Page 51 of Heathens
“He does,” I say, a bit louder.
“How could He possibly? The things I’ve planned—” she stops herself.
“God does not rate your sin on a scale of one to ten,” I joke, shaking my head. “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans.”
She laughs. “Please. I've read the Bible hundreds of times. I grew up Catholic. I don't need bible quotes. I need—“
“A friend,” I interrupt, softening my voice to almost a whisper.
She sniffs again. “Yes. Exactly. Talk to me like a friend, not a priest. Please.”
I smile, ignoring the sharp pang in my chest. Didn’t she have anyone she could talk to about this? “I can do that.”
“What’s your name?” she asks, her voice already lighter. That fact alone makes me slump a little in the booth. How long had she been holding all of this in?
“You can call me Father Monsignor.” She doesn’t have to know that Monsignor is an honorific form of address for members of the clergy. She doesn’t have to know that I’m not a priest.
“Well, Father Monsignor... how do I get rid of this darkness?”
I contemplate her words for a few seconds. I’d been in her shoes once. I’d clawed my way out of that darkness slowly, day by day. Sometimes, I still felt the tiniest trickle burn inside of me. “Well, what do you like to do?”
“I like art.” She shifts on the other side and I get a flash of red. I wish I could see her face.
“Let art get you through the dark,” I say calmly.
“Let art get you through the dark,” she repeats, murmuring the words as if she’s tasting them slowly, testing them out on her tongue.
“Does that help?” I ask, unsure. I want to help her—actuallyhelpher. Not just spew words at her and go about my day.
This—she—feels different.
Like a song I’m hearing for the first time, but I know all the words to.
“I just need to know if I’ll ever be normal again.” Pain. There is real pain, uncertainty, in her voice.
“I can’t answer that for you,” I say, lowering my voice. “Only you can be the judge of that.” She clears her throat. “As a friend, I will tell you this. It gets better. It does. I’ve lost people, too. They say time makes everything better, but I think you just get used to the pain. We’re adaptable creatures. We take that pain and funnel it elsewhere. You like art? Let it consume you. Let it drive you, let it be the reason you get up in the morning. If you wake up one morning missing your friend, channel that energy.”
She inhales sharply, and I see her rocking back and forth through the screen.
Pain—searing, gut-wrenching pain rushes through me. I clutch my middle and bend forward, so torn between staying put and bursting through the partition. I almost laugh at the thought. Why am I having this reaction?
“Thank you,” she whispers, and I hear her open the door. “I wanted to kill myself this morning. Now, I feel like I have something to live for.”
And then she’s gone.
I wanted to kill myself this morning. Now, I feel like I have something to live for.
I wanted to kill myself this morning.
I explode through the door, just in time to see her stalking off, her long, red coat billowing behind her. She’s wearing heeled boots. A black beanie. Black pants. Her shiny, golden hair flows behind her, but she never turns around.
I want to run after her, but when I look up, I see the altar. I see Jesus on the cross, and the woman in red walking away.
Both covered in red, but only one can own my heart.
To one I owe my life. I laid my life at the altar.
I did my job. I helped someone. I should feel alive, like I’m living my destiny.
