The Sinner’s Prayer: A Short Story

Originally published in NonBinary Review Issue #34: Lies For Children

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We learned about the Rapture at church. It’s when Jesus scoops the real Christians up to the clouds and takes them to heaven. All the bad people are stuck on earth, and then they go to hell, where there is “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” That always made me think of eating pot roast, when you get a piece stuck between your molars and no matter how much you chew, it doesn’t go away.

I rattle some Cheerios into a bowl and pour nonfat milk from the gallon jug. Even though I open it slowly, the pantry door squeals. I pop the cap off the honey bear and squeeze globs, more than I’m allowed, onto my cereal. Mom says God is watching, even when she can’t see me, but I don’t think God cares about honey.

It must be Saturday if nobody is up for school or church. I sit in dad’s usual spot at the kitchen table across from his hand-carved wood wall hanging, a gift from one of the of the lifeguards at work. The polished panel has Hebrew words on the top line, and below that, “is the answer.” I know it said “Jesus” at the top even though

I don’t read Hebrew. At Sunday School, if they ask a question you don’t know, you can just say “Jesus.” That’s usually the answer.

I slurp a spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. I like them soft, but not mushy. My grandma in Texas only has fake Cheerios and they get soft right away. We went there for my grandpa’s funeral. My dad’s dad. He didn’t believe in God so he went to hell. That was just last year.

Dad dragged me out of the church after the funeral. I was in trouble because I didn’t stand up when the pastor said, “All rise who have said the sinner’s prayer, so your righteousness can inspire those around you to know God’s love.” Everyone else in my family stood up, and people were staring at me, but I knew I hadn’t prayed it, and I didn’t want to lie.

“I didn’t stand up because I was trying to be good,” I told my dad. He didn’t understand me.

“I couldn’t get through to my dad, and now I’ll never see him again,” he told me with glassy eyes, like he had just come in from surfing. “It’s so easy. Pray this prayer and you’ll never sin again. You don’t have to keep repenting every time you mess up. Honey, don’t make me lose you, too.”

Then, he told me what hell was like. Being stuck in a fire that burns for millions of years, and no way out. Constant pain. Like your worst earache, but it hurts 100 times more, and all over your body. Also your skin is covered with sores that are like big bug bites.

It did sound really bad, so I told my neighbor Kim about it when we were playing Barbies. She said she didn’t have to worry because she’s Catholic. I told that to Mom, and Mom said Catholics aren’t real Christians because they baptize babies when they’re too young to make that kind of decision.

My Cheerios are getting soggy. No one is watching, so I dump them down the drain, and rinse the milk off the bowl so I don’t get blamed for wasting food.

The house is silent. Out the window, the wind knocks the leaves against the roof shingles. When I step onto the carpet, I hear a slow creak.

“Ah!” I yelp. My skin tingles like someone is about to grab me from behind.

I sprint down the hall and pound on Lauren’s door. I don’t care if she calls me a scaredy-cat.

“Lauren?” I say loudly, and press my cheek up to the door.

My heart is thumping. I push the door open.

Her bed is perfectly made. I check her closet, her window seat, and behind the curtains. No Lauren.

There’s a piece of her Hello Kitty stationary on the corner of her white eyelet quilt. I creep closer. It has my name at the top.

Dear Lizzie: I am praying that you will pray the sinner’s prayer soon. If I get taken in the rapture, I won’t be able to pray for you anymore because I will be in heaven where everything is happy. If you are in hell I will have to forget you are my sister because that will make me sad. PS: I left a tract in your devotional just in case.

My fingers are numb. She’s right. I’m the only one who hasn’t done it yet.

I take Lauren’s note with me to my parents’ room.

“Mom?” I put my nose up to the double doors.

“Mo-om?” I slowly turn the knob. She always responds after the second time.

The room is dark. I lift the covers on my mom’s side of the bed. Her nightgown is face-up. The straps

resting on the bottom edge of her pillow. On Dad’s side, I fold the comforter back until I see his shorts, crumpled in the dent where the mattress caves in.

I remember how Lauren’s pajamas were puddled in front of the bathroom sink and her toothbrush lying across the drain, as if she had just been brushing her teeth and—poof!

That’s exactly how my Sunday School teacher said the Rapture would happen. People would disappear out of moving cars, from the desk next to you at school, and even surgeons would float up through the ceiling, halfway through an operation.

Except, I thought it would be louder. Like, trumpets and stuff.

Right away, I decide I won’t cry. I’m almost 7 years old, and I need to act like a grown-up.

I tried to be good. Maybe, I could have tried harder. All that effort seems like a waste, now that I’m going to hell for eternity just because I forgot to do chores. My grandpa smoked cigarettes his entire life. I never did anything that bad.

