The Religious & The Damaged

2

Joseph

I stare down at my blank homework as I sit in my darkening room, the sun setting in the window in front of me. The light from my desk lamp, dim. I hear the front door open and close, and I tense.

I quickly realize I forgot to take out the trash and do the dishes.

  Why couldn't I realize sooner?

I rush downstairs, but my father is already standing at the stairs. His expression dark with anger. Fear swallows me whole.

"D-Dad, I'm sorry, I forgot-"

"What did you just call me?" His tone sends shivers down my spine, it's cold and angry.

  My eyes widen as I quickly fix my mistake. "Sir." I blurt out. "I-I'm sorry. I'll do my chores now."

I attempt to walk past him, but he takes my arm into his grasp and I wince at his tight grip. "It should've been done five hours ago." He says, his voice growing louder.

"I know, but I had homework a-and I had to study-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. I want you to do what I tell you when I ask you to do them. Understand?"

I gulp hard. "Y-Yes, sir." I say.

"Good."

A shaky breath escapes as he lets me go, but I don't move. I'm paralyzed by fear.

  I wait until he's up the stairs, and I feel the willpower to move again. I do what I was supposed to do and return upstairs 10 minutes later.

I walk down the dark hallway until I'm in front of my bedroom door and I reach for the doorknob, I feel the cold metal touch my skin just as dad calls out for me across the way.

"Son." He says, his voice low.

My grip tightens on the doorknob as I stare in front of me. My heart is racing and I can't move again.

  I, so desperately, want to rush into my room and hide away from my father, but there would be no use. I know punishment is unavoidable, so I let go and my gaze drifts downward—the orange glow on the floor from the light coming from the crack of the door to my father's bedroom keeps me grounded as I turn and take a step forward. I push open the door and look at him, then at the belt in his hand. I gulp hard, and it hurts.

I hold back tears because I know it'll only make it worse if I cry. I learned that a long time ago.

He stares at me, his expression emotionless, but it still terrifies me because I know deep down he's furious. The calmer he looks, the angrier he is.

"Pray." He flatly says, gesturing to the altar right across from his bed.

I don't speak. I hesitate, but walk over to the altar—I feel his presence behind me. My body is tense, very tense.

  I take the match box into my shaky hand and light one to light the two candles at the ends of the altar; my father's eyes burning into my neck and soul.

  Shaky breaths escape as I slowly drop to my knees and clasp my hands together with a rosary tangled within my fingers. I close my eyes and I speak in a whisper, my voice wobbly as I wait for the worse to be over.