THE GOSPEL TRUTH

By
The Dumb-Founded Youth

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My name is William Berwick. I was raised in care. My foster name was Billy Mills. That is who I was until I was eleven years of age, when she took me to live at a boarding school—and they called me number twenty-eight.

I regarded my next-of-kin as the parents who took me in and provided me with foster care until that fateful day. I adopted their family name as my own, and I would have grown up in their family home if my social worker had left me alone. Even though, for bad behaviour and non-compliance, my foster parents’ punishments were flaming cruel—nothing like the one I had to endure when I arrived at boarding school.

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They should imprison the flaming criminal. And those flaming child welfare idiots. Or whoever decided to separate me from my next of kin and commit the sin of leaving me in such a vulnerable position that some flaming dick took the mick and abused their affection for a boy with no home. I could not refuse their flaming homeless charity. I had no flaming rights, no flaming choice. The flaming dick made me sick. It silenced my voice and troubled my mind—and I never recovered from the injuries it inflicted on my soul.

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Lost and alone, suffering from heartbreak and depression, I spent much of my life searching for my actual family, my natural home, and my authentic self—but to no avail. Then, one day, I felt up and in luck, that I never gave up—and I fell in love with a girl.

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I cannot recall her being pure and gentle. Through her rough, tainted love, I despaired. I felt used. Cunning and unfaithfulness oozed through her pubes like a foul spring. Even though she was wiry and disloyal, I tried to uncoil her and spoil her for years. But then, when I shouted out, “FOUL,” she pulled me out for coming up short—and I thought, “I’ll have to sleep rough up the tough Cinque Port.” And so, I was incredibly pleased when she gave me the means to sleep rough on the hard floor at Clovelly.

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With a yellow belly, sorrow lifted my blackened eyes, and I gazed longingly towards the grey, cloudy skies. I sat behind the bay window overlooking the sea. I cried broken tears and wore my heart on my sleeve. I waited, endlessly, by the silent phone—wondering, wordlessly, “How did I get to be so lost and alone?”

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With no cash in my pocket, no job, and no means, combing the beach was my only stream. I looked for broke objects to sell, unaware of the stare of the devil itself—and the stealth of the help—when I yelled, “I CAN SEE,” and a mist crept in and brought me a dream.

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Nobody knew the reason why I never had a dream come true. All I could do was try to end the paralysis. Whoever thought this was possible?

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Suddenly, Christ shrouded my troubled mind—and I found my authentic self, dreaming. I was sitting with a leg on each side of the Lamb, travelling back through the passage of time, on a mission to find the spirit I lost when my troubles had first begun. My mind was besieged with biblical visions and a voice I thought was divine. We followed what I thought were heavenly signs—right back to the beginning of time. I repented my sins before God, and God tasked me with a job: to show Christ’s face to all people in return for peace on earth. Others then came to the ground, and the mist at Romney Sands dispersed.

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A berserk clergyman saw me following my dream—like a madman, holy-obsessed. An ambulance arrived. I was examined inside and then driven to A&E for tests. The doctor said I was psychotic, which got me sectioned for treatment. Then, a few days of waiting around later, my mind was trouble-free. But to my mind, it was no coincidence—like the flaming psychiatrist had suggested—that I found the broke objects I thought I might find each time I combed the beach. Which felt chilling. And the chilly-looking spirits I saw hidden in the thickets appeared in great numbers. It was as though hundreds of host hunters had come to the ground and were hiding and waiting for me to arrive—before hijacking me and driving me mad.

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I thought the spirit of a vole-like rat—that left behind that muddy sign that said “I am Law” on the kitchen floor—had hijacked me, taken over my mind, manoeuvred my body and the objects I’d find, and compelled me to take more and more objects home. I created an entire series of ornaments and displays that looked like a whole craze of collected parts of dead bodies, assembled in a tavern and put on display—like suspects on an otherworldly identity parade. It hosted a suspicious, unearthly whodunit, to do with an arrow and the devil’s eye, and age-old games of cat and mouse—like in Scooby-Doo resumed—when the startling range of strange ghostly showings and mysterious happenings occurred inside the vole’s vile saloon.

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Then, one night in bed, the Holy Ghost came and said, “Discard the dreadful presence evidence the rat shows.” And so, I did as I was told. And in its place, amazing proof evolved.

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With absolutely no artistic flair or fine painting expertise, I suddenly felt compelled to buy some art supplies. When the supplies arrived, I sprayed tap water on a small sheet of white craft card and added several drops of green-coloured paint before washing the card liberally with an artist’s brush and laying the card to one side. I then walked away—and when I returned, a phenomenal work of art depicting “THE BROTHER OF MAN AND OTHERS” had covered the card, completely unaided, as the colour wash dried.

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I never tried to paint Christ’s face in any way, shape, or form. Instead, I washed the card liberally with water and paint, and then I laid the card to one side to dry. When I checked to see if the card had dried, I was surprised to find Christ had arrived. I saw it as a sign that my mind was fine—in fact, my dream had come true. It prompted me to act on the job God tasked me with doing. So, I had the card expertly mounted and framed. Then, I stored it away with the hope of finding a place to display it somewhere in the public domain. But my true story did not end here.

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Without fear, I smeared more cards with water and paint—and more heads of ghosts evolved. Then slowly, the ghosts retreated and reseeded my injured soul. And so, I swept up my heart and put it away. I did not want it used or abused ever again.

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Today, I am no longer subjected to flaming abuse—but they still torment the boy in my mind. I aspire to leave my past behind, marry, and live a long, happy, and prosperous life—with a wife, a job, and the spirit I lost when my troubles had first begun. Thanks to God the Father, the Holy Ghost, and Jesus Christ the Son.

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