Thursday Bible Study discussions have been getting progressively worse. Last night’s turned into a shit-slinging argument on the true meaning of Romans 5:12, “Wherefore, as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned.” It sounds pretty cryptic but I don’t give a fuck; you can’t expect to understand God from a book. You really can’t.
People shouted about original sin and depravity and who has sinned and why we sinned and what it means to choose the Lord. I tuned it out. I wanted story time; I wanted to hear how God is working in peoples’ lives and like here’s the thing: how do you look at what God is doing as wonderful and unexpected when it’s just pathetic and all you feel is shame?
It was towards the end when she said, “Fuck, I can’t take any more of it.” That’s my follower, the voice inside my head.
I jerk my head to the side. As if I could dump her out like a water-clogged ear.
Our discussions are at the University Catholic Center on Gayley. We have chairs set up in a circle by the altar. There are nice stained-glass windows. The Jesus Christ window lights up in the dawn, bloody hands and feet and all.
One dude, Eddie, said, “There are mortal sins and venial sins. If you don’t get forgiven for a mortal sin then you go to Hell.”
Some girls shouted back at him about how that had nothing to do with the sin of Adam and Eve; they disobeyed the Lord and that’s how our nature was twisted from our true nature.
Then this guy named Jagat goes, “It’s impossible for human beings to refrain from sin.” The girls were like, “Not it’s not! No it’s not!” He’s always the center of heat because of his Protestant take on things.
I had said only one thing during the discussion. I’d said, “I do think that people—I mean all of us—we have a tendency to sin. But whether or not we’re capable of doing righteousness on our own, like, I don’t think that’s the question we should be asking. I think original sin is a mystery and we’ll never understand it.” The response I got was silence, and then people went right back into their theological game.
For the rest of the discussion I sat there saying nothing. I looked at the floor. My follower said, “I hate these morons…” and I felt like I wanted to fucking break a window with my chair. But I sat there thinking that if I was patient I’d feel the presence of the Lord.
I thought of Dad. He used to take me and Crissie and Mom to Church every Sunday, and sometimes Fridays. I took my First Communion and he nodded to me, and I remember how proud I was. I felt the body and blood of Christ in me, like this bubbling surging power that wasn’t mine. Dad said, “Bow to the priest, and cross yourself when you walk in front of the altar.” I made sure to do that every time from then on.
He used to dress me up for church. He’d comb my hair. Tie my tie. He always said, “We’re going to the House of the Lord. This is how we show respect.” It didn’t matter if the other people wore jeans and T’s. You never talked back to him. You nod your head and say, “Yes, Dad.”
The theology went in circles. Then it was 8:04 and a girl name Heidi picked up her backpack and said she had to go now.
Everyone looked at their phones to see the time. My follower says, “Let’s go,” and I tuck my Bible into my backpack.
Father Enku was in his room studying or meditating and he doesn’t come out to say goodbye this time. This time we just walk out without speaking. I’m flustered. Everyone’s flustered. It’s no way to end things but there was no point going further.
My apartment is down the street. Walking there, the movement of the trees reminds me of Jen’s ruined streaky hair. I would walk her home from the house parties we’d go to, and her hair would be frizzy from all the heat and dancing. She would say, “You can’t dance for shit,” and laugh. I’d laugh at her for laughing. She’d stumble and say, “Walk me straight.”
My follower says, “Aren’t you going to stop at the K-Z house tonight?”
I don’t know why I would. I had so much reading to do before this morning’s 28A quiz. Formation of the Roman Empire. The quiz topic: naval and military strategy in the Punic Wars. Well gee, let’s just make a fucking corvus and walk onto the enemy’s boats and kill them with swords. That sounds like a good way to fight a naval battle. Hey it worked.
I just tell her that I’m going home. I don’t feel like it.
“Why don’t you feel like it?” Her voice is always cold and raspy. It sounds like a woman’s voice but of course I can’t know for sure. Most people wouldn’t like it but I do.
“I have things to do,” I said aloud.
“Doesn’t answer shit,” she says. “I said why don’t you feel like it.”
I tell her I don’t need a reason and that I do what I want. Damn, I can’t wait for everyone to stop telling me what to do.
“Get a tampon,” she says.
I’m so infuriated. But what am I supposed to do? Bang my head against the wall? I did that once when I was drunk and all she did was laugh.
