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“Papá? Espera…lo siento.”
Dirty-silver streaks in dark red paint revealed the metal of the side of the truck, tattered like it was nothing more than a metallic cloth compared to the concrete garage. But that was not why Eddie’s father was angry today. That was weeks ago, and today was a new flame on Eddie’s tongue, scorching him from the inside out.
“Que estabas pensando, Edmundo, que te pasa?” his father’s words reached his ears, poured oil into his soul through them. Threatened to drown him in it and never let him sin again. Hijos, obedeced en el Señor a vuestros padres, porque esto es justo. Sin was sin. Intention didn’t matter in the eyes of his father or the God he served, and Eddie was burning like a demon being exorcised. “A ver, dime pues! Como vas a robarte mi auto después de destrozarlo? Y todo para ese Santiago. Te dije que no hables con el. Siempre me ha dado pinta de marica.”
Eddie’s jaw fell shut so hard he wondered if he’d ever open it again. His father didn’t like Santiago, and for good reason, seeing as how the darkest feelings Eddie wished he could send to hell without himself were dangerously close to romantic. But Eddie was thirteen and stupid. Full of enough sin to feed a thousand devils, even if he lied about it. Another sin to the pile. Another hope he would be saved. Pretending until it happened. “No, pues pa! No es así.”
“Y como sabes vos, eh? Pervertido podria ser, y te miente.”
“Papá, no seas tan-!”
“Edmundo, cállate!”
Eddie wanted the still-warm, battered metal of the truck to swallow him whole. Despite it all, he always remembered praying in that moment. As if God would quench his burning tongue. Dios, por favor, por favor, escúchame, por favor.
“Ya te dije que no toques mi auto. Pero parece que no tienes orejas, entonces ya no puedes ir a ese baile 'winter formal' con tus amigos.”
He didn’t speak. He was too busy finding a match to light the oil within himself. Maybe God would take pity if he sent himself to hell.
“Entiendes?”
Eddie nodded, leaning slowly back against the truck and willing the steel to curl around him and crush him in heat. Yearning for a spark. God, just strike me down already. Light me ablaze. He made a decision to never speak to Santiago again, however. Because giving in was weak, and he was strong. He was strong and would win the war with sin. Jesus Christ at his side. He wouldn’t burn. He was strong. Macho, macho, Edmundo. Brush it off, and stay right.
“Vete ala mierda,” he mumbled under his breath.
~
Eddie’s not a little kid anymore.
But his dad still makes him feel like one, sometimes. He’s talked about that at therapy. Talked about a lot, related to his dad, and to…the other one. The holy father. It’s really damn hard, to dig that up. To unbury ancient shadows and light them up with brightness that doesn’t burn like it used to. After so long, too. After so many years of forgetting God, of pretending angels and demons don’t affect him, of brushing it off. He gave in finally. He’s told Bobby, so far. And he hadn’t planned on telling anyone else, until Buck did that thing where he just is being his nosy self and Eddie can’t help but cave. Couldn’t that time, at least.
He’s getting better, he thinks. But he’s been dreading the visit to Texas since he heard about his father’s retirement. Dreading feeling small, feeling like he’s being burned at the stake just for trying to live. Let me live.
He doesn’t want to think about that when they’re celebrating his dad’s retirement. He shouldn’t think about it. Shouldn’t think about anything related to it. He’s just Eddie Diaz, son of Ramon and Helena Diaz. Ramon and Helena Diaz who still say ‘oh my gosh,’ who won’t use God’s damn name in vain. That’s all he should be. He should be good, and pretend he’s saved from eternal red-hot pain. He shouldn’t think of Buck before he got on the plane. The kiss. Kisses. Hands, wandering, searching, fucking worshipping. Adoring another man like a false idol. And what a tempting false idol he is.
His father has other plans. His father brings up the story. And the only heat Eddie feels is anger. Nothing hellish, though maybe that’s what hell is. Eternal anger, bitterness, regret, and sharp, stinging ache. It’s not even just about not having a childhood. It’s not just about getting screamed at for breaking the truck. It’s about wishing during that nonexistent childhood that he could drown in oil, molten steel, hot, hell. It’s about losing his childhood to an absent father, and to the only father he was supposed to have around, the heavenly one, threatening endless suffering for being born wrong.