Lauren’s stuff is still strewn across the bathroom. I go inside, shut the door, and squeeze half of her Aquafresh into the trash can. She doesn’t need it anymore, anyway.

I try to think of a way they could still come back. What if it was just a burglar who came and kidnapped everyone?

Mom keeps a list of emergency numbers by the telephone. I shuffle down the hall, peeking in Lauren’s empty room, and my parent’s room on my way. The phone numbers are pinned to the bulletin board next to the pizza delivery menu and our church’s bumper sticker. I call Grandma first.

The call goes to her answering machine and I listen to her recorded wobbly voice.

Hello, you’ve reached Mrs. Lonsdale. Sorry I missed you. I will call you back when I can, but in the meantime ... I wonder if you’re ready to answer the call of Jesus. You see, you are just one prayer away from the greatest love in the universe—

I hang up.

Of course she isn’t still here. She would have been taken in the Rapture, too. Our whole family is Christian, except for my dad’s dad, the one who died.

I cross my left fingers behind my back and squint my eyes shut. With my right hand, I open to a random page, hum, and wave my hand around, then point my index finger on the thin newsprint. I open my eyes. It’s an ad for a dog groomer. I call the number.

“Pets ‘n Paws, it’s Sonia,” a woman answers. Phew! Someone else is still here! But I am not sure how to say what I need to ask.

“Do you ... go to church?” I squeak.

“You assholes gotta stop harassing me, you understand? I’m tryna run a business here!” She slams her receiver. I jerk the phone clear of my face. My hand quivers as I place it back on the hook to silence the dial tone.

It is true. I am left behind with the sinners. People who curse at you and don’t care if you starve. I shouldn’t have thrown away the Cheerios.

I will never see my family again.

The empty rooms around me are big and small at the same time. They are ancient echoing caves where you find the bones of someone who used to live here. I went to church every Sunday just like everyone else. It’s not fair that I got left behind.

I peer into the living room, with the wedding china display in the breakfront I’m not allowed to touch, and the shelves with Grandma’s antique figurines that I dusted last weekend. Mom showed me how to do it. You pick up a figurine, you dust under it, and then you wipe the ceramic object itself before placing it back down.

There are little girls in prairie dresses, women in evening gowns, and my favorite, the lady with the reddish- brown curly hair, holding a basket and sitting by a sheep.

“Show me after you finish the top shelf,” Mom had said.

I showed her. She inspected. She dragged her finger in the back corner. It came off clean.

“Good work,” she said.

When I dusted the lower shelves, I alternated between picking up the pieces and dusting around them to make it go faster. Most of the figurines have a grayish tint and you can’t see the difference.

“I’m done!” I announced.

“You picked up every piece?” she asked.

“Yup,” I nodded.

“Good girl,” she said, patting my head and dropping the dust cloth in the laundry basket.

That was only last Sunday afternoon. I haven’t been to church or opened a Bible since then. I didn’t pray for forgiveness.

Lauren’s note mentioned a tract. Those are tiny pamphlets our church hands out to strangers at the beach.

I stumble back down the long hall, all the way to my bedroom, and sit on the edge of my bed. I pull my purple Devotions for Kids book into my lap. I open the front cover. There it is.

The pamphlet title reads, “What To Do If You’re Left Behind!” Under the text, a red devil sticks out his tongue.

Baby Bear faces me from the shelf by the window with his sewn-on goofy grin. I squint at him. He is a happy stuffed animal, but right now it feels like he is laughing at me. Like he knows something and I didn’t.

I read the tract.

Let’s face it, you’re screwed. All your friends are gone. What happens next? Satan’s evil minion the Antichrist will reign with his devil army, bringing open warfare, world famine, then an Earthquake blacks out the Sun! That’s only the beginning ... all the crops will burn and the sea will turn to blood. If the swarm of locusts doesn’t get you, it’ll be the 100-pound hail, and by the end you’ll wish you could die but won’t be able to!

Repent while there’s still time! Just say the simple prayer on the back page →

A piercing whine fills my ears. I hear the locusts coming. They’re tapping on the roof. The pendant lamp by my window sways like it was pushed by a ghost. The carpet rolls like ocean waves. My legs become dense sand. My whole body jerks as I shrivel off my bed to the carpet. Something is hitting me in the face.

Then I realize I am banging my head on the ground.

The devil’s army is sawing through the ceiling from the attic. My entire body tingles like a sleeping limb. I open my mouth to scream but can only make a small breathy sound.

