Propheta of Beginnism

By:  Ye Widjaja
April 23, 2025

Ye Widjaja

Propheta of Beginnism

I have seen the light. This light in my eyes—they blind my sight, yet, they don’t agonize me so. How does it happen…? A god that resides beyond the boundaries of time… it travels to earth and strikes me like lightning. Why does it choose me to strike? What purpose do I have that is valuable to it? Fear, fear, fear. It’s all I feel inside me. Run, run, run, my mind screeches at me. Yet, what good are those conscious warnings? They are always false, they always trick me. I always display myself as a fool, as an idiot to those I encountered.

My mind settles and my heart slows. I stand up from my seat and walk to the podium, which is made of mahogany wood. I place my wrinkly hand on the podium and rub it. It feels… rough. Not like wood, but there’s a salty feeling. Perhaps I’m just creating my own illusions.

I clear my throat, adjust the microphone, and set my eyes on my audience. Sweat drools from my forehead, I must ignore it. It’ll show them my weakness, my black spot. Damn my fear, damn my fear, my fear be damned! I’m the successor of the Great One, and I must act as a benevolent father to my followers.

In a monstrous voice, I welcome my audience, “Brothers and sisters, strangers and folks, I welcome you on this glorious day of Sunday. The day where Father Beginning was born from the dawn of creation!” I raise my arms high, signalling my people to rise from their seats. Yes… yes. You must all rise, follow me as you did to your previous Propheta. Do not let me down all ye followers of Father Beginning.

“Do you believe in the Propheta?”

“We believe in the Propheta.”

“Do you believe in the Propheta?”

“We believe in the Propheta.”

“Do you believe in the Propheta?”

“We believe in the Propheta!”

That is good. That’s all I need to hear. I end this by announcing: “Sit.” and all my followers sit. Underneath the podium is the Book of Father Beginning, a sacred book for my followers. I flipped through pages until I found the right passage, “In Chapter four on lines 21-25, by the words of Roman Hammocke, ‘Men shall serve Father Beginning by offering him golds of innumerable amounts,” I read, “‘for the month of March is the time to collect all your belongings and bring them to the Father,’” I raise my head, observing my followers who are listening intently, “‘Women shall prepare small altars at home and in the temple for the arrival of the Father when he descends from the timeless world on the last day of the third month of every year.’” I close the Book and lift my hands to the heavens, “See how we must offer our worldly possessions to Father Beginning? I AM the personification of the Father. Don’t underestimate him, for he talks through me, o brothers and sisters.” My followers stand up and prostrate themselves before me, like a man laying flat from a heart attack.

I step down from the marble platform where I read the Book and my followers line up to receive their blessing from the servant of Father Beginning. One by one, each man and woman lower their heads in respect to me. One by one, I lay my hand on each head and mutter, “May Father Beginning dance with ye, sing with ye, and comfort ye”. 

When the final follower gets her blessing, I walk back to the platform. There are four steps which I must go up. As I lay my first, I feel a twinge of nervousness. Not again, I tell myself, I have no fear, no fear, fear be damned. I utter repeatedly. On the second step, I feel slight trembling in my arms. Why do they tremble? I don’t know. There is nothing unusual I can see in the temple… do I sense a sacred presence? I wait approximately twenty seconds for my arms to stop shaking. When they finish moving, I go to the third step. This time, I feel hot in my body. It’s an unusual feeling to have in a rather room-temperature environment. Yet, my body says otherwise. My legs suddenly weaken as well as my head—they both want to go back to sleep. I quickly go up the fourth step without stopping and go to my seat, my richly ruby Chesterfield seat. I have broken a traditional protocol. To walk the steps continually without stopping after blessing my followers is a grave insult to Father Beginning. I must show respect by pausing each time I go up a step after blessing my people, and I have angered the god. 

