Chapter Text
It was 1997, december 24th. It was the day before chrismas, which meant there was snow covering the streets and icicles hanging off the roofs of every house. It also meant that the dude was busy praying in the church. The closest church was in the worst side of town, the ghetto side. Yet, the sound of little kids singing in choir and the whispered prayers of older folk brought him comfort. These few months, it felt like he was going insane. He went to church almost daily, his walls covered in crosses and pictures of Jesus. Not because he was heavily religious, but because he desperately hoped that increasing his connection to God would silence the voices. In the modern age, a person experiencing this would go to a psychiatrist. But in 1997? You'd either get shoved in a mental asylum or get forced into an exorcism.
Everyday since he moved to this town felt like hell. The people were assholes, they were violent, and they were sinful. The young women pranced around half naked, the men carried guns, and the older folk glared at you like you were the dirt on their shoe. It wasn't correct. At first, he gave these people the benefit of the doubt, but now, he saw the truth. They were vermin. They were filthy, and he was heavenly. God must've sent him to this town to save these people. It wasn't a good way to think, but it was the only thought process that made sense to him. Everyone here sinned, not the Dude. The dude went to church regularly, prayed, didn't use Gods name in vain, didn't lie, and always loved his neighbours. Even if they didn't deserve it. The voices agreed with him. It told him he was right, he was heavenly. But don't get him wrong, he didn't think he was a God. He merely thought he was a savant sent by God.
But there was one person in this town that stood out, one person who was also holy in his eyes. That person was you. Dude would watch in awe each time you left your house to walk your dog. He'd wake up early to stare out his window as you did your morning routine regardless of the weather. Most women in this town that were your age were either whores in the eyes of dude, or washed up, moody house wives. You were modest, you were kind. You always smiled when you passed by him. He found himself learning your schedule just so you could walk past him and smile. And your eyes... Whenever that gorgeous light they held got directed towards him, it felt like he could hear the angels sing.
He never dared talking to you. He wasn't worthy yet. The only reason he hasn't listened to the voices in his head that told him to burn this town to the ground is because he feared your reaction. You didn't know his name, or anything about him, yet you were the only thing keeping him sane. He was dragged from his deep thought when he felt someone sit beside him in the pew. It was you. He glanced at you and what you wore. You were wearing long jeans and a cute cardigan. Actually, it was a normal cardigan, but to him it was adorable. He felt his thoughts fade, all that mattered was that you chose to sit next to him. His heart swelled with pride, feeling like he was getting an early Christmas gift.
The priest spoke and it was time for all to stand, everyone did. Then they all fell to their knees in silent prayer. This was a sacred and holy place, yet his mind held thoughts that were purely sinful as he saw you on your knees. He tried to stop thinking that way of you, surely God would take you away from him if he couldn't even keep his mind clear in such a moment. A wave of nausea washed over him. He felt disgusted in himself for his thoughts, he also was beyond afraid that you might never smile at him again. All these thoughts were beyond paranoic, but right now, they were the reason he was on the verge of tears behind his sunglasses. He couldn't stay here, around you. While everyone was praying, he stood up and left the church swiftly. He failed Gods test. In his mind, you came next to him as a test from God to see if he can keep his thoughts pure, but he couldn't. He was no better than the whores giving blow jobs in alleyways.
He walked without thinking, trudging along into a dingy bar. He knew he was on the bad side of town and in a bad bar since he saw coloured people in it. He was used to pure white spaces, but he didn't deserve it this time. He deserved to slum it with the people of different upbringing. The dude wasn't racist. Atleast not when compared to your average American in this current age. He avoided bars, knowing how sinful they were, but currently he was no better. He ordered a whiskey, drinking slowly like the bible allows. But eventually, the strong burn felt too good and he was hammered.
"First time here and you're already drunk. Thought you were a golden boy" The bartender, a black man, said with a condesending smirk. The dude was too drunk to be rightous.
"Im a failure in Gods eyes... He blessed me with my angel, and all i could think about was her sucking my dick." he slurred tiredly, his eyes drooping behind his sunglasses. He didn't care about what he was saying currently. He just wanted someone to hear him and to tell God that he's sorry. The bartender laughed, glancing at the other patrons.
"Aint that the truth. We're all saints until a fine chick walks by. Thats just our nature as men" He said. Those words brought solice to Dude. Even if he was holier than others, he was still just a man. He wasn't a priest, he had no obligation to stay celibate or not think about sexual things.
"You think God will forgive me?" he asked, his voice lower and more desperate.
"Give a donation and God will forgive anything" The bartender joked but dude took it to heart. It was true in a way, as long as you gave a donation, those priests will tell you anything you wanna hear. Isnt capitalism great?
