CHAPTER FIVE #2
Members of the congregation exchanged worried glances, my mother leaning forward in her seat, notebook forgotten.
I inhaled sharply, holding my breath as Joe placed both hands on either side of Angela’s cheeks, looking intently into her eyes.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said, “let us pray for young Angela’s soul.”
Heads bowed, a chorus of prayers filled the room, my own lips moving despite my attention wavering. My gaze was fixed on the way Angela trembled, Joe’s grasp firm as he led us through prayer, voice raised like a General leading his soldiers into battle.
Angela’s knees slammed against the floor with a loud crack, a hush falling over the room. All eyes were on Joe as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, expression softening as he spoke in a language I did not recognise.
An endless stream of tears rolled down Angela’s cheeks, candlelight chasing the shadows out from her dark brown eyes. The words Joe spoke wrapped her in a warm, protective embrace, something shifting in the air.
Her sobs quieted, her body stilling. A reverent look passed between them. And then she stood, a wide smile spreading across her tear-stained face.
“God is good,” Joe said, placing a hand on Angela’s shoulder as he looked out at his wide-eyed followers. “And when we fight in His name, we can drive out the Devil himself.”
A river of applause flooded the room, my mother rising to her feet, a look of adoration and wonder in her eyes.
***
“Augustus is a quiet boy,” Mrs Hadley said, lips spread into the inviting smile she often wore in the classroom, “but he is doing really well. He gets all his work done, he listens, and is always polite. He is an absolute pleasure to have in class.”
“I wish he was like that at home!” my father laughed.
Mrs Hadley chuckled awkwardly while my gaze fell to the floor, the Devil stirring awake as shame and embarrassment flooded through me.
You’re a bad kid, he said, a monster.
A snake slithering into the Garden of Eden.
Evil, wicked, full of sin.
The villain.
I wanted to scream at the Devil to be quiet, but he was right. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to be good, I was marked forever by sin. In my parents' eyes, I was the devilish child who ruined their lives.
Disrespectful.
Disobedient.
Disgraced.
I wanted to be good. But was it all a lie? Mrs Hadley believed me to be an absolute pleasure, but my father was right, I wasn’t like that at home. I wore a mask. I was a liar.
At home, I challenged my mother’s parenting of Auden.
At school, I obeyed Mrs Hadley’s every instruction.
At home, I punched holes through windows.
At school, I scrubbed the windows clean at the end of the day.
At home, I talked back. At school, I stayed silent.
At home, I was the Devil. At school, I was an angel.
You’re living a lie.
Panic spread through me like a ravenous plague. They were going to find out. Sooner or later, everyone was going to find out the truth. They were going to realise I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a devil masquerading as an angel.
My parents and Mrs Hadley resumed their conversation, discussing my grades.
This was normal for a parent-teacher interview at St Augustine’s Catholic School, but I didn’t understand why I needed to be present.
I was eight years old, and what child of that age wanted to be in a classroom after hours, forced to listen to the adults around them discuss them like they weren’t there?
“I am concerned about something I found in his school bag, though,” Mrs Hadley said, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.
She placed a drawing in front of my parents. I recognised it immediately, confused as to how it found itself in my year three teacher’s possession.
A boy stood in front of a mirror. Inside the mirror, large black eyes spilled blood, wide mouth crawling with spiders. Clawed hands wrapped around his throat, a haunting shadow looming beside him.
Lying was a sin, but I sinned anyway, too afraid of the consequences of admitting the truth. “That isn’t mine.”
Mrs Hadley opened her mouth to speak, but my mother cut her off. “Of course it is yours. You draw all the time. I would recognise your work anywhere.”
I might have been pleased with that statement if she wasn’t looking at me with such disdain.
Chewing on the inside of my mouth, right hand wrapped around my left index finger, I sunk lower into my chair.
“I don’t mean to overstep,” Mrs Hadley said, “but a drawing like this… at such a young age… is quite unusual. Perhaps it might be beneficial for Augustus to have a one-on-one session with the school counsellor, Miss Lawrence. She is lovely, really, and she might be able to–”
“No,” my mother said, snatching the drawing into her hands. “There is no need. He just watches too many horror movies when he knows he shouldn’t. I apologise for any concern this has caused. It won’t happen again.”
The car ride home was unbearable. There was silence. Then shouting. And then silence again.
“If you draw anything like that again, so help me God, I will take away all your pencils, crayons, paint, everything! Do you hear me?” my mother demanded.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“What on Earth possessed you to draw a… a demon?!”
“It’s not a demon,” I murmured. “It’s me.”
My mother laughed as her gaze shot to my father. “See, Marcus? I told you he has the Devil in him.”
“He doesn’t have–Mary, come on. He’s a damn kid,” my father sighed. “Sometimes kids draw weird things. He probably had a nightmare or something.”
My mother shook her head but said nothing further. She was quiet for the rest of the day, locking herself up in her bedroom, emerging only to eat dinner.
“It’s your turn to do the dishes,” were her first words to me since the car ride.
I glanced down at the cracked skin of my hands, red from scratching. They stung, itched. I wanted to tear off my skin and let the cold air kiss my flesh.
“Can I sweep up the kitchen and living room instead?” I asked softly. “The dish soap hurts my skin.”
“Wear gloves, then,” she said dismissively.
“The gloves rub against my skin and it hurts.”
“Do you remember what Jesus suffered when he died for our sins, Augustus?”
I nodded.
“He was whipped, crowned with thorns, and forced to carry his own cross until he was nailed onto it, left to die,” she went on. “Do you think he could just stop because it hurt?”
I shook my head.
“That’s right. He could not. So you will do those dishes, and you will not complain. Do you understand?”
Ensnared by guilt, I nodded my head. She was right. How could I be so selfish? Jesus suffered. For me. A sinner. And here I was, complaining about soapy water and cracked skin.
But, the Devil spoke up, just as I rolled up my sleeves to fill the sink with water, Jesus did not want to die. His Father condemned him to that fate. Just like your mother is condemning you to yours.
“That is not the same,” I whispered under my breath.
You’re right. It isn’t. Because you are not Jesus, and your mother is not God. So why should she control you as though she were?
I reached for the dishwashing liquid and poured it into the warm water, ignoring the Devil’s words. He was just trying to get me into trouble.
I know you don’t want to do it, Augustus.
My hands hovered above the soap, the instinct to avoid pain holding me back. The Devil was right. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to be in pain.
Without uttering a word, I walked away from the sink. My mother called my name, but I ignored it.
“Mary–” my father started, but he was too late.
My mother’s fingers found the back of my shirt, using it to throw me down onto the cold, tiled floor.
“You don’t want to do as you’re told?” she asked, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”
She bound my arms and legs together with rope, dragging me along the floor toward the linen cupboard.
My father watched with a pained expression but did nothing to intervene when my mother poured lemon juice into the cracked skin of my hands, another scream tearing from my throat at the excruciating pain.
She shoved me into the cupboard, the towels and bedsheets familiar prison mates.
“I hate you,” I hissed.
“I hate you more,” my mother hissed back.
The door slammed shut in my face, and the last thing I heard was, “I am taking him to Joe tomorrow.”