I lay my head to the cushion backing and whilst resting, I hear a shout, “RONALD TIMOTHY HARRISON!” My head and weakness escaped. I sound very agonized as I hear sprinting footsteps coming louder and louder. My followers’ eyes perk up in unsettlement and shock, I too do the same. I couldn’t get off the Chesterfield because my leg weakens heavily. I panic but there’s nothing I could do to face the voice. I can hear my followers murmuring amongst themselves if a criminal group is in the temple. Trying to calm them, I said: “Bretherens, do not fear. These voices we all hear… they, they are rather demons. We must call upon the Father for his imperial mercy.” My voice must've not given them even a piece of comfort. Of course. I feel frightened, I don’t know what’s happening either. Fear is not damned, it can’t. It can only be given in and damn it all, it works on even the personification of Father Beginning himself. 

The room stays silent for a moment. No one chirps, hiccups, or has their stomachs growl. You could hear a pin drop at this point, however, as all you can hear are ominous footsteps. The sound they make—it makes my heart beat fast. I try to force myself to say something to my followers, have us say a prayer to rid ourselves of this terror. Nothing happened. No gasp or heavy sighing can be heard. It’s only a massive state of paralysis that affects us all.

Suddenly, I hear a door slam open violently. Behind the crowd of brethren at the left, peering at the corner of a wall, I see a bit of… of something. It looks a bit triangular, like an arrow pointing right. However that triangular bit slowly grows, and I stop staring at that piece as my pupils pan down a little to see a face moving away from the wall. The face, when it’s fully shown, is in white wrappings. I can’t see his nose, mouth, or even bits of skin tone. He’s a mummy with old-timey goggles and a large Panama hat. The figure wears a trench coat and his boots are leathery. He walks like a robot and doesn’t bother to acknowledge the crowd he passes by. I don’t see it but his eyes, I’m sure, are peering at my very soul intently. Is he truly a demon? 

I feel dazed now. My vision blurs and it causes me to scream in agony, “It burns, it burns!” Yet, no one from the crowd bothered to help me and I can see, just barely, that the trenchcoat figure is walking on the steps in a very unhastened manner. It’s somewhat disturbing to me that the intruder has no sense of concern for anything. At least, that’s how I see it through the figure’s movement. I try to call for help, but all I can get out of is a squeak. No, my voice—it’s gone! 

The figure is on the stage now, standing there, menacingly. He stares at me while my vision becomes darkened and my voice becomes nothing. After a minute, the trenchcoat figure pulls out a handcuff, I believe, and grabs my arms forcibly. I sense rage in those grips, perhaps it’s because the figure is one of those people. You know, the “anti-cultists” group who think that cult leaders are brainwashing their followers. I have not done such dubious things like brainwashing my followers. I have not forced them to do heinous and life-destroying activities to satisfy my pleasure. I have no earthly pleasure but the pleasure of the Second Existence in which Father Beginning resides in. 

The figure’s hand is put on my right shoulder with pressure. Before anyone says anything, the trenchcoat guy speaks, “Greetings, everyone. I believe I have entered the religion of Beginnism, yes?” No one answers, “I’m a detective working for the police and for years, I’ve been trying to visit this temple I… hear about,” the detective says with hesitancy. Things start to feel strange, I feel. Why is this detective here in the room, why does he sound vengeful, who called on me or my brethren? The detective speaks once more, “I see fear in your eyes, ‘brethren’, why is it so? Is it because you see a demon?” Do I sense mocking, anger, or is it a bit of both? I try to call out my crowd to not listen to him, but I can barely sound out a word! I hear, but can’t see, a brother calling out at my kidnapper, “You are a mere demon, are you not? Where will you take him, our god personified?” I hear a rumbling chuckle coming from the detective, who says, “To court.”

My people panic. I hear them so, I can’t be wrong about that. The screams and cries of my followers makes me sorrowful that they have to witness this event. The detective shouted at my brethren to settle down. His command is very authoritative, he knows what he’s doing and what he wants I assume. The ruckus quiets down and the detective continues, “Y’know this group, this Beginnism ‘faith’ has been under my radar for years now, if not, for almost two decades,” My mind wanders about, Two decades? My predecessor died four years ago and we’ve been spied on for that long? The detective clears his throat and, as I hear, makes a huge sigh, “The reason being that this ‘faith’ is nothing more than a cult,” I hear offended gasps from some people and little whispers from many. I don’t see how this accusation, which has been thrown a lot, will change anything among our faith. 