“Mom—” I whispered. But she is in heaven with Lauren. She can’t hear me anymore. She will forget she was my mom so she can be happy.

I need to get out of the house before I get murdered. I try to crawl on the carpet, but my skin is prickly.

“Mom,” I mumbled. “Mom-mom-mom-mom.” I stop. I remember.

“Jesus,” I say.

The ringing in my ears stops.

Mom told me burglars can’t get me if I’m under my bed. Maybe I can stay there, at least until the warfare part is over. I close my eyes and squeeze my head under the bed frame. I stretch my arms forward to knock away the spiderwebs. The dust fills my nose and I sneeze. My hand hits something soft. It is somebody’s hair.

They don’t speak. I worry the mystery person is dead. Or they are pretending to be dead, so they can stab

me. I reach my arm out again and grab the hair, imagining it was the meanest girl in my kindergarten class. I yank it as hard as I can.

“Ow!” I scream.

My elbow hit the bed frame, right on my funny bone.

I pull my arm into my chest. I’m face-to-face with my Barbie doll. The hair was hers.

That’s when I realize the tract is wrong. I do have a friend who’s still here. My neighbor Kim’s whole family is Catholic. One time, they let me stay at their house for dinner and sent me home with a paper plate of falafels to share. Maybe, they will help me.

I scoot out from under the bed and get up on all fours.

The locusts will be waiting. I crawl really slow, holding my breath so I don’t make any noise. It takes me half an hour to get from my door to Lauren’s, then the hall turns a corner. The longest stretch of hallway takes me past the open double doors to my parents’ room. I inch forward, pressing my hands lightly into the rough

carpet. There are 17 locusts watching me, perched all over my parents’ room. As long as I don’t look, they won’t know I saw them, and they won’t attack. I keep my head down. Once I have a clear shot to the front door,

I gallop forward like a dog.

The last part was what I dreaded most. The front door always gets stuck. Sometimes only Dad is strong enough to get it open. I twist the lock on the knob and then turn the deadbolt. With my feet pressed into the ground, I grip the knob and lean back to yank the door with my body weight.

“Raa!” I grunt. It breaks open. A breeze drifts through the screen door. I unlatch it and step onto the shaded porch.

“Surprise!”

My mom, dad, and Lauren jump around the corner. They are alive!

It is a week until my seventh birthday. My face spreads into a grin. I look from face to face.

No one is holding balloons. No one is carrying a birthday cake.

My hands tingle. I crinkle my forehead and the world becomes dark. I crouch into a seat. The concrete is cool under my bottom.

“We got you good, huh, Snicker?” my dad says. Then, to someone else, “We got her good.”

I stretch my fingers over my face. I can’t stop crying. It’s coming out in heaves, one building on another, like an ax swinging at a tree.

My mom’s voice drifts down. “Let’s get her inside, the neighbors will hear.”

Her hands gently lift me from my armpits. I curl up on the carpet and muffle my cries by pressing my face into the dusty brown fibers. The wet snot muddles over my lips. No new tears are dripping from my eyes, but my heaves shake my whole body, sounding drained of color like silent screams.

Lauren pats my shoulder. “It’s okay, Lizzie,” she says.

I try to grunt in reply.

“Tickle tickle?” Lauren pokes my ribs and drags her finger on the sole of my foot. I’m the most ticklish person in the family, but I feel nothing. My body is like a swollen scar.

“Stop,” I whimper. “Please.”

I feel a dark shadow behind me where the shelves I lied about dusting beg to be inspected.

“Let her cry it out,” Mom says.

“You saw her read the tract, right? You think she got it?” Dad says.

“She looked right at the camera like she knew we were watching,” Mom says.

Lauren shuffles around like she’s just landed a cartwheel.

“Do you have the baby monitor?” my dad says.

“I’ll go get it,” Mom says.

The sound of her soft footsteps disappear for a moment, then return. She lowers Baby Bear in front of my face. I take the fuzzy stuffed animal and press it against my wet cheek. It helps me slow my breath. I don’t play with Baby Bear anymore but they’re giving it to me because I’m crying like a baby.

Dad kneels next to me, one knee on the floor, and the other pointing up, like a football player.

“We did this because we love you, you know that, right?” he says.

“Mmhmm,” I mumble.

“Are you ready to pray the sinner’s prayer?” Dad asks. His voice is low like it was a secret between us, but

I know everyone else is waiting.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

He lifts me onto the couch, and wraps his big arm around my shoulders. I curl my head against his chest, still gripping Baby Bear’s arm with my fingers.

“Repeat each line after me,” Dad says. “Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner.”

I whisper the words back. “Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner.”

I only have to pray it once. That’s how it works. Then this will never happen again.