Fan Fiction ❯ Atheist Camp ❯ Chapter V ( Chapter 5 )

Atheist Camp

Chapter Five

 

By Violet Dragon

 

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I believe in ghosts, spirits, fairies, elves, unicorns, dragons, gnomes, psychics, aliens, the Loch Ness monster, Big Foot, forgotten gods and goddesses from Greek to Norse mythology, and tarot cards. So, if I can believe in these supernatural beings and all the metaphysical things in the universe, then what's so hard about believing in God? Well, let me correct myself: I believe in God, I've come to realize, but I just don't trust Him. I mean, what if He's just tricking us lowly humans into internal pain and suffering by following His word? What if He's exactly like the vengeful spirit described in the First Testament, the one who smites people for making mistakes? Or perhaps the one we think is God, is actually posing as Him, and the real God is hidden away, or imprisoned.

 

You people have no clue how painfully frustrating it is to debate about this subject constantly. I give myself a headache! My argumentative, untrusting nature has gotten me into a rut. My parents, logical and intelligent, tell me there's no scientific way to prove God's existence. Dominick and my own heart, both positive and full of ideals, tell me there's a way to find Him without the help of logic and science.

 

Naturally, this conflict of heart has gotten me into quite a bit of trouble, especially at camp. I haven't discussed my arguments with the counselors, but I was very infamous for getting into them. Every single adult sighed or groaned when I raised my hand during discussions in our camp, and my camp mates would not be too happy with me either.

 

The same old argument got pretty heated one night when Tye tripped over Fay Larker's backpack around the campfire.

 

Fay is about fourteen as far as I know, a young, shy girl who is usually sitting in a corner reading a book, or occasionally laughing quietly with her friends. Tye, the deviously clumsy trod he is, fell right onto his jaw in the rough dirt after catching his ankle in her backpack strap. Following this, an open box of condoms fell out of her bag. Of course, many of the local camp assholes felt it their duty to slap hands with each other and hoot about how Fay was apparently “scoring” lately.

 

Fay silently teared up and attempted to quietly pick up her belongings. Randy, one of the self-proclaimed camp assholes, proceeded to make kissy sounds at her and dry humped the air. This was getting to be a bit too much for me, especially when Tye weakly laughed along with them.

 

I stepped in between Fay and Randy's cronies, crossing my arms and putting on an authoritative, belligerent look.

 

“Piss off, Randy. Just because you're not getting any and she is, is no reason to pick on her. After all, you can't help that you have a tiny penis.” I smirked at him, wishing I could have come up with something better than what I just said. Nevertheless, it didn't take much to make Randy angry, so I worked with whatever material I could.

 

He laughed airily, and turned away slightly, looking at his guffawing friends. He turned back suddenly, his fist swung toward my face. It would have made contact, but instead suspended in front of my face, as I had grabbed his wrist with my right hand. Both of our arms trembled from the tenseness.

 

“You're full of shit,” I hiss. I pulled him closer, so that my mouth was right next to his ear. “You people and your stereotypes… you're obsessed with fucking, and fucking people over.”

 

“Let go of me, you three-fingered fuck!” He shouted shrilly in my face.

I think he was so much in shock about someone actually talking shit back to him that he could not do anything about that present moment. I hauled my knee sharply into his abdomen, following with him falling on the ground, doubled over and gasping for a fresh breath of air.

 

“You people,” breathe out, breathe in, “are so—fucked—up.”

 

And then my anger sort of snapped. It had never happened before, so at the time I did not realize what was really going on there. Apparently, my fists started pounding into Randy's sides, and cheek, and his left ear. This proceeded to go on for what seemed like satisfying hours on end.

 

“Hey!” I thought I heard a couple of his friends shout out.

 

All I saw was blackened anger from inside of me.

 

Randy swore and spat blood, tripping over the grass.

 

I kicked his crotch twice, and he screamed. All I saw was Dominick's blood gushing out of his head.

 

“Fuck man, stop it!” indiscernible people started shouting.

 

I slammed my elbow into his ribs (fortunately for me, not breaking any of them).

 

And then, several pairs of hands grabbed me and I was screaming, “Full of shit, motherfuckers!”

 

I felt my lips curling to reveal a nasty snarl. What a sight I must have been, my knuckles bloody, my mouth shooting out profanities. Later on I realized how crazy I was acting, especially for me. Usually I kept my temper in check—well, understatement right there. I had never truly yelled or fought with someone before that moment. Not in my entire life had I ever done anything so physically bold and mentally gratifying.

 

The same old argument hadn't really played out as it usually did. Nevertheless, I won as I usually did. The argument, as it was, consisted of how people were, well… “Full of shit.”

 

That kid, Randy, sure acted tough. He certainly wasn't a jock or preppy, but was much more fake than any of the popular kids. Why is it when you're popular in a group of teenagers, you act like a like someone you're not? Maybe it's the pressure that somehow, the younger kids look up to you, or that your parents want you to act like the child they always wanted. Whatever it was, I felt guilty for disliking them, because most of them could not help how they were. Others were every bit of how they appeared to be.

 

Those people who aren't true to themselves, and do things because they think other people will think better of them, or act a certain way to get a boy or girlfriend. Those people who slam their heads to a punk rock junkie party and don't know who The Ramones are. Those people who preach peace and the Ten Commandments and then go home to beat their soft, God-fearing little children. These are the people who are lost in the darkness of the world, that will spend a much longer time trying to find themselves than I would trying to find myself.

 

Then again, I was lost on a whole different, feverish level of fear. Even while surrounded by dozens upon dozens of people, I felt incurably lonely.

 

As predicted, I got into a rather large amount of trouble at the camp. The counselors almost considered sending me home, but I knew they didn't because they thought that I needed their guidance. I certainly did need and want guidance, but certainly not theirs.

 

I received perhaps four hours of lectures about fighting, violence, and peer pressure. I informed them that I had been feeling pressured by my peers, but informed them with an air of regret and reluctance. Apparently I played the part beautifully, and they let me off with warnings. It also helped that Randy had been in several and counting fights at the camp, and they had assumed that he started it. Which, technically, he had.

 

Later on that night, I was walking back to camp from a particularly soothing shower in the boys' bathrooms when I literally bumped into Fay. She looked terrified at a single thought of me, especially in the dark when no one was very near to us.

 

She stood there with her eyes wide and her body apparently frozen.

 

“Um…” I tried to think of something to say. “So, how about that race tomorrow?”

 

“I'm not having sex!” she blurted out.

 

There was an uncomfortable moment between us.

 

“Okay… I don't really care. I just don't like Randy. Are you scared of me?” I asked with my eyebrow raised.

 

“Not really,” she replied.

 

“Good, because I'm not scary.” I said, hoping it was true.

 

She smiled shyly. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “you were when you snapped and beat the shit out of that asshole.”

 

Her use of language surprised me. I hadn't expected someone of her demeanor to use it, I suppose.

 

“Oh.” I frowned. “Sorry.”

 

“Maybe you should find other ways to vent… like talking,” she said, almost in a sarcastic tone of voice.

 

Nevertheless, she was right, as her kind usually are.

 

 

A/N—I despise this chapter. I profoundly apologize for its lack of quality writing. Hopefully the next chapter will be more on track.