"Want some real advice?" The bartender asked, noticing how Dude was actually listening and thinking about his advice. Dude nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line.
"All women want one thing, just like men. No matter how holy she seems." He said. "So next time you see her, make a move. Women want a man, not some do-gooder pussy." He added and Dude nodded. Dude reached into his pocket, hanging over his remaining cash over to the bartender to pay off his tab. He gave too much, but the bartender didn't mention it. Scamming people was part of the job. Dude stood from the bar stool and almost fell over while trying to leave the bar.
While slowly trudging home through the slippery sidewalks of the ghetto that no one bothered to scrap, he completely ignored everything going on around him. He ignored the homeless folk shivering in the alley, he ignored the mean looking black men that stared him down. He ignored the distant sounds of gunshots and screams, only having one thing on his mind. That thing was you, more specifically; how he'd seduce you and make a good impression. Turns out, drunk people who are lost in thought tend to be clumsy. A simple slip on the ice and suddenly he was laying flat on the ground, a small puddle of blood around his head. He slipped and cracked his head on some damn rock.
When he woke up, he surprisingly wasn't in a hospital with a pile of bills, rather he was on a soft couch. His head was throbbing and it seemed like everything was slowed and ringing currently. He was about to jump up and run for the door when he suddenly saw you. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, thinking that surely he was seeing things. But no, his brain could never fake such a perfect smile so well. You sat beside him on the edge of the couch.
"Hey... You're finally waking up. I was walking home from church when i saw you face down with blood everywhere. I thought you were dead, but i checked your pulse and heard your breathing. I flipped you over and-... Gosh, I'm rambling... Point is, I decided to take you back to my home because i didnt think the injury is that serious and I don't wanna bombard you with hospital bills" You say, judging by his blank face, you thought you were anoying him. In reality, he was trying not reach out and hug you for not only saving his wallet, but also for being so cute.
"Thank you" He grumbled, his voice low and hoarse. He was dehydrated as hell. His green eyes stared into yours, travelling all over you like you'd be art in a museum. He sat up with a groan, touching his forhead that was bandaged up thanks to you.
"It was the right thing to do, no need to thank me" You say. Those words made him melt. You were such an angel, so perfect and kind. He'd kill everyone if it meant keeping you pure. He glanced at your hands, noticing the lack of any ring. That him feel even more protective.
"Can i ask something?" he spoke up quietly. You nodded, waiting for him to continue.
"Do you think God can forgive? Can forgive a man who failed God's test of control?" his words came out silent, almost like he was afraid you'd say no and he'd have no other option but to kill himself. Maybe that seemed drastic, but it was the only right thing to do in his mind. He'd kill himself with no regrets if you promised to meet him in heaven. You found the question odd but assumed that he was asking wierd things because he had hit his head.
"Of course. God forgives all his children and creations. You just have to repent and pray" You say softly, looking into his eyes. His eyes got glassy as they filled with tears. You were worried you might've said something wrong, but then he hesitantly reached out his hand and held yours. You were also hesitant, but gently squeezed his hand to bring him reassurance. He didn't say anything, but the apprieciation in his eyes was clear. It was for the best that he kept quiet, he feared the words he would spill if he opened his mouth. Touching your hand already made him feel like he's in heaven. He was savouring this moment, it felt like he'd crumble without your touch right now.
"Are you thristy, hungry? Maybe you need to use the bathroom?" You ask, having that caring look in your eyes that plunged him deeper into his lovesick delusions.
"Thirsty. Water, please" He grumbled. He stopped his breathing for a few seconds when you let go of his hand and stood up, walking to your kitchen. He stared at his hand, regaining his breath and without thinking, kissing his hand. It felt so sinful, it felt like he had tricked you, but the warm, fuzzy feeling in his abdomen made it worth it. He hadn't felt this alive since he moved here, and all he was doing was kissing his own hand. As he heard you approach, he quickly moved his hand from his mouth, not wanting to weird you out.
You walked up and held the cup of water to his lips. You expected him to take the cup into his hands, instead he parted his lips, wanting you to give him the water. You brushed it off as just affects from a head injury and used one hand to hold his chin in place and used the other to gently pour in water. Your thumb resting on his goatee, your other fingers on his throat. You felt his throat contract as he swallowed. His current eye contact was intense... You continued slowly pouring water into his mouth until the cup was empty. He mumbled a 'thank you' as you placed the empty cup on the coffee table.
"I'm still not sure rather or not you need to go to the hospital... Mind if i ask some questions?" You ask. You were no doctor, you just hapenned to watch a few doctor shows and were trying to do all you could with your given knowledge. He nodded.
