Chapter Text
For most of his life, John the Beloved Disciple was nameless.
He was, of course, given a name at birth by men. As if he was born into darkness, he always knew this original name was never his own. This estrangement from himself gave him this constant ache, his heart an indefinitely unanswered question: who was he?
He spent his life in misery tethered to the image of Eve that haunted his reflection. The years living like this hell weighed him down. He felt like he was drowning, like a walking mis-translation. As a kid, he would wait for his brother to fall asleep so he could pray to wake up as a boy the next day. He was foolish, afraid if he didn’t speak the prayer aloud, God wouldn’t hear him. Before dawn, the nightmares plaguing his sleep would jolt him from slumber and he’d cover his head with his blanket, fervently whispering Psalms through hushed tears.
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety.
He lowered his blanket and scanned the room around him, searching for a sign God had heard him. The room remained silent, save for his brother’s occasional snores and he could hear the Sea of Galilee crashing on the shore outside. He tried to make out what God was saying to him through the waves but he only cried harder when it made no sense. He didn’t know why he kept praying at this point; nothing ever happened.
I am weary with my groaning: all the night make I my bed to swim: I water my couch with my tears.
The verse reminded him of a dream he often had of the sea flooding his room. His bed floated like a lifeboat. In the moonlight shining through his window, he could see all the belongings he hid beneath his bed slowly bobbing to the surface.
His journal, falling apart.
The yamaka he had stolen from his brother.
The doll that he cut the hair off of, dressing it up as a boy before hiding it in shame.
The water would then turn dark and rocked violently. He knew somehow it had turned to blood that looked like a churning black abyss in the moonlight. In his attempts to hide all the objects swimming around his bed, he became sucked into the tide, his mouth and throat overcome with the taste of metal as he tried to breathe through the blood, hearing only the faintest sounds of his brother screaming for him. He always woke up before the dream got a chance to end.
—
Many nights went by like this, the nights turned into weeks, then months. The disciple whom Jesus would love was then old enough to sneak out on his father’s fishing boat at night. He often closed his eyes and let the gentle rocking of the boat calm his heart. He was, of course, reminded of his childhood nightmare, yet the dream always felt like someone else’s memory that was haunting his mind.
—
“God made you a woman,” his father was telling him. “Are you going to sit here and tell me He was mistaken?”
The disciple didn’t look up from where he was hemming his tunic, even though his tears were falling and blossoming stains into the fabric. He was 20 years old having the same argument for what felt like the 100th night in a row.
His father crouched down trying to get his son to look at him.
“I just don’t understand, sweetheart.”
The nickname felt like a stab in the gut.
“I mean, you’re so beautiful… and I love you.”
He felt the knife twist.
“I love you too, Dad.”
He threw his handiwork on the ground and pushed past his father. He really meant it. He loved his father, he loved his family, but he couldn’t keep living like this and he hadn’t the first clue as to how to make them understand this, so he stopped trying. he left through the backdoor of the house, the voice of his father drowned out by the roar of blood gushing in his ears.
No one chased after him as he left.
The disciple couldn’t bring himself to be angry with his family. As much as his parents hurt him, it only saddened him that he could not make them understand. It saddened him there was this barrier, that no matter how hard they tried to love him, they would keep causing him pain. They knew not what they did. No matter how hard they tried to save him, they were killing him.
He found himself on his knees at the shore, sinking into the sand. The Sea of Galilee was spread out, engulfing the horizon. The tide just barely reached his legs as the wave crashed. He felt so alone.
How long, LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?
That's who he was angry with. He looked up to the deep, inky sky and it made him dizzy. Dirty looking clouds covered the stars. The moon was full but diluted in the gray fog, as if God Himself was turning a blind eye to His unfaithful servant. His angel, born with clipped wings begging to fly home.
“All those years,” the disciple shouted, though he hated the sound of his voice, “of praying every single night and You couldn’t muster up one miracle?”
Despite himself, he paused in the vain hope he would receive a reply.
“I have tried so hard to understand this trial You are putting me through, Lord. Look into my heart, know that I do not lie! My parents should not be my own enemies; my brother should know me as his brother, how much longer will I endure this? How can I be expected to love from this prison of a body?”
His breath was as voracious as the tide ahead of him.
Nothing happened.
With a sinking feeling in his gut, John made his resolve.
“I pray you will forgive me, though I cannot forgive you,” he searched the sky for only a moment longer. “I’ve nowhere left to hide, Lord.”
Without standing up, the disciple whom Jesus would love began crawling toward the monstrous tide.