Sinner's Prayer

The Little

Jack woke with a similar taste of disdain the next morning, throwing on a worn denim shirt over a plain white tee. He fastened his belt around his jeans, glancing out his window to watch as dawn glistened wetly on the grass, humidity already clinging to the air.

He plucked his hat from his dresser on the way out of his bedroom, boots knocking on the hardened floors and stamping into the wood of each step as he descended down the stairs.

It smelled of coffee and bacon, no doubt the product of his mother serving breakfast. His appetite hadn't been at it's largest lately, there was something about his parents knowing the secrets of his private life that kept a lump of sickness in his throat. So when she offered him a plate, he politely declined.

"That's alright, Mama. Thanks anyway," he'd muttered, eyes searching. His father was at the end of the table, newspaper in hand, mug of coffee in the other. He doesn't look up, but he speaks.

"What're you lookin' fer?" he asks. It's one of those rare occasions where his tone is calm instead of pointed. Jack wasn't going to take his lack of hostility for granted, nor would he question it.

He patted his pockets, poking his head into the kitchen to scan the counters.

"My keys, I need the truck," Jack explains. He usually kept them in the ceramic bowl set on a short table by the door, however it was empty this morning save for some spare change.

He's aware that his missing keys were a product of his father's doing. He's practically a prisoner in this house now and a slave to the church on top of it.

As if to prove his point, John sets down his mug, digging into his shirt pocket.

Metal jingles, catching Jack's attention. His father looks at him sternly.

"Come straight home," he instructs. Jack swallows, understanding.

"Yessir," he mumbles, taking the keys from his father. Mrs. Twist appears in the archway of the kitchen, cradling a cup in her hands. She watches her boy turn, always so quiet. Jack doesn't wait for her to say something, he's all too eager to be out the door.

He takes a breath of relief as soon as he's out of the house, allowing himself to relax before he makes his way to a rusty GMC that'd he'd bought off an older gentleman the summer before he turned sixteen. Paid for in the blood and sweat of that laborious season, all too eager to drive it every which way that winter when he'd finally got his license.

It was in every sense of the word, a piece of shit, but it was his. While it's true it drove him mad to constantly tinker with it, he wouldn't have it any other way.

The interior is already baking from the sun, though a cool breeze helps to filter through the window. Jack sighs, dreading his drive to the church. He's going to be forced to pray again as if the first time wasn't enough. Reverend Grady made him feel conflicted, raising his mind with question after question.

He'd rather stay and have John work him to the bone in the fields beneath the hot sun, he thinks sourly as he starts the engine. It roars against his ears and he drives away from the house.

The reverend is waiting for him outside as he pulls up from a lengthy drive, greeting him with bright eyes and a grin. It doesn't help the turning in Jack's stomach, and he suppresses the need to bolt.

They pray and the minister gives him a lesson on "sexual immorality," that Jack would rather have steered away from. There's more discussion on the topic of forgiveness. If Jack lets Christ into his heart then he'll be free of sin and accepted into the gates of heaven.

Something like that, it's mostly a blur that Jack nods numbly to. It's too early to process the fact that he's being told over and over that his actions are abominations before God.