She just crawled inside my head one night during finals week. I don’t know what happened. I like wake up in the morning hearing a voice and it doesn’t go away. She follows me everywhere. She can hear and see everything I can, as if she shares my ears and eyes. She’s pretty aware of things: like she notices things that I don’t. She’ll comment on something that’s in my vision that I’m not paying attention to. I don’t know about the other senses. Also, she knows history and helped me ace the Contemporary World History final.
After a week I’m like, “Hey, can you leave me alone?”
She goes, “I’m here to stay.” I wondered what she was and where she came from but I felt like I already knew the answer. You often hear in Church about how evil plays an active role in the world. So I asked if she’s a demon and she said, “I’m one they call ‘unholy.’” I asked if she’s got a name and she laughs and says, “There’s no point.” I don’t really know what that means; I think it means I’m fucked.
I got home. The lights were out because my flatmate was gone. I go to my room. I’m slouching over my desk reading A History of Rome from the Republic to the Fall. I have to force myself to concentrate. It’s dense reading. I kept thinking about Jen’s ass—its soft, fleshy plumpness. She has a tattoo on her left cheek below the hip that says, ‘sluts for life.’ It’s in small black script, the size of a kiss. Both she and her friend Mia got one when they were drunk.
The image makes me horny and tempts me to watch porn. I don’t want to, though. Not just because God is watching, judging; it’s cause it makes me feel like a pig. I always sit there afterwards going, ‘What have you done?’
My follower doesn’t give a shit if I masturbate. She doesn’t tell me to stop; she doesn’t say anything about how it’s sinful or gross, so it doesn’t make me feel awkward if she can see me doing it. She’ll comment on the porn by saying things like, ‘Never seen that one before.’
This fantasy of Jen made my dick tingle but I pushed the thoughts out of mind. I tried to think of Romans instead. I said to my follower, “Keep me awake,” and she said nothing.
I imagined her inside my room like I often do. It’s clear, like a vision. She sits atop the dresser nude with her legs crossed, turning her foot in circles. With glowing eyes she looks out the window at the people walking. She’s like shrouded in long hair and shadows and I get the faintest smell of ash.
I woke up this morning with my face on the book. My phone’s alarm was beeping. She hadn’t kept me up; she didn’t even wake me up. “You’re so passive aggressive,” I said. She had no damn right to be mad at me. We didn’t talk. The quiz was at 9:00am and I threw on some clothes and rushed to class.
The quiz was rough. It’s because I didn’t know the Third Punic War and I forgot everything involving Hasdrubal. I always think Professors can’t get worse; they always do. It’s amazing. Each quarter the Profs invent new ways to be assholes. They can’t teach for shit and then you go into the test not knowing what you’re supposed to know and get fucked. I study my ass off and when I take the final I see shit I’ve never heard of before. Every single time, dude. I’m so fucking tired of it.
So after the quiz I go and gorge myself on Carl’s Jr.; I say it now and I’ll say it again: Carl’s Jr. is the best thing about UCLA. Diddy Riese is bullshit and anyone with half a brain will tell you that.
The Double Western Burger was juicy and hot and saucy. It’s one of the few things that really makes me happy. I stop chewing long enough to ask my follower if she’ll talk to me. She says she will. I don’t ask her why she didn’t wake me; I just say, “Ever get hungry?”
“Yeah,” she says, “Not for food.” I asked what for while shoving as many fries as possible into my mouth. She said, “I don’t know. Excitement. Knowledge.”
Don’t tell me to ask her why she’s with me and not some other freak. I ask her all the time. She just says, “I’m happy where I am.” I don’t buy that for a second. We’ve been on each other’s asses like over half the time in the month she’s been here. I almost feel bad for her.
After lunch I had a drink at the BJ’s bar with Fred and Sung Chan. It’s our go-to spot for drinks. With pints in hand, we complain about the Summer Session Profs and talk about the Pirates and Wenches party coming up at the Kappa Alpha Xi house. They said I should go. I said, “I’ll think about it.” Hanging at the house is one thing but a party is another.
“Jen is going to be there,” says Sung Chan. I take it as a warning and a challenge.
