Again&Again

Ruby.

I've never been able to tell right from wrong.

Nevermind, now that I think about it, that's more of an understatement. I know right from wrong. I know the soft tones and hard shades of gray that lie between them both, I guess I've just never been able to give a shit. I learned that parents are supposed to teach they're kids that from a young age, that lyings bad, and stealings a sin. The little fib you make that turn into a big stinkin' pile of lies that eat you up from the inside out, and that one time when you stole mama's purse to seize the pack of icebreaker mints, parents punish you for that. Parents are supposed to punish you for that, with a soft slap on the hand, or a trip to the corner of the room that's for timeout, except I never got parents. God didn't bless me with a mother with a subduing voice and soft lips that kiss away pain and insecurity. He didn't bless me with a father that was stable and strong but had gentle hands, God gave me sister Agatha and Monica. Just like parents do, they'd punish me when I was bad and if I was ever good, I guess they'd be the ones to praise me too, but only if I was ever good. I don't remember much of sister Monica, her hands were too soft, too forgiving, but Agatha was just as atrocious as her name. Agatha's punishments were far from a soft slap on the hand, or soap in your mouth, or even a pinch on the ear. They were sharp pains and dull aches that the sturdy back of her hand caused. Her hands perfect for turning fragile and frail pages of scriptures that would hopefully bind the demons of stealing, lying, and spite that latched onto my unholy heart. Also perfect for slapping the lies right out of my mouth, leaving me with red cheeks and more bruises than I can remember.

I never knew those hands could hold onto a belt so hard that her pale knuckles turned an even lighter shade of white, and the old bones that lay under dry, wrinkled skin would crack.

God isn't real if we cant see him.

I learned just how hard that night, as the thick black belt lashed out on every inch of skin it could touch, it cracked just like her bones did. Agatha's mouth was good for spewing out prayers during church like she herself was gods prodigy. Her voice was strong, and she spoke each word with meaning.

If you do what is right, will you not be excepted? But if you do not do what is right sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.

I never was able to rule over my sins.

The school I was condemned to still wasn't that bad, my youthfulness triumphed over the sisters yearn to absolve. My reflexes were fast enough to dodge belts, paddles and weary hands. Fast enough to dodge the spiteful words thrown at me by everyone, the words thrown like grenades but they never exploded in my face, I was just too fast.

Too impervious.

I never knew my parents, I don't know what they looked like, or if my mom's smile was as soft and gentle as I imagined in my head, but I did know that I was left on the cold, dusty steps of a Catholic girls school. The only thing that was ever mine was the dirty clothes on my back, stealing was a sin I was burdened with, naturally, I wanted something of my own. I stole, money, clothes, anything I wanted I stole, and those beatings didn't stop me, the way the girls cried made me wanna claim somethin' else. The sisters would send me into the church to repent for my sins.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was yesterday.

Father Simon never told me to repent, he never said:"three hail marys and three our fathers so you'll know the virtues of temperance." Father Simon relieved me of my sins by tearing of the uniform I wore, he absolved my sins by creating his own with bruising touches and devils a devils tongue. After begging for absolution, and running back to the place that condemned me, only to sin again and have to deal with father Simon's version of penance. In the eyes of everyone, I had already sinned too much sinned too much.