𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐇// 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐗𝐎𝐂

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢𝐢. ✭ 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐍

JULY, 1978; CHANCE

"The father, the son, and the Holy Spirit." Grandma brought her cross shaped fingers to her forehead, navel, both sides of her chest, and then lastly to her lips. "Come on, Sweetheart." I copied the motions, trailing behind her as she entered the church.

That was the first time I ever went to church. Before that all I knew about was how to pray, not much else. Grandma had dressed me up that morning, zipping me into a floral sundress. She had curled my hair in the morning and handed me a rosary from off of the cross she had nailed above her bed.

The beads of the necklace were dark red. The color blood. I could feel the necklace against my skin. It felt heavy, the way it seemed to pull my neck down. Tortured Jesus cling to the end of it. He bounced slightly against my sternum as I walked.

"Grandma, why do we have to go?" I asked her in the car, tilting my head at the church before us. The steeples were tall. Little people flowed inside, looking all spiffy in their Sunday best.
"I never gone before."

"That's because your daddy is a miserable doormat who let your mommy walk all over him." She answered, a cigarette wedged inside of her mouth. It dangled lazily from between Grandma's plump lips. "Your mommy believed in all that hippie crap. The sun, the moon, the stars, heroin. That's all she worships and your daddy was fine with it." She blew one last stream of smoke out before smashing the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray. "Thank God, he got you baptized at least, fucking doormat." Grandma cursed, opening the door of her car. "Don't worry, Chancie, now that you're with me we're gonna go to church every Sunday."

We did go to church every Sunday, just like she said. Every week we would stop by our church or any other church to supplement for it and sit for an hour in Sunday mass.

I was good. I was good for Grandma, Jesus, Mary, the priest, and God knows who else. I got on my knees and I clasped my hands together and I whispered prayers dutifully. I would eat the blessed bread and the blood of Christ without hesitation. I would relish the taste on my tongue, hoping to soak up the sacrificial sustenance those thin wafers and sips of wine provided.

I sang in the church choir. I slipped loose change I found on the street into the donation basket. As a kid, having a nickel meant that I was rich. I felt even wealthier when I gave it always.

However, through all the religious hurrah I scarcely read my bible. I couldn't concentrate through the brimstone and fire lectures. Be this way. Do this. Don't do that. Eternal damnation. Your skin will melt, revealing the whore you are beneath all that lustrous skin. You will be nothing but a pile of bones with flames erupting around you.

I tuned all of the bullshit out but as I turned off my ears the my sacrificial consumption waned. The body on my tongue just felt like a delicate cracker that had a bad aftertaste. The blood that once ran so fruitfully through my lips was really just sweet wine that came from a box and was stored in the church's cellar.

The magic was gone and who was to fault but Abilene Shaw? That ashy blonde hair that fell so pleasantly on those creamy shoulders. Her church dress was always so modest. She always wore a wrap to cover her hellish collarbones, no matter how sweltering the weather got.

Chance Stargrove, the temptress.
Abilene Shaw, the self loathing dyke.
What a pair.

FEBRUARY, 1986; CHANCE