I tell him that I know and I don’t care. We’re not cool, Jen and I. She’s in Omega Mu Nu. I got with her in the winter and she encouraged me to pledge K-Z so like I did. At first I was just doing it to make her happy. But I liked the guys and I liked the challenge. Too bad I got dropped the day before initiation. Then I got a text from Jen that said: We’re done. I don’t blame her. It’s bad enough being with a Geed, a GDI, a God-Damned-Independent, but a dropped pledge is just disgraceful. People would whisper about her saying how her gay-ass boyfriend couldn’t cut it.
I tipped my pint glass up to take a run of hefty gulps.
My follower said, “You don’t have to go. No one’s forcing you.”
I said to everyone, “I’m going to the party. I don’t give a fucking shit about Jen.” More beer on top of that.
I do give a fuck. I don’t want to see her. What if she’s with some bro? Like, all over him? And he’s all over her. I can’t take that. But I have to cover it for my follower and my bros. My follower knows the basics about Jen. It’s impossible to hide. There are pictures of her and me on facebook: plastered at a party, making faces at a camera, arm around her at a dinner event. The pictures are going to be there forever. I had said to my follower, “That’s Jen. We broke up.”
My follower was like, “Cute.”
I try not to let her in on my past. If my follower really is a demon like I think she is, it means she’s not here to mess around. She’s here to tear me apart. I feel it taking hold. When I first started seeing her in my room I just had a vague sense of her, like a shadow in the corner. Now she has a full form and a loud voice, and knows all these things about me.
We’re enjoying ourselves and Sung Chan and I are entertained by Fred’s attempts to flirt with the redheaded bartender who’s really not feeling it. But she has patience because she’s seen it all. We laugh when Fred asks for her number and she declines and says, “Gunna have to try harder than that, buddy.” Fred’s pride is wounded but he acts like he doesn’t care. What a softy.
Then we talk about how pissed we are that Philly’s Finest, the awesome cheesesteak place on Broxton, got turned into The Falafel King. Philly’s had the juiciest, cheesiest sandwiches you’ll ever eat. The idea gets thrown out there that maybe the falafel isn’t bad. I think it was Fred. We called him a shit-faced cum stain. He looked bummed out.
Then I was like, “I have a dream.” The beer was getting to me and I was letting words come out. With like no hesitation I’m all, “I want to be an alcoholic someday.”
Then Fred and Sung Chan said, “But you already are!”
I belt false laughter, “Ha. Ha. Ha. But listen to me—”
“I think he means he wants to be sober someday,” Sung Chan said.
“Listen!” I say, “Are you listen, listening to me? For one second for Christ’s sake?” We listen and he’s like, “I want to be an alcoholic. And do you want to know why?” He leaned on his elbows and made a shape with his fingers.
My follower mumbles something snide. I couldn’t hear it.
Sung Chan asked why and I said, “Because, because an alcoholic, he. Like. I want to be addicted to alcohol. Because,” he slurs, “I can’t stand all the shit that goes on and I want to be at that level where, where like, that level where like I’m doing something productive about it. You know? Where I’m like making good on my—on my state of mind.” Fred and Sung Chan looked at me with relaxed, blissful faces, like they were only half-listening. I go on, “It’s not about the effects of alcohol. It’s like, like the state of alcoholism, like a suicidal, depressed, dependent wreck. Like, that’s what I want to be. As opposed to what I am.”
“And what’s that?” says Sung Chan.
I had to think about it. Am I a shit-head? Am I just another bro? Something came to mind and I said, “I’m a fucking failure.”
I think that’s accurate. I remember how whenever I complained about something my Dad would say, “You think Jesus would be crying right now like you are?” I’d tell him I’m not Jesus and he’d say “No shit.”
Crissie and Mom stopped going to church because they got bored. So it was always me and Dad. He’d sit there grimacing the whole time and whenever I fidgeted he flicked me in the arm. He wouldn’t even stop looking at the ceremony. On good days he’d pat me on the back on the way out as we dipped our fingers in holy water. On all the other days he’d act like I wasn’t there. He might say one thing to me, like, “God is merciful and loving, but you have to earn salvation.”
“Yes, Dad,” I’d say.
Alcohol makes me feel like I can handle things. If I was an alcoholic I wouldn’t have to care about being saved. I could forget that I fucked up too many times. I could get a break from being guilty and human. Forget that I’m at this shitty university, and pretend like Jen and K-Z never happened. So I drink and my life is blurry and acceptable.
Fred and Sung Chan were quiet for a moment. My follower said, “So drink up. I’m sure it’ll fix everything.”
