Get Me To A Church

CHAPTER 17: MEMORIES

           "I nearly forgot to give this to you," I said. I placed the rosary in Travis's palm. "You dropped this back at the temple."

           Travis nodded in recognition, then quickly stuffed the rosary into his pocket.

           "It's pretty cool," I said to fill in the dead air. "I like how the beads have texture."

           "Me too," he replied, almost inaudible. "I keep it in my pocket to toy with more than I use it for prayer. It was my mom's."

           Travis stepped in front of me, his back towards me — I guess to avoid any more discussion of the rosary. "Do you play guitar?" he asked. He dragged his fingers across the metal strings of my electric, propped up against the wall.

           "Yup," I replied. "I got into it in middle school, I think. I've never had a proper lesson, though."

           Travis scratched the back of his neck and sighed. "I used to play for my church," he told me.

           I grinned. "You should play me something," I decided.

           He shook his head. "No, I shouldn't. The songs I know aren't your style— I bet I don't even remember how to play," he explained.

           "If you're not comfortable, I won't force you," I said, stepping up to him and lifting up the guitar. "But I think it would be really cool, and I won't judge you if you make a mistake. I screw up all the time." I held the guitar near his arms. He carefully took it and sat down on the floor.

           Travis set my guitar down, rolled up his long sleeves, and took the guitar in his hands once more. He strummed a few chords and hummed. I think it was a hymn, but I hadn't sang one in church for years, so I could've been wrong. He did stumble a few times, hissing and gritting his teeth every time he did. But it was lovely. I wanted to cry a little when he was done.

           When he was done and I told him how nice the song was, I finally noticed the revealed skin of his left arm: there was a scar in the shape of an inverted pentacle sigil, paler than the rest of his skin.

           "What's that on your arm?" I asked. It was odd, and very concerning; why would a diehard Christian boy have a Satanic symbol carved into his skin?

           Travis froze and looked down nervously. When he understood what I was referring to, he frowned and closed his eyes wistfully.

           "It's a birthmark," he said. "It's my proof of God's existence — how I know that He planned for me to be evil and nothing else. It's why I try so hard to be good... and why I always wear long sleeves." He rolled his sleeves back down. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that," he finished sharply.

           "It's fine," I responded. "I think it's neat."

           "You think everything's neat," Travis growled suddenly. "'Cool! Awesome! Good!' Does it ever tire you to lie through your teeth constantly?"

           "I could ask the same to you," I snapped before I could catch myself. Travis glowered.

           "What's that supposed to mean?" he retorted.

           My fingers twisted and curled anxiously. I sat down in front of him. "You just... constantly tell yourself that the people who are trying to help you are the bad ones."

           We sat there silently for a good minute or two. Just staring. The room became empty and cold. I took note of Travis's two bruises once again. They were both bright purple and looked incredibly painful.

           "I'm sorry," he said.

           I didn't know how I had lasted that long without yelling at him if I was being honest. I'd bent over backwards for Travis — taking him in after tormenting me and my friends for years, letting him break down and scream and scowl at me, exculpating his actions and now protecting him from the supernatural. What next? What else could I juggle? And why was I doing any of this for someone who called me slurs and beat me up? Who had kicked Todd and fought Larry and pulled Ashley's hair?

           I started to think that "being forgiving" wasn't a real answer anymore.