. It seems a bit strange to be speaking of this now as news. Whats your point? Well, I am here today asking for a sign from God. I want God to show me through a miracle that he exists. Why would you do this if it is forbidden by your book? Page | 27

Because the world will see God strike me down, and they will believe. Thats what happens in scripture. The people who witness the seeker being struck return to God. I will help bring them back to Christs fold. I will do this for the world, to better humanity. You are tempting God? Yes. But I am sacrificing myself as well. And for our viewers, Peter, could you explain once more your purpose and how you expect to be struck? I am a missionary. I will sacrifice myself so that the world will believe in God. The Lord usually strikes people dumb or dead. So, now you expect God to maim or kill you. Right now, Peter? Peter stretched his arms out wide toward the bright sun with the white temple in the background and spoke melodramatically God I demand from you a sign, a miracle proving that you exist. The crowd began to mumble behind him, putting their hands over their mouths, eyes wide open in shock. Miss Perez was struck with a look of astonishment, and with that dramatic scene, Miss Perez made the cut sign across her throat to the cameraman, who quickly stopped, dismantled the camera, collapsed the tripod, and made his way back toward the van. Thats it? Yeah, we got all we need to make the story. I can do the rest in overlay during editing. Cant you wait for me to be stricken? Miss Perez smiled for the first time at Peter and then chuckled, laughed. No, we have all we need. We can come back if needed when you are struck by lightning or whatever. Hop in the van and well get you to the hospital. Something was odd about Miss Perezs laugh, but Peter couldnt read through it. She put her arm around him and gently pushed him in the direction of the van. He had a hard time walking and needed her arm for support. She was unstable herself in the disked farm ground. As he got in the van, eerie, dark sensations percolated, and he slumped into his seat. Peter felt a sense of fulfillment but Page | 28

also of loss, the project over now. He was cycling down quickly, and nothing could stop it. He had no desire to prevent it anymore. Sitting in the van, he saw a truth as if the lens on a telescope had just been properly adjusted. His place in the universe resolved into clarity, a lone speck of dust on a tiny sphere of water and rock. He was so small and trivial. Peter deciphered the encoded chuckle of the ever-so-polite Miss Perez. This was no story for her, no breaking news. He was not news at all. He was old. In her goodness, she created a farce that would get a messed up boy to the hospital, altruism, her good deed for the day. Community service. Channel 8 would no sooner air the shoot than they would a story about ethereal fairies and sprites, or bigfoot. His blissful high had blinded him. Peter was a joke, a chuckle in the throat of God, and Miss Perez, bless her heart, humoring him long enough to get him help, to remove the freak from the streets. All his previous confidence was self delusion. This meant that the meds must have shown his true self. Lithium gray was, in fact the color of his world, and this was the best he could hope for. He began to feel vague, unpleasant pain in his hands. And where was the promised ominous sign from God after all? Why had he not come? He had not been struck dumb or dead, and he could see his whole life as a joke played out for the cameras of others, the video of no interest to anyone. Not even God. The seat in the van was uncomfortable, not intended for a person to actually occupy it, but Peter was tired. Being off his feet felt divine. As he floated into dreamy hallucinations, he perceived that not even God knew him, and he felt nauseas. Gods relationship with him was an illusion. The van pulled down Main Street, toward the Madison Memorial Hospital, Peters head thump, thump, thumping against the steel frame of the window, and in the moment before sleep he thought I am stricken.

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