I wanted to tell her that it was easy for her to fucking say. She’s just an outsider. She thinks she knows me. Just because she’s in my head doesn’t mean she’s in my head.
Fred put his arm around me and says, “You’re like the coolest Geed we know, man.”
Sung Chan goes, “It’s not your fault man. You did your best. It was rough, dude.”
I surprised they’re taking it seriously. I said, “I need another drink. Finish up: I’m buying the next pitcher.” They whooped and we emptied our glasses.
We had a rowdy time. The redhead came and said we have to cool it or she’ll kick us out. We’re bothering other patrons. Probably everyone can hear us because it’s the smallest BJ’s ever. Fucking cramped up Westwood.
When we were done we walked back to campus, to Bruin Plaza with the retarded-ass metal bear, and did the whole fist-bump thing. Sung Chan and Fred exchanged the secret K-Z handshake. They always look at me like, ‘wish I could do the shake with you,’ and I think I look at them like, ‘I understand.’ But I don’t know: I’m sort of glad I’m not in K-Z. I’m also fucking destroyed about it. I did all that shit for nothing; I can’t help thinking of it that way.
The three of us rushed K-Z together; that’s how we met. We went through all the pledge-bitch shit like doing the brothers’ laundry and cleaning their house. Doing grocery runs. They did this thing where they had us race to see who could finish a pint of vodka first. That was actually sort of funny, thinking back on it. We got a pledge-class puppy named Ruffles, after the chips. A black and white female Shih Tzu. We like had to take turns looking after it and one of the pledges was able to teach it not to bark, so that was good, but potty training wasn’t easy.
One time she took a shit in the K-Z house and Uri, the president, tried to smack it with like a three-foot paddle. I took the hit with my forearm—I’m lucky didn’t break. Uri was always like that. The guy loved his baseball caps; they guy loved his paddle. It was chipped all up and down the sides. That wasn’t the only time I got hit with it, but it was the only time I put myself in front of it.
I picked up Ruffles and took her home; I had her at my apartment for a few weeks until she got the hang of going outside. Piss stains everywhere. Dude, she was such a helpless stupid dog. You throw a ball and she just stares at you. I really liked her, though. All she wanted was to be petted and sit on your lap while you study.
Anyways, we said “Later, bro,” and went our separate ways from Bruin Plaza and I went to my 4:00 PM class: History 161C, American Society in the Nineteenth Century. The lecture today was buzzy and dull. I had to mess with my phone to stay awake. I played Temple Run. I checked my schedule. What do I have to read for next week’s Bible Study? Another Pauline Epistle, probably. Do I even want to go? It’s something to think about.
Maybe I should go to Confession; I haven’t been since spring. My dad used to make me go all the time. He’d be like, “Son, we are a fallen people. There’s no hope for us except through Christ.” As a kid I hated going but then I started going because I wanted to. When I was little I’d be sitting there with the priest trying to think of all the bad things I’d done. I’d tell him about how I’d get mad at Mom and Dad when they say I can’t have candy or toys. The priest says selfishness is in our corrupted nature. Then why the hell was I in Confession?
Swearing, too. It’s not a sin; the priest will tell you. Jesus was this guy who never gave a damn about the rules. “You hypocrites,” he said to those who followed them. It’s like this, you know, you’ve got God, and he’s like this great disembodied thing that, in the end, cares only about sin and not about the rules. It comes off like he does. In a book. But that’s because everyone wants to be told what to do and they’re the ones who wrote the book. Father Enku would disagree with that, the book part. But he’s an all right dude, overall. He’s from Cote d’Ivoire originally; he was a physicist at Stanford before he was a priest; he’s like really smart. He’s always proud to mention during his homilies that the guy who came up with the Big Bang was a Catholic. He says we have to think about what it means for the universe to have a beginning and an end. He says it with a French African accent. It sounds cool.
At church my follower likes to sing hymns but she sounds terrible. “You’re giving me a headache,” I’d said to her. She got all like offended and sang even louder. Our compromise is that we take turns singing every other song. She loves to sing the Kyrie. In her thin voice she goes, “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy,” to the tune. I don’t think it means a damn to her.
