He looked over at Jesus with a frustrated glare.
The next moment, Jesus stood behind him.
Mark turned his chair around. "Why."
Jesus looked unsurprised, but didn't reply.
"I just don't get it. You knew I really didn't want to serve you, that I have an anxiety disorder that prevented me from being a good evangelist...what was it that I was supposed to do on earth? I mean, you didn't come out and say I had to go into seminary, but you didn't let me do anything else, either. Everything I did went wrong, like you didn't want me to succeed, except at something I had no way of knowing you wanted me to do. Two degrees and nobody wanted to hire me. Not enough job experience, too much education for the other jobs. All the jobs were filled, and you didn't let me get enough job experience. You made life difficult. You had me face a choice between not getting work at all or getting work that a monkey can do, something that didn't reflect the work I put into my education. Then my parents kept breathing down my neck and telling me to get a job when you made it impossible for me to get one. I wanted to die. You knew that and yet you let me continue living and go on and on in these crappy temp jobs, then face unemployment and homelessness, and for what? What did it really accomplish? Who was I witnessing to? What did my living accomplish? What did my suffering accomplish? Why did you force me to keep living?"
Jesus told him the reason.
"You know, I never wanted to be born. I think it's unfair that I had to suffer like that, and if I had the choice, I wouldn't have even-"
He reappeared. "It would have been better if I never existed."
He vanished again.
He reappeared about five minutes later. "Why did you allow me to exist in the first place? Was it just so I could do menial back breaking labor and act like a step stool to help others get to the top? If so, that sucks!"
Jesus explained the situation.
Mark shook his head. "I know you saved my soul from hell and all, but I didn't ask to be put on your lousy planet and I certainly didn't volunteer to be your servant or be born into a world where sin is a possibility. I don't even like you. Primarily for those reasons. You force people to love you or they go to hell." Mark stood up, pushing his chair back. He clenched his fists, glaring at Jesus. "You know, it's about time someone did this."
He wound his arm back, slamming his fist into Jesus' head. It made impact.
He heard someone cheering behind him. Confused, he looked over his shoulder and saw a pair of muscular men in Roman soldier outfits laughing at the savior.
He looked down and saw he was wearing a leather skirt and sandals and standing on a cobbled stone street. He looked up at Jesus, feeling a twinge of guilt as he saw the scars, the bruises, the blood, from his pre-crucifixion tortures.
He swallowed. "Well, like I said. I didn't ask to be born. If I hadn't been born, I wouldn't have had sin, or a shitty life." He punched Jesus in the gut.
He raised his fist, swinging at the savior's face. Pow.
Mark fell backwards on the banquet table, knocking the food all over the place and breaking the dishes.
For a minute, he thought that the ultimate pacifist had just given him the uppercut from hell, but it turned out that he'd actually punched himself in the face.
"Hating me is the ultimate act of self loathing."
Mark sat up and said, "You're the son of God. Shouldn't you already know that I hate myself? Your creation is flawed. I hate your planet, your people, and I hate myself for existing in your world and being who I am. It's kind of hard for me to love someone who puts me through all that. My life wasn't worth it. I think you're rotten for making me suffer through it and telling me I'd go to hell if I'd commit suicide and thwart your precious plans to make me a miserable failure and a hobo. You're a sadist. That's all I can figure. My life wasn't worth all the trouble."
"You'd prefer if you hadn't been born," said Jesus.
"Yes. I mean, if I didn't exist, I wouldn't notice it, would I?"
"No, I suppose not."