God appeared to me on Sunday morning. I was standing in the kitchen and blowing on the freshly brewed coffee. You know that period when the coffee is too hot to drink, but you take a sip anyway, and instead of taste, you feel a burn? I was blowing on the coffee with my burnt mouth when a crack appeared in the air in front of me, and light poured out. I just froze there with a duckface.
“Hello, Artem,” the crack said, “it’s me, God. I won’t explain, but you have to kill your son.”
“Wh— What?”
“I am your God. I command you to kill your son. Now go stab him or something.”
“Is that necessary? He’s not so bad if you get to know him better.”
“I am your God! When I tell you to kill your son, you ask how high.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I think you’re mixing metaphors.”
“It’s not meant to make sense to you. My ways are beyond your comprehension.”
“But you said ‘Do not kill...’”
“I have also listed many cases when you do kill. This is one of them.”
“But isn’t it bad to kill your sons?”
“I am a source of good. What I say is good. So, stop sassing and kill your son already.”
I hesitated. “It’s not just that it’s usually bad. It’s also illegal.”
“That’s okay. Later in court, you say that God commanded you to do it, and everything will work out fine.”
I looked down at the oily patterns swirling in my coffee. “I’m not sure they’ll believe me.”
“Don’t they believe in me?”
“Of course, it’s just... No one expects you to actually do anything.”
“Ridiculous! Everyone knows I’ve done this before. Go kill your son, or somehow vile will be by wrath.”
God can be convincing when he wants to be. I sipped my now-drinkable coffee and put the almost-full cup down on the countertop. Then I opened the knife drawer and started to choose the tool for the job. The chef’s knife was too big, and the one for cutting out bell pepper stems was too small. The twelve-centimeter utility knife was the right one. Besides, I wouldn’t want to use that knife after the kill, and I don’t ever use that one, anyway.
I went into Sashko’s room and stopped at his bedside. He was still asleep.
I brought the knife over him and froze.
“Well?” the Lord whispered, “Whatcha waiting for?”
I scowled. “This is when you say, ‘I’ve changed my mind.’”
“Not in this case. Come on, stab him.”
Sashko opened his eyes.
“Five more minutes?”
“No,” I said, not realizing to whom. “You can sleep.”
I went back to the kitchen. The shining crack was still there.
“How dare you disobey my orders?” the crack thundered.
I stared at the crack in reality and spoke despite my fear. “I realized you are not my God. My God is so omnipresent that He is invisible. He can be ignored all the time, unless I want to pray or blame him for some event. And you show up, shout, and demand I do asshole stuff. I don’t need such a god.”
“I’m not just a god. I am the God.”
“Then I will invent another one.”
The crack shivered in agitation. “You will pay for this! You will feel my wrath! At least after you die, that’s for sure.”
I picked up my coffee again and took a proper drink. “Then I have to enjoy my life while I can.”
Since then, God has not appeared to me. However, every time I lose a sock or the TV remote, I can’t help but wonder to myself—Is this his wrath?