The other day I was in my room eating macaroni and cheese. She was sitting on my dresser like usual and she was telling me, “Don’t ever ask God for forgiveness. That’s not something He does; it’s not in His nature. It’s a misunderstanding mortals have.” I got this sinking feeling. I felt stupid. I felt sorry for myself. In a way I felt betrayed. I’ve said the Kyrie every week since I was five and it doesn’t mean that God is actually happy with you. No matter what, you’re going to sin. And even if you aren’t committing sin, it’s in your blood. It’s that blood-apple none of us can escape, running through our veins.
In high school I went back and forth about what to do about Confession. Sometimes I wanted to go; sometimes I told myself I never would again. Dad would come in my room and say, “Son, when’s the last time you went to Confession?”
One time I said, “I have nothing to confess.”
He got really pissed and said, “Don’t get smart with me. You think your soul is something to joke about?”
I was able to prevent myself from retaliating. He never got on Crissie or Mom about anything; it was always me. I guess to him I was the only redeemable one. For the longest time I did want to be a good Catholic, a man of God like him. Things were changing fast. He was always gone at night. Then one night he didn’t come back. That was three years ago. The whole time growing up thought he was a righteous guy but he was just a cunt. He’d been going around fucking dudes like he had some special identity. Like it’s ok to leave your wife and children if you’re a fag. I say bullshit. He can burn in Hell.
I have to be the one to tell my mom to get off her ass and get a job because she sits there watching soap operas all day. She says, “Oh, he’s coming back.” Crissie got into heroin and dropped out of Long Beach to go live with her junky friends in Phoenix. We had a fight and I said, “Aren’t you going to help take care of Mom?”
Crissie, who is older and should be the one taking charge, yells at me, “You think I have time to do that? I’ve got my own shit, so get off my fucking back.”
I don’t have time, either. I just hope Mom remembers to feed herself and clean herself. She’s gained so much weight. She looks terrible all the time.
History class seemed to last forever. The professor mumbles on and on in that fucking self-aggrandizing way; they all do it. When class got out I was barely able to stand at first. I was sleepy and drunk and bored. I felt sick to my stomach and my head was hurting. I composed myself and no one could tell that I was drunk by looking at me. Probably smelled like hops, though.
I needed coffee and Jimmy’s Coffee House was like the closest place.
The sun was fucking bright and like being outside made me feel even worse. I’m thinking, ‘how much did I drink, anyways?’ I walked past Bunche Hall and I could feel my body start to sweat. My follower says, “You don’t seem so good.”
I think she can maybe sense what I’m feeling. I wonder if she feels drunk when I am. We have this weird connection. We can’t see each other’s memories, but I get these awful nightmares. They’re so vivid. Like one where I purposely hit a little girl with my car. She’s riding on the crosswalk on a pink bike with tassels. Then I press the gas and send her flying. I like force myself out of sleep and am paralyzed on my bed and can’t speak, foaming at the mouth despite clenched teeth. Like I seriously can’t move. No matter how hard I try. My follower says nothing. She doesn’t sleep so I know she’s there, waiting quietly until I fall asleep again and the nightmares return. We never talk about it. I get the feeling that she’s taking over, one dream at a time. She’s invading me and soon my body won’t be mine.
Last week I went to Father Enku asking for an exorcist. His face went gloomy. Like he’d been struck by a shade of memories. And so, couldn’t I get one? He said he would if such a situation warranted. I’d have to explain that the situation does warrant, but we wouldn’t believe me. I don’t look like I’m possessed. He might be insulted because my follower doesn’t fit the description of evil spirit. So I didn’t explain and I left it at that.
I arrived at Jimmy’s Coffee House. It’s right by Dodd, across from the plaza with all the sideways trees. The wave of cool air felt good. It wasn’t all that busy inside. Just some people with books on their tables, studying and getting out of the sun. I squint at the menu.
Then I’m like, ‘why am I squinting?’ so I ordered a medium latte.
I was handing the chick my card when my follower says, “There are some girls behind you talking about OMN. One of them is named Jen so play it cool.” She says it in a ‘you got this,’ type of way.
Jen’s voice hits me. She’s with a friend and she’s laughing about something. I’m like praying she’s too distracted to notice me.
I have to say, I was panicking. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since she dumped me. It was bound to happen eventually—that I’d run into her on campus like this. I look out for her when I walk to class, thinking that if I see her from far away I’ll be able to avoid her. But this is just too close, and I’m not ready. I don’t want to think of what to say; I don’t want to say anything, or hear her speak.
