Travis Phelps is God's devotee. He will bleed out his sins through his wounds, suffer his punishments. He will repent until his knees bruise and his tongue is dry.
He will pray to god to cleanse him of his sins. Of himself.
And then he meets Sal Fi...
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𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬
♱♱♱
Travis sniffles through his bent nose. His father had been kind enough to only deal one blow last night after noting that Travis forgot to properly put away the orange juice. He'd even allotted him a bigger breakfast this morning.
This doesn't discourage Travis from eating the bologna served in the cafeteria today. It's smelly and makes his stomach churn, but it reminds him of the little sandwiches his mother made for him when he was very young. She could only ever afford the cheapest bologna meat.
The flyers his father demanded he give out the other day are stacked by him, untouched. No student right in their mind would go to Church, and Travis was not one for socialising and friends. Hell, no one dares approach the table he sits at in the cafeteria where he eats by his lonesome.
His journal is laid in front of him, pen in one hand and sandwich in the other.
(His head is screaming at him to write and write and write until his ink and blood are one and the papers are the blasphemous cacophony of his thoughts, transcribed for no one but himself and his sins.)
A familiar, gentle laugh catches his attention.
He snaps his head up, taking no time to find Sal Fisher. Today, he is pretty. (Every day, he is pretty.) Pretty the way a girl is, the way a boy can be. Pretty hair and pretty clothes and pretty skin. (Travis thinks his face is probably pretty too, in the way that someone finds the trenches of the ocean pretty. In a frightening, new-lens kind of way.)
He's with Larry, talking casually, with slouched postures and loose and dirty clothes.
They freeze as they reach his table, eyes meeting his. Travis non-too-subtly shuts his journal and slides it onto his lap.
"I thought I smelled trash. What are you flamers up to?"
Larry, eyes hardened and expression far more menacing, snarks, "Gent bent, Travis."
Travis readies his rebuttal when Sal interrupts.
"Don't you have some sandwiches to attend to?"
He's exasperated. There are a few new cracks in his mask, near where Travis punched him a day ago. A flood of guilt—of disgust—washes over Travis and he looks down, squeezing his fist into the never-healing cuts in his palm.
"You're lucky it's bologna day..." he trails off, voice coming out more resigned and softer than intended.
They both leave, Johnson sparing him another earned look of hate. Appetite gone—not that he ever really has one—Travis pushes his food to the side, takes his backpack and notebook and heads for the library.
