The God's Child
The cameras flashed, dazzling the small Parisian apartment where a dozen people had jammed themselves together with their equipment. Everything centered around one figure, striking a most alluring pose. The clicking intensified as the photographers pushed to capture the best angle. Tall and slim, with long, luxurious, golden locks, the model was eye candy for any designer who had the skills to pique her interest.
Her name? No one knows for sure. Her agent advertises her with a stage name, never revealing her true identity. She comes and goes like a hurricane, never participating on social media nor mingling with staff; Yet leaving a sea of love-struck fans behind her. So much so that a nickname has been given to her by those in the business.
When heard, she would often express irritation and with pleading eyes would ask the nickname to cease. But in a city such as Paris, where fashion and drama mingle like star crossed lovers, such a modest plea only added to the charm.
A vibrating buzz cuts amidst the chorus of cameras.
One suited individual pauses and reaches for her cell. “Oui Allo?” She whispers tersely. The caller is speaking in a different language. As the stranger converses, the receiver’s face grows grimmer and grimmer. She shuts the phone and braces herself.
A shocked hush falls over the photographers as they gape at the suited lady. Interrupting a shoot was an unspoken taboo in the fashion industry. In doing so you are breaking the spell the models strive to achieve with every pose and expression. With bated breath they all turned to the Goddess, wondering how she would punish this impertinent mortal.
The Goddess merely motions her near. The young woman rushes forward, lips practically kissing the Goddess’s ear as she whispers an urgent message. A click is heard as a young man snaps a quick picture, but he is immediately bombarded by curses from those present and immediately deletes it. All this is lost on the two women. A dark shadow seems to appear around the Goddess’ usual pristine features.
She dismisses herself as the suited lady apologizes to the now irate crowd. The Goddess clasped on her white long coat. “Marie, come.” She calls quickly, opening the door impatiently.
Marie hands out the last business card, promising to reschedule the shoot, before quickly following her employer.
As they exit the old building, a chilly wind blasts through them. Winter has set on Paris and it wants to make itself known. The two women rush to the street as Marie tries to hail a cab. One finally pulls up. She opens the door for the Goddess and turns around and finds she has disappeared. Panic sets in. She does a quick glance and sees a mass of golden hair blowing in the breeze as the owner strides determinedly towards a familiar monument, The Notre Dame Cathedral.
“Sacre bleu!” Marie curses and asks the cab to wait. She manages to grab the Goddess’ hand right before the model opens the heavy wooden doors.
“Please Mademoiselle! We must hurry!” Marie begs, clutching her sleeve. “Do not test him.”
Silently, the Goddess ignores the plea and continues through the sacred threshold. The church is quiet, with only a few candles lighting her way as she walks through the aisle. Her heels click loudly against the stone floor, but finds the few worshippers there are too deep in prayer to notice. The beauty of the centuries old building is lost to her as dark thoughts seep into her mind.
“This building is built on lies.” She wants to scream, but knows it would do no good.
She pauses, finding what she was searching for. A gothic portrait stands before her, beautifully painted to show the poor and sickly raising their hands up to a kind and loving God set forth in the sky. Doves fly before him and the sun illuminates his whole being. This is the God people worship. The God that over half the population on Earth loves. The God that is the creator of all beings.
“I accept your challenge.” She declares, blue eyes flashing with undeniable hate.