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[thexenagogue]

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I enveloped myself in the sheets.

I gazed at the crucifix that rests above the mirror—sacred. Figures of saints lined the corners of my room, exuding a strange surge forcing me to repent from my sins—condemnatory. Faded pages of the scriptures left unopened relentlessly taunt me—shifting from page to page on my bedside table whenever I kneel down and face the image of St. Peter who listens to my cacophonies. The adornments? They are stained glass frames, picturing the Messiah’s resurrection from death. I wish I could shatter them to bits and pieces beyond repair, destroying the illusion of sacredness offered by this bedroom—a clear imitation of St. Peter’s Basilica—fit for the ones who are alluding to the doctrine.

If only I could, I would.

I traced the wounds on my wrists that my father inflicted earlier. The blood continued to trickle down my palms, to my fingertips—each drop joining the puddle that I’ve already formed. The wound was wide, deep, and filled with a collision of different shades of red. It was painful—but not physically; my hand has gone numb from the bleeding. All I feel now is deep-seated suffering. Like the Messiah should’ve felt as he was nailed to the cross, I felt a sort of betrayal. A bombardment of prejudices—torture in its worst form.

He said it was my fault, if I rot in hell, because it is an abomination in the context of the scriptures—impiety, worthy to perish.

He was never wrong.

I stretched my arms beneath the blankets and saw a multitude of scars, both old and new. Old ones have secured their spot on my skin, displaying lines and stitches—forming the Messiah’s crown of thorns. New ones become more prominent as I leave them in neglect—feeling like shadows of a whip still hitting skin. What an irony it is that the Messiah endured torment until the ninth hour to bring salvation to myself, a being considered as the embodiment of sin.

I slumped on my bed, numb to the tears that fell down on my cheeks—the tiny droplets a hint to my desperation for the halt of the questions that continuously took liberty of my mind. Was it a sin that I sought for Adam rather than Eve?

Was it also a sin to smite your child for rejecting the creed’s verdict in saints?

Was it also a sin to crucify your child for transgressing the covenant in scriptures?

Was it also a sin to set your child ablaze for not confessing his sins in the prophets?

Was it also a sin to stone your child to death for not seeking almighty one’s presence?

It is mere foolishness to be forced to swallow the religious ordeal just to survive in this catastrophic system. According to John, if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed. Yet here I stand, being held in the clutches of conformity. Forced to act as if I’ve taken the bible into heart, as if I was able to live up to the consistency of faith from the Book of Genesis down to the Book of Revelations. I am no prophet like Moses, being able to see the Almighty in the burning bush. I can only see myself being burned—in the pits of hell.

I wiped my tears, staring at myself in the mirror, disgusted at the reflection of my frail figure. My left eye is bruised. My jaws are dislodged. My cheeks and lips are still swollen.

I strode towards the image of St. Peter once more. I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate his existence, or even feel blessed. He was holy, yet he denied the Messiah three times before he was crucified. Whereas I, who only denied him once, could potentially be the one who will face crucifixion on a cross of my father’s creation. They say, condemn the sin, not the sinner. But what if I am the sin itself? What then?

But what does it matter? I will still rot in hell anyway. I never needed the prophets depicted in the scriptures since life doesn’t have any, only false prophets dressed in white cloth, leading the children towards the doors of sodomy instead of the gates of heaven.

I never needed prayers; they’ve never given me the strength. I haven’t a single word to say to the Almighty who granted me a life beyond terrible.

I fixed my eyes at the Messiah in stained glass frames while my fingers ran through the faded pages of religious text. My face ultimately settled into a weak smile.

“To survive is to endure what I have right now,” I speak with a soft tone that still cracks as my tears return. But what do I have exactly? I have nothing. I have to endure nothing—the emptiness, the hollow feeling I get whenever I try to lift my spirits.

I am still imprisoned by the commandments—literally set in stone. They are tough to break, and even tougher to follow. My existence is still tainted blood red in the eyes of the ones who breathed not only life into my being but now their personal truths as well. I want my own truth, yet the one I have right now is continually being oppressed by strangers with a great ‘moral imperative’.

I slowly covered St. Peter’s portrait in black silk, keeping myself from the temptation to tear his image. Tomorrow is another day to survive—or to at least be alive.

I started to crawl back to my bed. The tears have already dried up on my cheeks, but the blood on my wrists continue to flow, staining my once pristine bed sheets red. I enveloped myself once more in the blankets, numbing myself to the pain of conforming, to the pain of existing—to the pain of just being.

Right before I close my eyes, I remember my parents, their eyes burning with disgust. I remember those who brand themselves holy, their lips forming a frown as I live in what is considered heresy. I remember the strangers, their faces contorting in repulsion as I reject the opinion that they believe they are entitled to.

I remember the scripture, “For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved”.

But I never wanted to be saved, I just wanted to live.