Джон Литтл: The Murder of Jesus Christ

After deplaning, I caught a taxi and headed to my grandmother’s place.

The memory of Ariela Abelman covered me like a warm blanket. The place was still the way she left it. Clean, neat, almost spartan.

I had picked up a six-pack of beer on the way. I popped one now.

“Here’s to you, Grandma!”

The beer went down smoothly. That was something else I hadn’t experienced in six months.

Grandma’s home was dead silent. I resisted the urge to turn on the television or otherwise find music. Ariela deserved the quiet.

The packages she had left me were still on the table. The family tree, the documents, and most importantly the description of Shelljah and how it would allow me to move backward in time. I thought of how ridiculous that sounded the first time I read it, but of course, like everything else Grandma had taught me, it was the truth.

I still didn’t know if my travel back to Galilee had helped or hurt the world. Probably hurt. I’d gone back to murder Jesus for what seemed like perfectly good reasons, but the six million Jews I tried to save ended up all dying along with an extra four million.

How could that be a win?

Christianity was now replaced by Saboism, but there were far fewer converts.

Erika herself seemed to recognize the difficulty in spreading her word. The only consolation was that it took Christianity a few hundred years to fully develop, so maybe my hopes were too extreme.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Erika.”

Then I thought I heard an answering voice. My grandmother’s voice. I smiled as I could hear her saying, “Of course she knows what she’s doing. She’s God’s daughter, and she speaks for Him, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Well then. That should be enough.”

Yes, it should.

“I miss you, Grandma. I wish you were still here with me.”

“I’ll always be with you, David.”

I smiled, wishing it was truly her voice. My thoughts would have to suffice for now.

Later that day, the doorbell rang. I opened it to see a smiling real estate agent.

She thrust out her hand and I took it to shake. Before she even said a word, I could tell she was full of enthusiasm. That’s good. I wanted to be around positive people right then.

“David, I’m Gwen Singleton. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

I nodded and smiled. “Please come in.”

She rushed past me as if she were late for an appointment. In fact, she was ten minutes early.

“It’s my late grandmother’s place,” I said.

Gwen walked quickly around the kitchen, stopping to stare at the appliances. They were old.

“I’m not interested in replacing them or doing any other upgrades. It’s a sell-as-it-is kind of thing.”

“You’ll definitely get top dollar if you wanted to consider—”

“No.”

She turned to stare at me, and for the first time, I saw her standing still and relaxed. She was about forty years old, white-blond-colored short hair. Pretty, I suppose, but all business.

“I certainly understand.”

“Do you?”

“I—well, I don’t know the exact circumstances, of course, but other clients have been busy and not interested in upgrades. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much, though, to really bring out the character of a place. Just a few touches would—”

“Please stop.” I held out my hand to reinforce my words. She nodded and smiled.

“Of course.”

“I won’t be here. I will sign whatever papers you want me to, to give you sole ability to act on my behalf. I just want the house sold as soon as possible.”

“I can do that.”

I gave Gwen a short tour through the place, which didn’t take long. Then I told her the rest of my plan, including that all proceeds were to be donated to the Founding Church of Saboism. By then, if she was surprised, she no longer showed it.

The drive to the airport in my rented car seemed to take forever. Of course, I wasn’t in any hurry. It would be my last visit to Minneapolis, and I wanted to enjoy it.

The midnight flight to New York City landed a little after 2:00 a.m. I retrieved my Camry from the parkade and drove in silence back to Aynsville.

I slept like a dead man and didn’t wake until 10:30 in the morning.

After a short shower, I grabbed a coffee from the main eatery and toasted a bagel.

I couldn’t think of any other reason to delay, so I walked around looking for Erika. I found her in the small garden in the back of the church. She was sitting on a beautiful stone bench. When she saw me, she looked up and forced herself to smile.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. Her voice was soft, tinny, almost a ghost.

I sat beside her, and we locked eyes. We both knew why I had come to see her.

“How are you doing?” I asked. Silly question, I know.

“As well as I could be.”

“Any regrets?”

She paused and considered before replying. “I came here to fight Satan, sin, and death. I’ll be rejoining my father after conquering all three, so no, no regrets.”

I leaned over and hugged her. I knew I was stalling. I took a deep breath, and Erika closed her eyes.

My hands found her neck and started to squeeze.

Erika tried to stay still, but she started to shake. Her eyes opened and stared at me.

I squeezed harder and then harder still. She somehow was still able to get a small amount of breath. Finally, she started to panic. All of a sudden she was a flurry of fighting. She hit me and tried to pull away. I didn’t let go, using the panic as a way to gain more strength and squeeze harder still.

Her eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets.

I hated that it was taking so long and I was making her suffer. She tried to kick me but couldn’t get enough leverage to do anything serious. That’s when she reached out and pushed a thumb into my left eye.

I called out in pain and shook my head. I must have loosened my hold on her, because I heard her gasp. Damn.

Tears flowed down my face. I didn’t know at the time if it was from the pain she’d caused or for the horrible thing I was doing to a woman I loved.

Either way, I wanted this to be over.

Finally, I took a different tactic. I pushed her down rapidly, so she was lying on the bench. Then I grabbed her head and smashed it on the hard rock of the seat. She cried out in pain, but she still fought with her hands and tried to climb away.

The second time her head smashed onto the stone, I heard a loud crack. The third time, the sound was more muted, softer.

Erika stopped fighting.

I smashed her skull one last time.

The whole bench seemed to be covered with her blood, a flood of it. I knew she was dead; I turned to the side and threw up.

The whole thing had felt like it’d taken hours, but I’m sure in reality it’d only been a couple minutes.

A couple of minutes that changed the world.

Saboism had had a great start, but the movement needed more. It needed a martyr.

More importantly, it needed the ladder to heaven that Erika had promised she would be. All humans would be forgiven of their sins and find their way to heaven if they would only believe in Erika Sabo. Her blood was humanity’s route to salvation.

The courtyard was deadly quiet.

I grabbed my phone from my pocket and called 911.

“I just murdered Erika Sabo.”

After I said the words, I was overcome with guilt, and I dropped to the ground, quietly letting my head rest on Erika’s leg. I cried until the police came to take me away.

I’m near the end of my story. I hope putting it down into a logical sequence has helped paint the bigger story.

When I was arrested, I was taken to a jail cell in Albany because of security concerns with holding me in the tiny police station in Aynsville. I was arraigned the following morning and I pleaded guilty immediately. I was assigned a court appointed attorney, because I’d donated every last cent I had to the church.