I hear a sound of wrapping paper unfurling and after hearing it for a couple seconds, I hear another sound of gasps from many, 

“My goodness, his face—”

“What in the—”

“How is it like that?!?”

I start to fear what’s really happening beyond my blind eyes. The detective raises his voice, “Do you know who did this? It was this cult… THIS DAMN CULT DID THIS TO ME!!!” The room once again fell silent and the detective rants on, “Do you know how?” Silence plays continually, “I was one of you long ago. I was a member of Beginnism,” This revelation is shocking to me; how can a member of our faith ever escape our circle? This couldn’t be possible—it shouldn’t be! Yet, it happened, “At thirteen years old, I escaped because your ‘Great One’ did a heinous act upon me.” I hear rising anger and torment in the detective. He rants so much about how Beginnism showed him a “great number of horrors” committed by my followers.

When the detective finishes his spiel, he concludes to the crowd, “I have a reason why I rant so emotionally and harshly,” I feel a harsh shove on my back and I collapse to the wooden floor. I thought I heard a crack in my skull, “This man right here… is my father. He put me into this hellscape in this ‘faith’ of yours.” 

I can hear shocked gasps and the air is filled with murmurs and snickers. My son? I have a son? I speak up, “When did I ever have a son? I wasn’t even married!” The detective wraps his arm around my neck and presses hard on it, I can feel outside air trying to get into me. I’m desperate for fresh air - no. I cannot die in this way, this is humiliating! In front of my followers? Insulting! “Stop, s-stop this at once, you maniac, you imbecile!” I gag. However, that only makes the detective press harder on me until I have no energy left to speak or writhe. As a result, I black out.

When I wake up, my hands are cuffed. Rotating my head from side to side, I notice the bright aqua sky blanketing over the skyscrapers and apartment complexes. At first, I thought I had been kidnapped and panicked with sweats forming from my back. I then hear a voice, an amused-sounding voice saying, “Welcome, dear sir, to your limo. Where are we off to?” My mind perplexes; first I was in the Temple giving my sermon, next I’m in a vehicle, “Why am I in a car?” I ask. The driver turns his head back and hits me with an obnoxious smile. His eyes are blocked by the shadowy lens of his sunglasses and he slightly tips down his leather Panama hat, “You are my first-class passenger, dear leader. The first stop we’ll go to is the police station!” Of course, that driver is the detective, the one who called me “father” in the temple. How did my people furtherly react to this abhorrence? I demand answers from him, “Why am I arrested, why’d you call me your father? Who the hell are you!”

“First, you’re arrested for extorting money from your followers as well as a singular case of child neglect and child abuse,”

“Second, I called you my father because you are. We share the same surname ‘Harrison’... and of course you’d forget me and my mom. You made it happen,”

“Third, my name is Sebastian Harrison, you dunce. Does that ring a bell?”

Sebastian Harrison… that does ring something. The atmosphere is quiet, all but the revving of the engines. I ponder for a while about that name and while pondering, I discover a photograph of a little boy being held by what seems to be his dad. The kid’s haircut is of a bowl cut and his smile is wider than the beginning of time. His eyes, like mine, are light blue. I examine the photo further and see my youthful face smiling as well but not as wide as the kid. I displayed some wrinkles and when my eyes glides to my arm carrying the child, they were already bristled and hairy in the photo. Suddenly, I look at my shirt, which is a navy blue Hawaiian shirt with tiny crimson polka-dots. It had the typical Hawaiian appearance with the flowers and tiki masks dancing on the shirt. It now dawns on me that I remember punishing a child for his misbehavior. I vaguely remember threatening him with fire and torture. Could it be him? Could it be the detective that’s driving me?

Fear sets upon my body, my mind feels like it’s about to explode, “Are you really my son?” I ask aloud. The detective laughs harshly, “You looked at the picture, didn’t you? I knew that photo is your fondest memory of me.” Then he becomes silent for the entire time. Dread is set upon me. I remember now why I forgot my marriage and my son, I remember now what I have done to my son - if he really is mine. I become terrified of the consequences I will face but I don’t have anywhere to run. As I get near to the station, my eyes peek at the ceiling of the car and ask for divine intervention. However, there is none and for the crimes I have committed, I must pay with my freedom.