That could be part of the reason I had to improvise in that department
too. Unfortunately my grandmother didn't have any devil statues lying
around that I could use for my bad guy, but her strawberry-red hair
brush did the trick. It was just about as big as the Jesus statue and
the wispy hairs in its bristles made an eerily distorted face, which I
thought was appropriate--as long as I squinted hard enough to see it.
Atop the high peaks of the dresser, nightstand, and television, Jesus
and the Devil fought for the freedom of humanity. The stage was set,
it all came down to this. Somehow these battles, between a color-faded
Jesus statue and a plastic comb-devil seemed more intense, like the
skies above were watching with interest for the outcome of the
struggle. I had more of a responsibility to make sure things ended up
right.
"You will die!" I said for the Devil, moving the comb handle down the
dresser towards Jesus. The comb, though, emanated hatred. It wasn't a
comb. Once committed, my child eyes saw no comb, only the shapeless
figure that made up the Devil.
"You will never prevail," Jesus responded triumphantly, sending his
foot in a sideways ninja kick that met the Devil mid-stride. The red
comb bounced back toward the precipice of the dresser, the highest
area of the room. Below, the floor, a bottomless pit of nothingness
loomed as the Devil struggled to hang on to the edge.
"Damn you," the Devil sneered, slipping off the ledge and into the abyss.
There Jesus stood, victorious and humble, his expression unchanged. I
did this kind of thing on multiple occasions, sometimes in front of my
grandmother while she napped, hoping, for some reason, to give her
dreams of the dramatic duels.
"Did you have any dreams while you were sleeping Grandma?" I asked.
"Yeah, I think so," she said. "I can't remember them though."
I smiled to myself.
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