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The room is quiet, dark. The only light comes from the moon, a full one tonight. It shines through to the room, through an open window with curtains that rustle with the whistling wind. Huddled under a blanket, damp with his own tears, the young boy prays under darkness.
“God, p-please. Just please. D-don't let me go to hell. I swear, I swear, I swear, I’m good. I'm a g-good person. I swear.”
He dry heaves, careful to keep the blanket down, with no holes for sound to escape. He breathes into a pillow, muffling his cries.
“Why? Why, why, why, why am I so bad, God? Why can’t you make me good? Do you hate me? Because I do try to be good. I try every day. I know I don’t do all the right things all the t-time. But I swear, I’m really trying. I-it’s just so, so hard. I’m not trying to disappoint you. I’m not trying to be b-bad. I know I’ve messed up, just please, p-please, please, guide me. I d-don’t know what to do. Don’t let me go to hell.”
He tastes his cries, salty. They bite back at his tongue, a gross, jarring reminder of what he’s done. They taste almost poisonous, a drop that represents all his wrongdoings. His sins.
Sin. A dirty, reviled word in the boy’s mind. Even the sound of it is cruel. One syllable, allowing for no ambiguity, no way to escape. It starts with the slinky, lusty hiss of an “s”. It drags you in, a slippery slope into depravity.
It tastes like venom to say. It should taste like venom. It should make you remorseful, after all.
He peeks out of the covers, waiting for a sign. Maybe a gust of wind through the window will turn the Bible to a page with the perfect verse for him. Maybe he’ll hear His voice in his head telling him he’s a good child. Maybe visions of what God needs him to do will fill his mind’s eye, guiding him through the life he’ll have to live tomorrow.
Whatever it is, he needs a sign. A sign that he isn't as bad as he thought, or maybe a sign to show him how to become righteous. If he was really unlucky, maybe a sign that will punish him, to purge him of his sins, so his soul will be pure again. So maybe, he can see heaven.
Maybe those signs will never come.
Maybe he really is wretched. Scum of the earth, the only exception to God’s big beautiful plan for all of us. Maybe he was chosen specifically to be exempt from the Lord’s light, the new, twisted, sinful Jesus, bearer of the world’s sins. The scapegoat. Only, this time it would be all his fault. And he would not be favored by God. His sins will be of his own hand, not anyone else’s. He probably deserves the sin of the world, then.
Maybe the devil planted in him evil long ago, when he was still an innocent infant, untouched by the world. An evil that he cannot wipe from his soul.
Maybe he’ll never be saved.
He ducks back into the blanket, sobbing uncontrollably. The tears keep coming. When will God’s grace touch him again? Will it ever?
“G-god, please. I’m begging you. P-please, j-j-just h-help me… please.”
His miserable cries for help are muffled. Perhaps they won’t reach God.
Slowly, he grows aware of his actions. He’s crying, a pathetic child asking for God’s grace. Do boys cry? Should they?
They don’t. They shouldn’t. Why is he crying then?
He should be strong, not wailing like a baby for being a sinner. He should take initiative, take control of his actions. Be a man. He is the only one responsible for himself, not anyone else. Not even God. He can’t expect God to make him a better person. He should be ashamed of himself for even daring to whine in front of the Lord.
He’s such a lucky kid. He has a nice house, great family, good grades. So why is he so bad? Why’d he have to mess it all up? Why is he so… sinful?
In spite of his upbringing, he’s a monster.
Just a monster. Nothing more than that. An animalistic monster. He is made of desires, no reason, no good in him. Just an empty husk that demands consumption of everything around it, an all-consuming force that doesn’t give back. He cannot be saved, redeemed, nothing.
He dug his grave, now he has to lie in it. He deserves hell.
He cries more. His chest feels like it’s about to burst, he can’t breathe. His skin prickles, the cool night air, now harsh and unforgiving.
A small, pathetic cry. “Why?”
The soft thudding of slippers on carpet outside the door jumps at his ears.
Somebody’s outside. Somebody can hear him.
Nobody should hear this.
All at once, he goes quiet. No breathing, no tears. Not a single noise. He wipes his face as quickly as possible, making sure to dry his tears. He can’t do anything about his red, puffy eyes. Maybe he’ll pretend to have been staying up late past his bedtime. But that would be lying, another speck of sin in his book of mistakes. Further earning his sentence to hell.
He hears a door creak. It might be his door, it might be his brother’s. He can’t tell while under the blanket.
He calms his breathing, remembering how people look when they sleep. Deep, rhythmic breaths. A long, steady climb of air, and a soft, solemn expelling of it. The shoulders slowly go up, peaking a soft hill before its descent into the cycle of breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He doesn’t dare move at all, aside from his fake, stiff, attempt at appearing to sleep.
After a while of not hearing anything, he sighs. A real one, this time, a sigh of relief. Must’ve been his brother, retreating into his room after watching too much TV.
His lungs collapse again, making him choke erratically, tears welling back into his eyes. But he doesn’t sob this time. That would be too loud. Instead, he heaves, keeping the sobs from turning vocal.
No more shy whispers of guilt to God. He prays in his head instead.
“God. I’m so sorry. I swear, I'll do differently this time. I don’t blame you. I can’t blame you. That would be blasphemy. All my sins are mine. I hope that you still love me. I know I still love you, God. I’ll still love you, even if you hate me. Just, please. I don’t want to go to hell.”
Amen.