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By Emmanuel Williams

Greetings, Lord Lestat – 

Forgive me. My last letter was months ago.

Forgive me, Vampire, for I have sinned.

I’ve dabbled in Christ and come up for air. I prayed and prayed. It helped for a while. Until my father died after I looked up the historical evidence for a man called Jesus from Nazareth.

There is record of him, but not of his words, sermons, or teachings. Not of his walking through the fields of what would now be the Middle East. All history knows is that Jesus and his followers were part of a Jewish Sect at a time when only the Torah was scripture. 

Without the New Testament, there is no Messiah. Look it up.

Did you know the New Testament is a series of books written by those who sought to enlarge believers in Jesus from Nazareth who was crucified by Pontias Pilate, was prone to ‘magic’,  and led a ? Basically these books were written, mainly as letters circulated between 37-500CE that were allowed into scripture by a group of churches who agreed upon the new narrative.

So when it came time for me to pray the rosary the night I heard my father died, I didn’t get half into it.

I could not pray the Our Father without bursting into tears about my own.

I tried again a few days later, but I ended up adding angry words to each prayer. You don’t even wanna hear my Hail Mary’s from that night.

Complete mockery!

Now, I’m not about to pray to you. Though if you’ve been paying attention, that may be all I’ve been doing the entire time. It’s just that I don’t have to be subservient to you or watch my vices or ask for your forgiveness because if I don’t you’ll send me to hell or block my progress in life if you haven’t heard from me in a while.

Or whatever they’re teaching in Sunday Schools and Christian Camps from the great United States to the new Middle East to South fucking Africa.

Do you mind if I pivot from religion into the real shit I’m living with? I’m not here to cowtail to some invisible audience who might read this, I’m talking to the demon I write letters to from the depths of my psychotic schizophrenia.

If I can’t fucking pray, I’m going to write.

Oh! Am I going to write my ass off. Bitching, complaining, whining, screeching and screaming off into the distance so that maybe, somewhere in the godforsaken fucking delivery, I find a solution, an inspiration… 

It’s like intelligent journaling.

I can’t just talk about what happened today as if the Gestapo stole my grandma and my aunt and won’t let me shop at the Circle K because that’s for Germans only.

But I’m no Anne Frank.

I’m a fucking professional.

In form, if not by title. And the latter will be the case by the time I’m shouting from my death bed for a nurse who will have mercy on my face by sitting on it.

Do I make myself clear?

Ever your servant!

You know who I am.