Page 59 of Heathens
“Oh?” I feign concern.
She pauses, trying to assess my sincerity. “It seems Mr. Abrams and Mr. Thomas are home today with severe cases of poison ivy rashes.” Her wiry, black chin hairs bob when she speaks. I try not to stare. “Poison ivy on their... on their...”
She can’t even say penis.
I place my finger on my lip. “I heardrumorsthat it was chlamydia.” Shrugging, I stand and give her a cloying smile. “Either way, it’s really too bad. Maybe it’ll teach them to keep their hands to themselves. Could be worse.Rumorhas it the culprit almost used super glue.“
“Ms. Damewood!” she whisper-shouts, standing so quickly that her chair smacks the office wall behind her.
I give her another sweet smile. “I’ve heard poison ivy takes a few days to disappear. They’ll probably be disappointed that they can’t play in their homecoming game this weekend.”
Sister Marietta’s face blanches as I turn to leave the office. “Ms. Damewood,” Sister Marietta urges, following me to the door. “Remember the Bible in times like this. 1 Peter 3:9. Don’t pay back for evil. Don’t retaliate with insults when people insult you. Instead, pay them back with a blessing. That is what God has called you to do, and He will bless you for it.”
I laugh. “God hasn’t blessed me in years. Instead of slaying my demons, I like to open them up and find out what makes them tick.”
And then I leave.
As I pass the throngs of students, all gathered in front of their lockers between classes, I delight in their slightly apprehensive glances. And as I walk by, their talking becomes whispering. Their eyes follow my every move, so I make sure I give them a show. Quirking my lips up ever so slightly, I meet all of their gazes. One by one, they all look away.
It might not happen today or even this week. Perhaps not even this year. But one day, they'll see the mask fall from my face—the monster I had to face alone. The darkness I have to contend with.
The thirst for revenge that no one understands.
Resurrected
Salem
Present
I wake up sweating, entwined with Lily on my bed as the morning light streams through the window. Slowly disentangling myself, I sit up and bend forward, placing my face in my hands.
I should feel guilt.
I should feel something other than vindictive glee.
After all, plotting to bring down a priest—my mentor, no less—isn’t exactly holy. Priests are God’s shepherds, the mediators between human and Christ, speakers of the gospel. No matter how evil said priest may be, no matter how many mortal sins they’ve committed, they are still exempt in certain ways.
Father Monsignor believed he was doing the work of God.
How often had that been used as an excuse? How often had hatred and vitriol been spewed from their mouths over the millenniain God’s name? How many unforgivable things had priests done to little boys over the ages? And yet...
And yet... they seemed to get away with it most of the time.
Respected men.
Holy men.
Father Monsignor wanted me to think he was a good man for so long. That night almost four years ago, I thought to myself,I want to be him. I want to be full of God, fulfilled in the ways almost lost to us now in the age of the internet and technology. Full of wisdom, spirit, and unwavering faith.
And now?
I stand and stretch, reaching deep down into myself, expecting to feel a gaping, gnawing hole where my faith had been until yesterday. Instead, I feel brave. Courageous. A fire burns through me now. Not quite a fire of revenge or vengeance, but more like a smoldering rightness of the world. Like helping Lily is the right thing to do, regardless of faith, regardless of rules or Catholic laws.
Jesus also fought for what he thought was right, and many hated him for it. It kept him going for years, that fire.
Real change only happens when you test the boundaries, toe the lines, question things.
In this case, I want to tear down everything that Father Monsignor built.
