Page 25 of Heathens
When I get down on my knees, it is not to pray.
I study the sentence. It’s a quote from a Madonna song, and a smile tugs on my lips when I work quickly to make a digital copy, filtering the words in the same red as Salem’s. Then, I place them together on the floor.
It's as if these two pictures were meant to be a diptych. The light of Salem's skin and the dark of mine; the eeriness, the fact that we're in a cemetery—and the edge of the scenes somehow blend seamlessly. The duality is utterly breathtaking. In a moment of rare pride, I take a quick snap of them together with my phone and send it to Salem, along with the caption, “I made it a diptych. What say you?“
I’m too busy scrambling around my frame pile to hear his text come in, so by the time I read it, I have the two pictures framed together in an old, wooden frame.
You need to show that one. Don’t sell it. Ever. The whole world needs to see it.
His text gives me chills.
Thanks. I guess you inspire me.
I send it without thinking. Muttering expletives, I send another immediately.
I just mean that all of our serious talks the other night must’ve inspired me. Good job, Mr. Priest man.
I wait a few minutes for his response.
That’s my job. To help you.
I don’t respond. Instead, I text Benedict.
Time to find out some of his secrets.
Shoot, Swallow, Repeat
Salem
Two and a Half Years Ago
I gave it all up. The whiskey straights, the cocaine, the screwing random women in the bathroom of my favorite dive bar. Easily. I gave it up easily. I packed everything up and donated most of my earthly possessions, taking only a select few things with me. But, most of it—gone. My crystal champagne glasses that I got on my eighteenth birthday. The designer jeans. The packs of condoms. I donated what I could, and threw the rest away. I’ve been living in a shoebox of an apartment, spending all of my time studying and praying. Spending my nights in a peaceful sleep. Spending any free time with my mother.
And now?
Now, she is gone.
I wander out of Gare du Nord train station still dressed in all black. I caress the rosary beads in my pocket. I have a black and white picture of her in that pocket, too. One of those small squares—the ones you get from the photo machines. My two brothers got the other two from the strip, and my father got the best one. Of course, we have other pictures of her. Of course we do. But this—this was herlastpicture. The last time she said cheese, the last time she smiled at a camera lens.
The last time she left the house.
I pull the small picture out. A close-mouthed smile. Warm, blue eyes. Her hair had fallen out months before the picture was taken, so that day she was wearing a brown wig. Similar to her real hair color and texture. So similar, I never would’ve guessed if I hadn’t helped her pin it in place that morning. She was wearing her favorite dress. A long, flowing paisley piece that was so vibrant, so detailed, that I used to stare at it when I was a kid.
She knew this would be her last picture.
I pull my coat tighter. It’s winter. Her favorite season.
And...
I lose it.
I lose control.
Any semblance of mastery over my emotions disappeared when I saw what she’d been reduced to. The ashes. I’m reading about heaven and hell, studying and trying to speak to God, but he’s been silent on this matter. I’m trying to find comfort. I’m trying. But it’s like grasping sand. I almost have it, but then it falls through my fingers.
Walking into the first bar I can find, I don’t think twice before ordering two double whiskeys, straight. I pop a twenty euro on the bar before shooting them back, grimacing from the burn.
It’s been too long.
