Get Me To A Church

CHAPTER 10: SAINT

TRAVIS

           My father and I prayed every night before eating our dinner. We held each other's hands and recited Apostles Creed. It was the one time of day where I felt any kind of familial connection to him; we believed the same religion. It brought us together at dinner time, but any other part of the day, it gave him reasons to hit me and tell me I was an ungrateful sinner. No matter what I did to change myself, I could never be perfect for my dad.

           "I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His Only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried." That part was easy enough, even though it's about him suffering. I guess I'd just said it enough times.

           "He descended into Hell; on the third day He rose again from the dead." That part I always said shakily. He'd done all of this stuff for me. I had to make it worth it. I had to be a good Christian and praise the Lord.

           "He ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty. From thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead." That part was important to me — a reminder. Jesus was always watching and always judging. He determined whether or not you went to heaven or hell.

           "I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, and life everlasting." And finally, to seal the deal: "Amen."

           My father, who was leaning over the table to grab my hands and had his head bowed, reclined in his chair and released my hands hastily. He had a tight grip which made my hands feel bruised, but it didn't hurt much now. I watched as he picked up his fork and knife and cut into his steak. I waited for him to take a bite before cutting into my own food. I wasn't hungry at all — I never was — but I ate all my food anyways. Mom used to tell me that there were hungry children out there who would love the scraps I used to leave on my plate. When she died, my father would barely give me any food in his grief. Now I was more grateful. But not enough.

           We looked really similar, except that he had muscles and I was built like a twig. Pretty much everything else about him was reflected on me, though. That was one of the scariest things.

           When I finished my food, I set my utensils gingerly on my plate: the knife and fork made an 'x,' with the knife under the fork. I took a final sip of water and wiped my mouth with my napkin. "May I be excused?" I asked quietly.

           He nodded gruffly and folded his hands where his plate was before. I had to wait to be excused, but he didn't. I took my plate and stacked his on top of mine. I walked from the dining room to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. I was about to head up the stairs and to my room when I heard a low "Travis!"

           I stepped back into the dining room. Dad wasn't sitting in his chair anymore. I had done something wrong. He looked like a bear, a head taller than me and forever angry-looking. What the fuck did I do?

           "What were you doing in the apartments, boy?" he grumbled.

           I straightened my back out and swallowed.

           My dad gritted his teeth and lumbered towards me with tight fists. "You know what I'm talking about, you fucking sinner!"

           I braced myself as he raised his hand. In a blur, he slapped me across the face and sent me stumbling backwards. He took another aggressive step towards me and got up in my face.

           "That place is full of sinners, faggots, and whores who need to be fixed," he screamed. "They'll influence you if you're not careful. Do not go back there. Do you understand me?!"

           "Yes!" I nearly shouted in desperation.

           "Yes what?!"

           "Yes sir!"

           He grabbed my shirt and punched me in the chin. One of his protruding knuckles hit my already bruised wound from our previous argument. He hit me across the face again and I stopped my tears from coming.

           "You need to learn some fucking respect!" he shouted. "Now go to your room, you fag!"

           I ran back to the kitchen and all the way up the stairs. I arrived at my room, slammed the door shut behind me, and locked it. I slumped down against the door; the tears burst out then. I'd been good at holding back crying before, but since Sal told me it was okay to, I'd been horrible at stopping them from flowing out of my eyes. It felt like I couldn't control anything in my life since I met Sal.

           Before, I blamed Sal for everything. It was then that I realized that the reason I ever blamed him was because I was trying to shift the blame off myself; everything was my fault. I cried and cried and cried. I punched myself in the arm a few times. Only girls and fags cry, I told myself. I stopped caring and cried some more. 

           "I wanna go home," I said pathetically. I'm already at my house. Am I home?

           I fell asleep in my clothes, against the door, tears drying on my bruised and blotched face.