I met her on campus in the winter. I saw her carrying this big table for her sorority or whatever and I offered to carry it for her. She let me help her set up this table and banner. It was for a bake sale. She gave me a cookie saying, “Free of charge,” and I paid anyways.
I was excited about K-Z and she was excited too. Once I got in I would really be able to say that she’s my babe, and I could take her to formals and mixers with her on my lap for everyone to see.
I’d gotten through a quarter of pledging. Hell Week kicked off with the Shitty Pool Challenge. Running ten miles around the track at the park wearing nothing but boxers or briefs. Fucking cold out, dude. After each mile you have to get in this inflatable kiddy pool that’s filled with a bunch of excrement and trash. At first I stood there like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Then my Big, Abdul, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Get in. We all did it.” They didn’t push us. They wanted to see if we would do it. And so I did. I submerged myself and I started throwing up. I got out and could barely fucking breathe from my own stench. I ran the track as fast as possible, slowing down when the mile was nearly done, dreading. Then getting in the pool and starting over. We had challenges like that every day. The final thing was the 48-hour challenge. The rules are simple: don’t fall asleep for 48 hours. From Wednesday night to Friday night.
The 27th hour was more laps; they hit us with paddles as we ran by. And like each mile we lined up with our hands held out knuckles up so that the brothers could take turns hitting them with textbooks. When we were done with ten miles Uri came up to us. You could really tell he loved this stuff. He loved beating pledge-bitches and making men of them. He was smiling when he put down a 5-gallon bucket of water.
This other guy, Goddard, strolls up with Ruffles on a leash and hands it to Sung Chan, saying “here you go.” Ruffles licked his leg with her pink tongue and started going in bouncy circles like she always did when she wanted to play.
Sung Chan and I held Ruffles by the neck under the water. She didn’t even yelp. The other guys crowd around us trying to make it look like they’re helping but really it’s a two man job. The whole time all you want to do is pull it out and act like you were kidding. Dry it off, pet the thing, tell her she’s ok. But I didn’t because I’m not a pussy. I sucked it up. When Ruffles started clawing at the plastic bucket we pushed her deeper and held her legs. I got this idea that like maybe if I hit her head against the bottom really hard she’ll knock out. That didn’t work and it ended up taking a long time for her to die. Then we stood back and she sank to the bottom.
One of the pledges lifted her sopping black and white body from the bucket and put it on the ground. Her legs are stiff. Her eyes dumbfound. We bury her and that’s all for the night.
We got back to the K-Z house and started drinking. I had a fifth in my hand and never let it go. It put me to sleep and I got caught. Got dropped. The guys crossed on Saturday. Jen dumped me. I sat on my mattress staring at the wall. I drank until I puked and then I drank again.
I never told Father Enku about the hazing. I just told him about me and Jen. She and I had sandwiches in the Sculpture Garden in the spring, sitting by the fountain at night. She spilled on her shirt. She took it off. She knew what she was doing. We sinned once by the fountain and once by the sculpture of the horse made of artificial sticks. And why the hell don’t I just say it? Ok: I fucked her. I fucked her. I threw her on her elbows over the concrete fountain side and fucked her from behind and then I laid her in the grass by the horse and fucked her missionary style and she screamed like a maniac. She loved it—getting fucked. Christ knows how it happened; I’m not about to paint a pretty picture; I’m not about to…pretend.
I can’t forget the way she felt or how she smelled. Her skin burning and smooth. Her jiggling tits. The cold wet grass. I remember the company of black dismembered-Aphrodite statues and the darkness of the Garden. I remember every goddamn thing.
I miss her. I wish that porn could fill my heart.
I told Father Enku about it in Confession—how I sinned with sex and porn. It was the day before the follower came to me. He said in his accent, “My son, the Lord forgives you of your sins. In college there are many temptations. I think the best way to make your penance and make peace with God is by refraining from those acts. Refrain from those websites. Make an effort to be righteous and that’s the hardest thing we can do. But it is right.” He said the Absolution which concludes, “Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
That felt really good; I deserved it. I kneeled before the wooden crucifix and prayed, ‘I should have resisted.’ Still, I don’t think He forgives me for how I’ve been dwelling on it. And poor stupid Ruffles: I liked you and I killed you and I’m sorry. I can’t ask God to take it away.
My follower knows I’m coming from a bad place; she’s not stupid. She sees the bitterness quenched by alcohol. In me and all of K-Z. She doesn’t ask.
