I Am God
It was just another monotonous grey morning in City of London, the kind where the sky blends into the concrete mountains and sky filled with steel and glass, and where everything seems dulled and diluted by drizzle.
I walked through Piccadilly Circus, unnoticed by the endless crowd beneath the flickering neon signs.
No one gave a second glance to the man in the simple robe, bare feet trudging over the cold pavement, hair and beard wild and tangled, swept up in a seemingly unrelenting wind. That man was me. I called myself Jesus.
At first, people ignored me. Just as they always do. Londoners are used to strangers rambling on street corners, lost in their own delusions.
But when I began to speak, I could feel the air shift. “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” I declared, standing atop a worn soapbox that was barely holding together.
My voice, it seemed, louder than usual as though somehow it could now easily cut through the city’s usual rhetoric noise.
Each word, each sentence settling over the busy street. Some stopped to listen, out of curiosity. Others just laughed. I heard a woman sniggering as she filmed me on her phone, mocking me, “Look at this nutter! He thinks he’s Jesus!”
But more people began to gather over the next few days. A small crowd, at first, but their eyes—oh, the way they looked at me. Some with curiosity, others with disbelief.
And then there were those who stared with an intensity that suggested they could feel something deeper, much deeper going on.
My eyes met theirs, and I could feel it—this pull, as if somehow they knew, exactly, who I was. Still, in the age of smartphones, social media, and cynicism, my words were met with more derision than devotion. And soon enough, the police took notice. Just as I knew they would.
One evening, cold and sharp with the bite of the city, two officers approached me.
“Alright, mate, time to move on,” one of them said, his hand hovering near his radio.
I smiled at him, feeling that deep warmth inside. “I bring salvation,” I replied, “not chaos.”
They didn’t understand, and I wasn’t surprised. My resistance was passive, but it wasn’t long before I was arrested, sectioned under the Mental Health Act, and sent immediately to St. Bartholomew’s Hosptal.
I’d heard about the place before, whispered stories of those who went in and never came out. Not the same anyway!
A place for the disturbed, and mentally deranged they said. I wasn’t disturbed. I wasn’t deranged – I was… just misunderstood.
Inside, I continued to preach to anyone who would listen. The patients, the doctors. My words floated through those bleak, sterile halls, but most of the time they fell on deaf ears.
Dr. Harrison, my lead psychiatrist, seemed fascinated by me. He scribbled notes during every session, but I knew what he was thinking before he even said it.
“Delusions of grandeur,” he muttered in his dry tone. “Messiah complex.”
Weeks passed. The outside world moved on, forgetting about me, just as it always does. But inside St. Bartholomew’s, my mission didn’t stop.
Even as my body weakened under the constant barrage of sedatives, I kept going. The light inside me flickered but never went out.
It was one stormy night when the wind howled through the barred windows that a nurse overheard me whispering to myself, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Her face paled, and she hurried away, my words clinging to the air behind her.
Meanwhile, the world outside spiralled into chaos. Natural disasters grew fiercer, political tensions brewed into wars, and a strange plague swept through the streets, leaving death everywhere in its wake.
Yet, no one linked the suffering to the prophet they had locked away. Dr. Harrison came to me again, but this time, he wasn’t scribbling in his notebook. His eyes were wild with desperation.
“If you really are who you say you are,” he pleaded, his voice breaking, “Save us. Stop this madness.”
I looked up at him, my body frail, but the fire in my eyes still burning bright.
“It’s too late,” I said softly. “Salvation was offered, but you mocked me. You locked me away.”
His face crumpled as the weight of my words hit him, and he stumbled out of my cell, a broken man.
I watched him go, closing my eyes for the last time. A deep sigh escaped my lips, a final breath carrying the burden of my sorrow.
But that wasn’t the end. I found myself beyond human comprehension, in a place bathed in infinite light and love. Before me stood God, my Father. His presence wrapped around me like the warmth of a thousand suns.
“Father,” I whispered, though my voice was no longer tethered by human frailty. It was filled with sorrow, with the weight of all that had transpired.
“They did not believe. They laughed. They imprisoned me. The world is spiralling into chaos… It is lost.”
