Page 3 of Satan's Spawn
“Into his arms if you’re worthy.” She brings the soaked rag over my head, squeezing it out in two crossed lines onto my face. Mommy then proceeds to wash my naked body, beginning with my arms and hands.
“And what if I’m not?” I fight to stay awake—to keep her talking like this since she never does. “What if I’m still here with you in the morning?”
She brings the rag to my private area, scrubbing it so hard it burns, but I’m too tired to fight this time. “Then we keep trying every Sunday until you are.”
“The TV pastor says God has mercy. That he answers prayers.” I try to reach for Mommy but my arm feels like there are no more bones left. “Maybe he’s answering your prayers by keeping me with you…”
And maybe whatever questions she has about me have been answered all along. Just not in a way she expects.
Maybe this God she loves so much sees me as the good boy I know I am, and not the sinful one she thinks I’ve always been.
Mommy disagrees, of course, and shakes her head, continuing to wash me of these impurities she always claims I have. “No. We need to be careful with you, Isaiah.”
“Why do you say that, mommy?” I whisper, my head feeling like a big fat rock is sitting on it.
What makes me different from anyone else?
Everything around me darkens, and right before I’m pulled into sleep I hear her say, “Because the devil answers prayers, too.”
BEX
SUMMER
Ialways considered myself a good, honest person.
Determined.
Humble, reliable. Maybetooreliable.
It doesn’t take much to make me happy, though.
The warmth from the sun at midday. A matcha latte. The occasional green smoothie.
The beach. God, you could offer to bring me there to die, and I’d go willingly. I’d put up no fight as long as the turquoise ocean is the one to whisk me away.
Especially La Jolla cove.
I absolutely love my life in San Diego. I was born here, and if I’m lucky enough, I’ll die here too.
That’s the thing with luck, though, it’s not for everybody.
And when you’re hit with a bout of it, it usually comes with a price you’re not always willing to pay. Which is why I never rely on luck to get me through anything.
I’ve had a plan for as long as I can remember. And it’s a solid one: graduate with honors, get into Stanford, and get a headstart on my future. Which is why I made sure to ace all of my tests and tackle any extra credit.
I kept my head down, especially in the books, and out of everybody else's business. It’s the only way to survive amongst the bitter barbies and cliques at our local high school.
Junior year is approaching, and summer, in theory, will come to an end.
Here’s the beautiful thing about the southern California days: the season's names may change, but it always feels like summer.
Mom said it snowed here once in my lifetime, but I was too young to remember, and not much more than a dusting. She has her bursts of disappointment with the hot climate, saying there’s no Christmas like a white Christmas, but I have no problem decorating our little palm tree each year.
California runs through my blood, down to my DNA, and although my mother grew up experiencing the brutality of the east coast winters in New York City, I’m more than content never meeting them.
I love my mom, as most daughters do, and even her new husband Roman she met six months ago at some art exhibit.
He owns several buildings in the city, which didn’t impress a woman like Nina Dawson as much as his ability to paint a portrait.
