FicWad

I was raised Catholic, and because of which I have been taught that since the moment of my birth I have been a sinner. I was born immoral, ungodly. I was born undeserving of God’s good grace, of a place in heaven.

But I was also taught that I could have chance of redemption. I could be cleansed of my sins, of my wrongdoings, even the unconscious ones. All that was required of me was that I follow the teachings of the Church. Follow their teachings and alter myself.

And for sixteen years I had done so. I faithfully went to church every Sunday, was down on my knees praying every night. I confessed to a priest week after week, receiving penance for my mortal ways.

And all the while, masked by all my godly deeds, I kept my true self hidden, locked deep inside the closet with all the other skeletons.

I think of those sixteen years, those years of concealing myself behind religion, as I now peer around the doorway, careful to remain unseen. My brother stands before the open front door, inviting his friend to come inside. I bite my lip, hoping to draw blood so that the pain may distract me from the thoughts I have so desperately attempted to rid of for years. But the thoughts do not cease the more the boy comes into view. Rather, they flood my mind, stronger than a tidal wave, doing twice the damage. My brother and he walk my way. I watch as his toned body sways, a nonchalance only the young can master. I watch as his hands bury themselves into the depths of his jean pockets, the denim so tight that even from a distance I can see the ridges of his knuckles beneath the fabric. I watch, lost so deeply in him that I am unaware when my brother speaks.

Gerard nudges my shoulder, and I startle out of my trance. He laughs as the blood rises to my face, turning me scarlet.

“Mikes, this is William,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of his friend. I give a weak nod, an even weaker smile.

Gerard shifts uncomfortably, noticing the illness of my stature. He speaks, “you want to come downstairs with us?”

I recover my voice to answer yes, though it sounds little more than a strangled whisper.

The entire night I keep my eyes on William, though I am certain that neither he nor my brother take notice. William’s presence is contagious. When he laughs, one cannot help but to join. When he grins crookedly, one must smile as well.

The night drags into the morning and soon Gerard is passed out on the couch, leaving William and I to sleep on the floor. I am the only one awake, unable to close my eyes with the still and silent boy beside me. I lay myself down on the carpet, turning so that I face William. His lips are slightly parted, and I wish to know how they feel, to know if they are as soft and delicate as they appear. I imagine his hands on my body, my hands on his. I crave flesh on flesh, lips on lips. I want the boy, feel as if I need the boy. And just as I am about to reach out, just simply to brush the tips of my fingers on his arm, satisfy myself with just one touch, a voice within my head forces me to withdraw.

I close my eyes, listening to the words deafening my ears. It speaks of damnation, of sins of the flesh. It speaks of hell and of the eternity I will there spend. And then I see pits of fire and the devil among them. I see him waiting for the moment I die, so that I may join him.

And I realize at that moment, that despite the sixteen years of concealment, the sixteen years of attempts at good, I am still nothing more than a sinner. I will never be anything more than a sinner, thinking thoughts of "unnatural temptations," as my priest, my congregation, my family deems it.

I open my eyes, take another look at William and allow myself, for merely a single moment, to be liberated. I think of his lips against my own, meshed together with the sloppiness of passion. I think of him and me entangled, unable to discern whose flesh is whose.

And as I think of William, I walk the path up the staircase, down the narrow hallway into the bathroom. I rummage through the drawers, finding objects of my own among the mess. I withdraw my razor, the one used to shave away every natural part of me that wishes to be seen, the part of me I will never allow any other to know.

I take apart the razor, hold in between my fingers a single blade. I press it against my skin, for if I must sin by flesh, then I must die by flesh. A vertical cut along my forearm reveals the reddest of blood. I allow myself to bleed for a moment before I make a parallel cut on the other arm. After placing the stained blade on the counter, I take a final look in the mirror, startled at my reflection.

I am flushed, every bit of life draining out of me. I look into my own eyes then, but see the devil’s own staring back. You are nothing more than a sinner, he tells me. You cannot escape the sins that plague your mind, the thoughts of flesh that please you. I sit down upon the floor, no longer able to bear the sight of the devil within me. Suicide is an unforgivable sin, I remind myself. I curl up on the bathroom tile, blood leaking from my wounds. And I say aloud to no one but myself, But I am going to hell. What difference is one more sin?