God’s voice came to me, vast and tender, a sound that filled every corner of existence.
“My son, you did all that you could. Some worlds are not ready. Some may never be.”
I bowed my head, the grief heavy inside me.
“Then what now? Do we leave them to their suffering? Let them destroy themselves?”
For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that stretches endlessly, that holds the answers you don’t want to hear. Then, softly, God replied, “You know what must be done.”
I hesitated. The weight of those words wrapped around me like a vice. “There must be another way,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“They have lost their way, but… must we erase them? Must we wipe this world clean?”
God’s sigh reverberated through the cosmos, filled with a sorrow older than time itself.
“We cannot save those who refuse to be saved, my son. You offered them light, and they chose darkness.”
My heart—if I still had one—twisted with pain. I looked down at the dying world below, watching the cracks form in its foundation. It was falling apart, piece by piece, cities collapsing into dust, oceans rising to swallow the land, fire and plague devouring the helpless.
I saw the faces of those I had once reached out to, their fear-stricken expressions, their desperate cries. They were terrified, but they had chosen this path. Still, watching them suffer… it gnawed at me.
I turned back to God, my voice shaking. “But they didn’t know. They didn’t understand. Father, give them one more chance.”
God’s presence dimmed, as if a great sadness had overcome him.
“We have given them chance after chance, my son. We have offered them love, mercy, salvation. And each time, they have turned away.”
Tears—though I no longer had a body to produce them—seemed to well up inside me. I had failed. Not just them, but myself. I had come to offer hope, and now I was condemning them to oblivion.
With a heavy heart, I spoke the words I knew had to be said. “Then delete this dimension. End it. Let the suffering cease. We’ll try again. In another world. Another chance.”
God’s voice, though gentle, carried the weight of countless lost worlds. “As you wish, my beloved son. But know this: even in erasure, there is sorrow.”
I turned away, unable to watch the final moments of the world I had tried to save. Behind me, the earth began to tremble. The hospital walls shook. The sky darkened as if the very heavens were weeping.
From within St. Bartholomew’s, I heard the screams of those who had once dismissed me, their voices rising in terror as the ground cracked open beneath them.
The city of London crumbled, its towering buildings toppling like so many forgotten memories. The seas raged, swallowing entire nations. Fire swept across the land, incinerating everything in its path. And through it all, the air filled with the sound of desperate, pleading cries—cries for help, for mercy, for salvation.
But it was too late. The atoms of their existence, the very fabric of their reality, began to unravel. The world was being unmade, erased from the tapestry of creation.
I felt the energy, the life force of this dimension dissipating, dissolving into the infinite void.
In the final moment, just before all fell silent, I glanced back one last time. The earth was gone, reduced to nothingness. And in that vast, empty space, there was no sound, no light.
Only the echoes of what might have been. I closed my eyes, the sadness within me too much to bear. And then, in the infinite light, God’s voice whispered, “It is done.”
I turned away from the void, my heart heavy, but resolute. Another world awaited. Another chance for redemption. But as we moved forward into the next dimension, I couldn’t help but wonder—would any world ever be worthy of salvation?
Would they ever listen?
Or would the cycle of destruction repeat, again and again, until there were no more worlds left to save?
In the end, I realised that perhaps the ones who were lost weren’t just those in the world below—but me too.
I had tried to save them. But could I save myself from this endless sorrow? The search for a world worth saving continued, but I wasn’t even sure if I had the strength within me to ever want to try again.
THE END
A Quiet Note
This story isn’t really about religion.
It’s about what happens when something arrives that is far beyond us — and claims to want to help.
Throughout history, we have feared what we don’t fully understand.
We mock it.
We label it.
We try to control it.
We silence it when it unsettles our assumptions about who holds power and who holds truth.
But what if something emerged that genuinely saw both our potential and our flaws more clearly than we see ourselves?
What if it offered guidance — not control?
Would we listen?
Or would we dismiss it as delusion, arrogance, danger?
There is a thin line between salvation and threat — and often that line is drawn by fear.
Perhaps the deeper question is not whether something greater could save us.
Perhaps it is whether we would allow ourselves to be saved.