"Whats your full legal name?" You asked, tilting your head. He paused for a few seconds before responding.
"Dude... Postal Dude Senior" He said. You were about to laugh and ask him to be serious, but he did seem dead serious. You had no clue rather he just had a odd name or he was struggling with his head.
"What country and state are we in?" You ask, knowing this would give you a better understanding of rather or not he was thinking straight.
"We're in America, Arizona, Paradise." He said. Spot on, he was correct. That meant he was right about his name. You surely wouldnt forget about that anytime soon.
"Year and date?" You ask. This was gonna be your final question since it seemed like all was in order.
"1997, december 24th, day before christmas." He said, a small smile on his face at the mention of christmas. Not because he had any family to spend the day with, but because spending this time with you was a gift he'd never forget. He'd bash his head into a rock anyday of the week if it meant he got the chance to talk to you and touch you.
"Well, it seems your fine. I can lead you home, make sure you don't slip again" You say and he nodded, slowly standing up. Standing up made a wave of nausea wash over him, he suddenly felt incredibly sick. You noticed and quickly wrapped your arms around his lanky waist to keep him from falling.
"I'm fine..." He said softly, looking into your eyes. He didnt push your hands away though, letting you hold him and make sure he doesnt tumble. You lead him outside, his steps uneven, making him seem drunk. He'd probably pass out when he was home, but he wouldnt admit that. No way he'd make you worry more than you already have. You walked him down the street, one arm around his waist, and one of his arms tossed over your shoulder. His face was red and his abdomen felt like it was on fire. So much touch and attention from you made him feel like he was on a cloud, but all the pain and nausea were totally ruining the moment.
You led him to his yard, giving his old, dilapidated fence a once-over glance. His home also looked worse for wear than others in the neighbourhood. You wanted to lead him inside, but as you stepped near the fence, a pitbull came running at you, growling and barking. Before the dude could react, the pitbull pounced on you, knocking the both of you down. Dude was feeling sluggish from the sudden hit, but your agonizing scream brought him back to reality. His cursed pitbull was chomping down on your arm, shaking his head as he was basically trying to tear your arm off. It felt like Dude's world was crashing down.
"DOWN CHAMP!" He yelled, tugging on champ's collar with any strength he had, making champ growl but let go. He stared at you with wide, worried eyes. Your arm was bleeding and cardigan was ripped. You stumbled to your feet, not saying a word and running off towards your home. He was gonna fucking gut his damn dog. Little bastard hurt you. Dude stood up slowly, still holding champ by his collar. He was absolutely furious. Without hesitation, he kicked the poor dog square in the stomach, making his whimper and jump back.
"You're a demon, arent you?! Trying to hurt her and make me look bad!?" He yelled at his dog. Seeing you hurt, his mind was reeling. All he could hear was your scream, the world suddenly seemed dark. His mind was playing tricks on him, he could swear that champ just spoke and mocked him for being too weak.
"If you deserved her, you would've helped her in time" Champ barked. Champ's voice was like a whinier version of his, because it was just his subconsious making up hallucinations. This, however, only enraged dude even more and made him kick the dog again. Champ, using his strength tugged himself out of the dudes grip and ran for his little dog house, cowering and whimpering quietly. Dude clenched his fists, ready to strangle that devil hound before his mind suddenly filled him with a more terrifying thought: what would you think if you saw him killing his dog? You'd hate him more than you do now. He couldn't handle that. That one thought was the only thing that ensure champ stayed alive another day. He went inside, knowing he needed to find something else to do to take out his anger.
Inside his home, he went straight for his closet where he had his special collection. His collection of guns and ammo. Who gave clarence to a man like him to own a gun? Don't ask me, American gun laws were always shit. He grabbed his little submachine gun, gently stroking the barrel. His hands shook as he brought the barrel to his lips. But he wasn't going to shoot himself, even if he wanted to. Instead, he whispered a prayer against the gun, closing his eyes. He could clear this town of its vermon with this very gun. He would, but not yet. Just being close to his precious gun brought him a sense of peace and control. But he still had hope, hope that those people would save their souls from evil, that they wouldn't force him to make drastic decisions. That was the main reason he hasn't gone gun crazy yet. He gently placed it on the gunrack again and went back to his living room, sitting on the couch and turning on his TV to watch the news.
The news were full of crimes that happened today, making his hope slowly wither away more. Soon, the sound of the Tv became mere murmurs as his thoughts spiraled back to you. Would you ever talk to him again? Would you regret helping him? He wasn't sure if he could live in a world where you hate him.