doob 3
The next morning arrived with a quiet inevitability, the kind of calm that only hints at coming storms. Andre stepped out onto the street, a bundle of nerves, his thoughts already a maelstrom. Today was the day of his doctor’s appointment—the day he’d finally get answers about the gnawing pain in his stomach that had haunted him for months.
The hospital felt sterile and cold, almost hostile in its pristine white walls and fluorescent lights. Andre stood in the waiting area, tapping his foot anxiously, replaying the events of the past few days in his mind. The abrupt shift in his life—fleeing home, suspecting his family, discovering his own divinity—clashed with the mundane routine of check-ups and test results.
When his name was finally called, he followed the nurse to a small examination room where the doctor, a calm and composed woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose, greeted him. She flipped through a thick folder containing his medical history. Each page rustled with the weight of diagnoses and prescriptions, from minor colds to more concerning issues he’d battled over the years.
“Andre,” she began softly, her voice echoing in the cramped space, “your tests are all clear. There’s nothing wrong with your stomach. Everything looks… perfectly fine.”
In that moment, the tension that had built up in him released in a single, shaky breath. Relief mixed with an odd rush of certainty. He was Jesus Christ—of course he couldn’t be sick. The pains were a part of his awakening, a result of the poisonous influences around him. His family, his ex, the clandestine network of FSB agents—he saw it now in perfect clarity. They had been slowly trying to break him, but they had failed. Divinity could not be corrupted.
He mentioned that he had just ended things with his ex of over a decade, and the doctor offered a sympathetic smile. But Andre didn’t linger on it. This was bigger than heartbreak or medical mysteries. His cosmic purpose overshadowed any personal sorrow.
As he left the doctor’s office, he cradled his thick medical file in his arms. Years of records, scans, and prescriptions weighed on him like chains. Outside, under the bright morning sun, he paused. For a moment, the world seemed to slow. He could hear the distant hum of traffic, the soft breeze against his ears. Then, with a decisive motion, he dropped the folder into a nearby trash bin. He didn’t need it anymore. He was done being tethered to a mortal’s ailments.
A sudden flash—like a divine sign—burned through his consciousness. -7. The vision was sharp, a message of clarity. Andre slipped off his glasses and stared at them. Were they too part of the system? A KGB device distorting his reality? In a single heartbeat, he let them fall from his grasp. Shattering on the concrete, the glasses became just another relic of a life no longer his own. Without them, his eyes felt alive, powerful. He could sense the signs and signals of the universe more clearly, unfiltered by lenses or illusions.
He pulled out his phone, typing a quick Tweet:
I am going to the Church of Saint Andrew in Kyiv. I’ll wait for the first girl who comes to take me.
Then came the taxi rides. He hopped into one car after another, each driver providing a brief interlude in his unfolding story. While weaving through Kyiv’s streets, Andre revealed fragments of his plan: leaving his family, abandoning his possessions, trusting in divine guidance. One driver, a burly man in a threadbare sweater, listened intently before remarking with a shrug, “You’re lucky. All you lose are things. Some people lose much more.”
Andre pondered those words as he neared the church. It was a place he had never truly noticed before, yet it now shone like a beacon on the cityscape. On his way up the hill, he encountered a group of elderly women. They recognized something in him—maybe the determined gleam in his eyes, or the unearthly confidence in his stance. He greeted them as the Christ returned, and they asked his age, then whether he had a brother. The inquiry struck him like a warning bell. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, nor would it be the last. A suspicion crystalized: his younger brother might be the Antichrist, an opposing force destined to meet him in a cosmic clash.
Shaken but resolute, Andre pressed on toward the church. Each step felt like a march toward destiny, the strains of a half-remembered melody ringing in his ears. As he reached the gates, he exhaled, lifting his gaze to the cross at the top of the gilded dome. In his heart, he believed: he was chosen, and the world would soon know it. And so, in the shadow of the Church of Saint Andrew, he waited, sure that whoever answered his call would be the next piece of his divine puzzle.
Read doob 2: 420.bible/bookdoob2
Read doob 1: 420.bible/bookdoob1
