The Book of Weston

I met a girl who claimed she saw a god who spoke to her and chose her as its own. At first, I heard only rumors; then one day, in the school bathroom, there she was: red-haired, pale, oddly shaped, with strangely wide hips reminiscent of those ancient Venus figurines. I'd heard she'd done things to her body she thought the god wanted her to do, preparing herself for its arrival, but nothing about her outward appearance seemed unusual. At first, we didn't say a word. Her gaze was dark, open, calm, like a lake at dusk. I was overcome. I asked if I could touch her. She consented. This was something the god told her was okay. So I caressed her, undressed her, but paused when I felt the sharp edges of things she had inserted inside herself. Shaken, I left and entered a nearby classroom. That's when things began to change. People's faces were morphing into unfamiliar versions of themselves, slowly like the change of clouds. The girl had told me that, as her god grew near, reality would bend to its will until I saw what it wanted me to see. Now in the classroom, I realized I couldn't remember my childhood. My classmate confirmed he felt it, too. Her god wanted us to forget. I stood and addressed the class. I urged them to remember, to hold onto their past, but they stared back with their strange faces, disoriented, before erupting into panicked chaos. I knelt and prayed, sweating, to my own god. Defiantly, I addressed the other, telling it I had a god, too. And my god was older, more powerful. And as I prayed, some of the distortions around me disappeared. But then the girl burst into the room, hair and eyes aflame. And in one glance at her, I felt the relief of myself dissolving into dust.