I was shaking just a little, putting my card back in my wallet. The brunette cashier watched me struggle and I’m thinking, ‘don’t you stare at me you judging bitch.’
“Just keep your head down and walk to that table in the corner,” says my follower.
I did just that. Caught a glimpse of Jen and her friend Mia, the girl she got a tattoo with. They had on short shorts and bright green v-neck shirts to show their stuff. They had OMN-embroidered bookbags with matching-green font.
In the corner I was out of sight.
“I should leave right now,” I tell my follower, whispering. “I should just go.”
“We’re here for coffee,” she says, “We don’t have to let that bitch make us do anything.”
It’s not that I was afraid; it’s just that I didn’t want to have to talk to her. I like didn’t want her to get a moment of, ‘look how far I’ve come.’ Or be reminded of where I am.
I thought about how Jen would take me to parties in the winter. She introduced me to the K-Z guys and they’d say “What’s up bro?” At those parties I felt like the guys had something on me. You could tell who was a brother and who wasn’t because the brothers really owned everything. When I looked at them I saw men who made the world their bitch.
In the spring the brothers had us pre-game hard for the Thursday parties and when we walked in we felt like kings. We were swimming in girls—the drunkest were the OMN pledges. If we were really kings, I don’t know, because our memories had been erased by rum. There’s this time I woke up on the sidewalk without a shirt. I had swastikas and dicks drawn all over me.
I was drinking Thai tea with Jen in the Science Plaza. It’s winter and the cherry blossoms are blooming. They fill the air with gentle pink. She puts her head on my shoulder saying, “I love you babe.” I tell her that I love her too. I wrap my arm around her. Run a finger through her bleached hair. Check out her rack. Feel a boner growing in my pants. I don’t care.
Naked torso statues in the Garden. I was a clumsy virgin but when I inserted she said, “God, oh God.” She actually said that; she said that for me.
I’m so fucking weak; full of desire and no honor. Jesus resisted the temptations of the devil in the desert for forty days; I give in to sin—carnal sin is how the Church says it—at the sight of Jen’s big gorgeous tits.
I know exactly what my dad would say: “You’ve desecrated yourself.”
He’d give me that look of disappointment and I’d tell him, “As if you haven’t had your share.” I want to tell him that I’m more of a man than he’ll ever be.
My follower said, “Relax.”
I thought I heard the receipt machine spitting. I said, “I’m outa here.” My follower said no I wasn’t. I couldn’t move; she wouldn’t let me. It felt like there was a force gripping my body. She’s never done that to me while in public and it made me panic.
She said that I could do this; it’s no big deal. She said, “Don’t be a pussy.” I swear the room was spinning and the walls were tilted. I breathed and breathed. And how could she call me a pussy? No one can fucking tell me that I’m not a man. I know exactly what I am.
My follower released her hold on me and I put my head down on the table over my backpack. I heard the girls walk outside.
She whispers, “It’s fine. You’re fine.” It calms me down a little.
I felt so fucking sick and I was really dying for that coffee. I waited until the coffee people called my name. Then I go up there and they pass it over the counter and I’m like, ‘Yes, Jesus, give me that.’ I snatch it. As soon as I walk out of the door Jen appears in front of me. Mia’s at her side.
She says, “Oh, hi.” Her hair is shorter, still bleached-blonde. Her lips glossy and pink. I notice her wide chin she’s self-conscious of. Her cleavage bursting from the V of her shirt. God, she’s hot. She smiles as though it’s nice to see me but really she’s like, ‘You’re an embarrassment.’ I see it on the weakness of her smile; I’m a worthless Geed to her.
I say hi and ask how she is. She’s great. She didn’t know I was taking summer school. I told her I need credits.
“That’s great,” she says, “It’s great to see you.” Mia looked at her. I know they’ve talked about me. Mia probably thinks of me as one of Jen’s mistakes, like her tattoo. A memory that she’d rather keep a secret.
I said, “Yeah, you too.” I was about to ask if she was going to the Pirates and Wenches party, but I decided not to. I don’t plan on going, anyways. Then she suggested we get lunch sometime. I struggle to articulate, “I’d love to. Let’s do that sometime.”
Jen said, “Just like, text me or whatever.”
The coffee people called their names. Mia nudged her arm.
“I will,” I said. She said she’d see me later. She looked at me with black-lined eyes—dark, curved eyes she inherited from her Japanese grandmother. I almost hugged her but I stopped myself. I said, “Bye,” and we walked away.
