From Those We Love the Most

Part 9

The Passion of No One

                “Lord, thank you for everything. And bless these young hands and minds and hearts and souls.” Sister Hazel didn’t have her eyes completely shut. How awful, how hypocritical. But she had her focus elsewhere and couldn’t cut it. Nonetheless, both students, gripping her hands rather limply with cool flesh, had been instructed to close their eyes, lest they see Jesus running at them in a Hawaiian shirt with a freshly sharpened pencil ready to go.

                “Guide them…” But to where? What point on what celestial map?

                It was then that Charlie entertained a vision that was as lust-filled as anything any sinner has had to sort out. It was bathed in strokes of red and gold- kind of colors of passion, kind of colors of basic precision that is found in the most disdainful of human hearts.

                He was in a dreamworld, far separated from himself and those around him. It was a vivid dimension, occurring only in his head. It involved the smell of the blood and the feel of rape, an invasion of the skin. An army marching upon the body, proclaiming an unholy victory. He was saying something into Veronica’s ear and she wasn’t listening. Did she ever listen? All she heard was the music. Charlie hated that music. Give him Led Zeppelin any day over that din.

                Sister Hazel was no where to be found. Perhaps, in this other existence, she never even JOINED the convent. Maybe she married a man who was prone to wearing Hawaiian shirts and she was making him dinner every night. Maybe his name would be Joe or it would be Chester.

                “Have you been practicing, Charlie?” her bodyless spirit floated into the abyss, like a ghost from a cheap science fiction movie.

                “That’s not important now.” His voice sounded more abrasive and adult.

                “Ohhhhhhkay. But I’ll be back!” And she dissipated.

                “I don’t practice that often,” Veronica said what he long suspected. She blushed and avoided eye contact. “To be honest.”

                “I’m not honest that much,” Charlie admitted. He remembered confession, then, and how the priest had made him say dozens of prayers and creeds he never heard of before. He wondered if the priest had made them up, just to spite him.

                “Well.” Veronica stopped. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

                “Like what?”

                “Like I’m a piece of meat. It’s kind of discomforting.”

                “Sorry.” But he wasn’t. He wanted her to know how it felt. Like she was a juicy steak on a plate for his devouring.

                If she knew.

                He reached for her and she screamed, jumping back. All he could feel was pain, then.

                “Charlie, Charlie?” Sister Hazel poked him. Veronica watched astutely. He shook his head out of his daydream.

                “Yeah?”

                “Stay with us, please. And practice next week! I know you’ve been slacking.” His cheeks darkened out of shame, but not just for that. You and I both know what the real shame was.

                Veronica said nothing. Sister Hazel would have more caffeine when they were both gone, accelerating her heartbeat to the pace where she finally would be rendered lifeless. That was right:  by the end of the night, Sister Hazel would have died of a premature heart attack. She would see nothing but feel a rush of warmth for a few moments.

                “God? You coming already? It’s about time.” And those would be her last words. But because of the example of Sister Oksana, selfless pariah, no one would hear them.

                As for Charlie and Veronica, they stood outside the apartment with fingers awkwardly in their respective pockets. They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity.

                “So, can I walk you home?” Charlie offered. The dream was still in his heart and his mind and he was spastic with his motions.

                “I’m getting a ride, I’m sorry.” Anne would arrive shortly, pissed off as ever, at her various bourgeois maladies.

                “Oh.” This was his cue, now. And he had to act, because soon they would not be getting together for the lessons they had grown all too accustomed to. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

                To Veronica, the act of kissing was right up there with childbearing. Her breath was nearly knocked out of her healthy young lungs.

                “I guess?” Not essentially the affirmation any boy (or girl) dreams of hearing about when they ask to kiss. Charlie opted to kiss her on the cheek instead, and it was fast and he felt dreadful about it, afterwards. Dreadful and elated.

                “Why are you crying?” Anne sounded disgusted when she picked up Veronica, letting the girl collapse in the back of her car in a mess of fast food wrappers and magazines.

                “Just drive,” she coughed, feeling like something had been stolen from her.

fin