Page 69 of Heavy

Once it’s open, I climb up and inside, shutting it behind me.

Silence is what greets me, and as I venture further into the warmth, I suck in a breath that feels free. Scents of wax and paper fill my lungs, and it oddly reminds me of a library.

The space is large, two rows of long dark brown bench style seating are settled on either sides of an aisle. Straight ahead is a statue of a man with his arms out and a thorn crown wrapped around his head. There is something like a tub in front, and a podium. All around are candles, some lit, some blown out. It’s not as bright as I thought it would be, given how it looked from outside.

Maybe it’s all the white and tan colored dressings. Paintings sprawl across the ceiling, but I don’t know anything about them. I can’t look too long because they are naked, the men in the paintings. Women too, and I wish I could say this was the first time I’ve seen a nipple, but it isn’t. I’ve been forced to watch enough porn that I know far too much about what both genders bodies look like without clothes.

Biting on my cheek, I take a seat at the furthest seat from the front of the church. I look down at the floor, at my bare feet, and scrunch my toes.

“I…” I say aloud, and all I hear are the echoes of the wind that’s pulling through the window I broke, accompanying my shattered voice. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m sorry. If it was the time I lied to my dad about going to practice when Eamon snuck me away, I promise I won’t do it again. If it’s because of the time I pulled out that kid’s chair and they fell, I swear something had spilled in it and I was saving them from having wet pants.”

Swallowing, I bring my legs up, pressing my feet against the hard wooden seat below me and holding myself. “I’m just sorry. I swear I won’t do any of it ever again. Just… please, make it all stop, and I promise I will be good.”

Rubbing my eyes against my knees, I squeeze tighter, hoping that someone will walk in and hear me.

“I don’t know if you see what he does to me.” I choke on my own sob, tears spilling in full force as I confess to the darkness engulfing me. “Every week he touches me. He tells me it’s all normal or I wouldn’t feel good. I don’t want it to feel good. Please help me. No one sees me. No one hears my silent pleas. I’m scared…”

The sound of a car door is loud in the silence. Then another.

I don’t react, I don’t even move or jump when the wooden door of the church busts open.

“I’m scared…” I whisper.

“Police!” a man screams, and flashing lights cut across me, illuminating the seat in front of me before bouncing back, harsh and blinding. “Put your hands up!”

Shoot me and just end my suffering.

“I said put your fucking hands up!”

I don’t move, but whisper, “What have I done to you, God, thatyouwon’t even listen to me?”

I’m not entirely sure what hurts more, the hit my dad just landed on my cheek or the look my mom is bearing down on me. I can’t take my eyes off of her, seeing the disappointment andregretin her deep blues.

I mouth, “I’m sorry.” But she just shakes her head, tears pooling at her lashes before she blinks, letting them fall as she turns away from me.

The door opens to our small brown room, filled only with the company of my parents, the scent of wood, and the quiet presence of books. When I look up, I see our family attorney stepping inside.

I’ve just seen the judge, and though I wanted to scream out every ounce of my pain, I stayed silent. The attorney’s expression is grim as he meets my dad’s eyes, and with a sinking feeling, I brace myself for yet another blow.

“Since it was a church you vandalized, it’s considered a federal crime. However, because it is your first offense, they are just putting you on probation.”

I don’t know what that means, but when my mom sighs out through her crying, I feel a bit of relief.

“How long?” my dad asks, and I take a step closer to my parents.

I know I’ve disappointed my mom, but I’m so grateful she loves me still. As soon as I’m close enough, she grabs the back of my head and pulls me into her chest. I don’t hesitate—I wrap my arms around her and hold on tight, like she’s the one thing keeping me alive.

Why can’t I just tell you… Why can’t I just be strong like you…

“Twenty-four months.” When the words come from our lawyer's mouth, my mom shakes, squeezing me tighter. “Every weekend he will do community service, and his Probation Officer will see him three to four times a week.”

“That seems a bit excessive—”

“Wait, every weekend?” I ask, cutting my dad off and slightly pulling from my mom. “And I’ll have someone watching me?”

“Yes. Since you live with your parents, they will report to us throughout the week. Your Probation Officer will come to see you. During the weekends, your PO will take you to your community service.”

Heat floods through my body, and I swear my knees wobble.

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