I meant to go home but my damn head hurt so much I had to stop. I think the headache is from the way I slept on my desk, made worse by the alcohol. So I grabbed a seat by Kirchoff and drank my coffee at a table under a tree. I’ve been sitting here a while.
I think my follower wants to say something. She’s going to make a big deal about what a fucking bitch I am; I know it. She’ll laugh at me. She’ll tell me that I’m nothing.
I feel tired. I feel like I don’t get good sleep anymore, partly from the nightmares my follower is giving me. I’d really like to know what she plans to do with me, but I’ve never had the chance to ask. All I know is that she’s here to destroy me. Soon I’ll be caged inside my own mind watching my follower do whatever the fuck she wants with my body. I’ll be taken to a dark place and left convulsing and corrupted, never to be seen again. She’ll whisper me into insanity and then when my body is withered and dead my soul will go to Hell. God’s going to look at me and say, “This is what you’ve done,” and off I go. I mean, if that’s His fucking plan, then fuck. I know that’s his plan because he sent me a demon; the message is pretty goddamn clear. And let’s be real for a second: Hell is going to be so much worse than how people think it is, like with fire and devils and shit. It’s literally the place without good: that’s where I’m headed.
There’s this Bible verse that goes, “For I know the plans I have for you, plans for peace and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” I believed it; I always prayed to Him and tried to let Him do His will through me. That’s what everyone says you’re supposed to do. My dad and I would go church and we’d pray until our knees were like rocks. But it amounts to nothing so I hope you’re fucking happy, Dad. You hypocrite. You lying cunt. We’re going to Hell.
I roll my empty paper cup across the metal surface of the table. I had watched the shadows of trees rotating and now the shade of Kirchoff covers everything. My headache is subsiding.
I say to my follower, “I think about Jen like all the fucking time.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she says. I don’t actually have a good answer.
Then I start asking all these things I’ve been wondering. What sort of background does a devil have? Do you live forever? Do you roam freely, or are you bound by holy justice?
She says, “Before the fall of man was the fall of angels. That’s why God’s a fool.” She says she’ll die on Judgement Day and she can only exist on earth inside of mortals. She says to me, “I never had a body. I never will. Not one of my own.”
I say, “Is that all you want? You just want a body? Like what’s the point?”
In her raspy voice she goes, “I just want to live. Like you. For us, the damned, it’s all we have.”
“So…” I say, “I’m just supposed to let you take my body? And then what? I die and you go on to someone else?”
“You might not die,” she says. I tell her it’s not comforting and she says she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want me to know that I have a choice about whether I’m going to fight or not. I’m not going to get an exorcist; I don’t need one; I don’t want one.
I think I’m supposed to be like on my hands and knees right now, begging and pleading my throat out for God to save me. But I’m not. Why is that? I’ll tell you why: because I don’t fucking want to. Even though the thought of my follower, my demon, taking over—it makes me shudder, but I’m not afraid of her. I won’t ask her to spare me and I don’t want her to. I’m just so fucking sick of asking God and what she says makes sense: He has a will and so do I and there’s nothing to forgive or say you’re sorry for. That’s like how it is and if I’m in Hell at least I’m with people like her. At least I’m a man…at least we all said, ‘God is full of shit.’ He made us promises, all of us, and we’re here anyways. And honestly, sex with Jen is like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for it anymore; I’m damned anyways.
I sort of trust my follower. She might lead me to a path of agony. That’s almost laughable because it’s exactly where I’m at anyways. I don’t think that’s where she’s taking me. Maybe it’ll be an easy thing. This could just be my final ride out of this world, and I’ll wave my Mom goodbye, and my Dad I’ll meet again, and my follower will show me how to get to Hell like it’s her home, like it’s the best place to be.
Now I’m picturing my demon sitting in the chair across from me. Her figure is smaller than Jen’s. She seems delicate. Her arms are crossed over her chest. There’s a gray, smoky aura floating off her body and my nose is filled with the scent of ash. She’s watching me play with my cup, like it’s annoying her or something. I stop and she looks up at me. From her glance I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Maybe she’s just studying my face the way I’m studying hers.
I’m pretty sure she’s putting this image in my head. I wonder how real it is. I wonder if, when I reach across the table, I’ll be able to touch her and feel her.
Chandler Thomsen 