“A family needs more than money.”
It needs trust. It needs support. It needs respect. It needs love, unconditional and constant.
“Look, I never had a childhood. A dad who took care of me. No, you were gone.”
Gone, only leaving burning words. He’s suffocating, yet he manages to breathe. The devil’s smoke fills his lungs, but he speaks, still.
“The only thing you provided was-”
Growing up too soon, a loveless marriage, loveless life, broken mind, broken identity-
He doesn’t finish. His father’s collapsing before he can. And he pushes it away. All of it. He’s Eddie Diaz, son of Ramon and Helena Diaz, and he’s good. He’s a good son. He’s drenched in holy oil, anointed. Shit, who knows, he might even say sorry for all this later. Even if a part of him wants to light himself on fire for his whole family to see, and prove he’s not like Ramon Diaz at all.
~
“But I never understood why you were so angry with me. Why it always felt like you were punishing me.”
Eddie doesn’t say sorry. His anger boils slow in his stomach, still. Doesn’t mix well with the oil of guilt. He still needs to find that match. There are so many reasons to burn alive. He wants to scream back. Scream like he never has before, like his dad used to when he was young. Like he was never allowed to, because of sin. Temptation. Satan. For acting like he was the one who was doing the punishing. Bullshit.
“I think I was punishing myself more,” he says instead, fighting off the panic making a ball in his throat and squeezing at his stomach. “‘Cause I- I thought I could fix me, I guess.”
It’s a terrible idea, really. Confessional, closing in, bright searing metal, drowning him in boiling oil, water, fire, hell, hell, hell-
“I was mad at you. I was angry, but I was angry at myself too. For not being- I tried to be what you wanted. But I was mad at you for not being around enough to help. For not making me that.”
Fuck. Every fucking day spent trying to not be like his dad after seventeen. When he realized his dad wasn’t going to help.
“But I guess I gotta say thanks, because- Pa, no quiero ser como tu.”
It’s weirdly a relief to say aloud. To find the match. To have that peace, just before…whatever’s coming.
Confess-
Profess.
“What are you saying? Edmundo, que no te entie-”
“Santiago wasn’t the marica, papá. The whole time, it was me.”
His father’s face changes. Blank for a moment, then wide-eyed, denial-filled. “Cowardly? I understand you were afraid of seeming-”
Eddie flares. "Papá, I’m gay.”
The lit match drops into oil. Eddie lights up, catches fire, and he breathes. He damns himself to hell, with those words. Because the holy father and his own blood might as well be the same in this moment. Both judging. Preparing holy water. He keeps burning.
“I’m gay, and I’ve been gay, and I don’t want to hear anything about it unless you’re going to say something goddamn normal.”
He lets out air, smoke, pain.
“I’m tired of being the guy who punishes myself. I’m going to be better.”
Eddie’s father finally speaks as the heat slowly fades to uncomfortable warmth in Eddie’s chest. “For Christopher?” he says quietly. Eddie huffs, almost amused.
“For myself.”
Silence. The distant ticking of a clock, mimicking the crack of wood in flame.
Eddie won’t look at his dad. Can’t, for fear of feeding into the panic crushing his insides and threatening to make him implode. Panic that pushes tears through his eyes.
“Maybe we can…we can both be better.”
He steals a second’s worth of a glance.
“I don’t want to miss out on many more of my son’s life.”
Eddie’s head reels like a film. All the yelling, the heartache, the fear of dying and going down instead of up. All the feeling wrong, damaged, faulty. It plays in his head, over and over and over and over. He can’t just forgive him like that. It’s not that easy, it’s not something quick.
“Can I ask if you have a boyfriend, mijo, o eso es muy…?”
But hope washes over him, heatless, just dimly bright. Baptized in moonlight. Reborn, alive, glorious. Created as he is. And through bitter tears, he smiles. Just a little. Not enough to be noticeable. But a little. And maybe it’s not too late for family.