Vachon Imagined

The day Christ went to Hell, He sat among His victors, rolling His eyes, saying, Well, if no one else is going to get her, I will.

He left the feast of perfect existence, where golden paths flourish through time—a blip on a radar so small no one knows the name of radar. They regard it like a dog regards its master’s high-pitched call coming from this thing we call a mouth. And still, He left the feast for the famine. He left the heavens for the blistering coma of Hell, to find her, to save her.

But when He arrived, He wore a woman’s wig—not to greet her with pomposity, but with immediacy. Save the golden arches for the Catholics, the synagogues, the brave. I come to the lonely. I come as a nightmare. I come as a flame.

She could not handle a man, so He appeared as a woman. Men were too scary, men too obedient, too fixed in their own gravity. So she turned toward her to find Him. Unlike the egoic men who stood within pulpits and hid behind prose, He did not care for appearance or authority.

He did not care what form was required. Male to female, female to male—whatever it took. Whatever it named. He moved through identity like water through glass, never breaking, only reshaping.

Yet it was not grand spectacle that carried Him forward. It was the dancing of radiant chains and the solemn harness of a woman’s voice.

He became a magnificent shapeshifter, floating through dials, seeing through time itself—carrying the weight of an octopus with the prose of an alien. Folding through existence like it was paper already half-burned at the edges. Nothing held Him still, not form, not name, not heaven, not Hell.

It came not in a broken pew silenced by overused hymns no one cares to understand, but in the basement of her home—the salvation of her heart—piercing through every broken promise, every hardened might. Like a heroin addict pondering yet another dance with the devil, He became the devil for her.

He became the Hell, the shelter, the firepit—just for her.

He rose to find her. He ascended to call her home from the flames she could not avoid, through the message she could not ignore.

Come home to me. Come home to yourself, where the two are intertwined, where the two become one.