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He put the kettle on. It was old and rusty, but the Church couldn’t afford a new one. As always, it made a loud screeching noise and whistled for the next few minutes. The sound was eerie and caused an unbearable ringing in his ears. Usually he left for the time being, opting to save himself from the torture, but this time he only rested his head against the cupboards and pressed it hard enough to hurt.
Once the water was done and the horrible sound was gone, he took the handle with his shaky hand and poured it into his mug. He spilled a bit on the wooden countertop and didn’t bother wiping it. It had been rotten since before he joined the congregation, he couldn’t have made it worse even if he tried.
The room was quiet. Through the opened window came in the cold, morning breeze. It was the third night he didn’t sleep at all. He was too tired to sleep and too tired to leave the bed. Too tired to pray, though he wasn’t sure he wanted God to see him like this.
He watched with unfocused eyes the water becoming darker and darker, first yellow like a new bruise quickly turning bright red. He watched it, transfixed. Swirling in the clear mug it looked much like blood. It didn’t smell like it though. Oscar would recognise the stench of blood anywhere. He couldn’t escape it. It followed him like a noose everywhere he went. He could smell it and feel it, but not taste, never taste. If it had at any point gotten into his mouth, he had pushed that memory so far into the back of his mind it couldn’t be reached.
He was familiar with blood. He’s seen it plenty as a child, when he scraped his knee, when he fell down the stairs and when he shaved for the first time. He had it decorate his face as he raised the hammer as he inflicted one hit after another. Somehow he’s never realised, not until a few days ago, just how hot blood was. When he lost his arm it was almost burning him as it soaked his clothes and marked his skin. But it could be that his body was just getting cold.
Now that the liquid was a rich black he decided it must be finished. Funny, he thought, how black tea wasn't actually supposed to be black. His was, though, as black as ink, black as his cassock, black as an ischemic limb. It would be bitter, but the taste didn’t matter. Tea would do him good. After a tough night it always pulled him up on his feet.
He reached for his flask and emptied all of it into the cup. He took a big sip. It was bitter as he expected. The rum was irritating his already sore throat. But it was also so sweet. A familiar sting that almost felt like a hug. He hasn’t touched another human being since Arthur. This was the second best thing.
And suddenly he could feel Arthur’s hands on him again, clenching awkwardly first onto his hips, lost as if he wasn’t sure how far away Oscar was, then moving slowly onto his back and pulling him in so closely they almost became one. Arthur’s shaky breath was teasing his neck and Oscar longed for nothing more than to have been brave enough to grab his face and kiss his lips-
It was a moment of weakness, he’d defend himself, he let his guard down and allowed sinful thoughts to roam in his mind. He’s just never felt affection like this before, he swore to abandon physical needs when he committed to his faith and he kept that promise. This need was forbidden, locked away in a box with all other temptations he wasn’t allowed to savour. Except liquor, but he has long ago accepted his faults in that department.
He wanted so badly to say it was the only time he desired Arthur, but it would be untrue. Ever since the detective stumbled into his room, uncoordinated and unsure, and opened his mouth revealing his beautifully wicked mind, Oscar has been done for. It got worse the more time they spent together, the hug merely solidifying what he already felt, finally giving it a name. Once the man was gone it didn’t stop. He knew from the start Arthur belonged to a different world and he had no place in it, yet he couldn’t hide how distraught he was the moment he opened his eyes at the hospital and noticed he was truly alone. He sobbed for what felt like hours. The nurses assumed he was grieving the loss of his arm - yes, that was another thing he was not entirely used to yet - and gave him time to let it out. Then, he wrote that damn letter. It wasn’t easy, since he couldn’t hold the paper with his left hand, but somehow he managed to write something coherent.
In hindsight he would have preferred for someone to intervene and not bring him that paper, but they couldn’t have known. He could have been writing to anyone. How would they guess he was spilling his feelings to a man he barely knew for a day. It was embarrassing, really, his desperation. As if Arthur would come back because of a love confession, when really it was all the more reason for him to stay far away.
He had a chance to hide his shame and burn it later, but no, the moment Marie visited it wasn’t even a question. Before she said a word, he pushed the envelope into her hands and asked her for a favour. How selfish of him. To drop this on an unsuspecting man. He knew Arthur got it, Marie said so, but days after he wished he hadn’t. Arthur didn’t turn around like he hoped for and he didn’t reciprocate, because why would he? Oscar has only put a damper on an otherwise pleasant friendship.
There was still a chance he lost it before he had an opportunity to read it. Or he threw it away.
His eyes teared up. He downed the rest of the cup. It was too much and he started coughing.
He became aware of the world around him and he realised he had company. He glanced over his shoulder. His fellow clergymen stood at the entrance to the room. Two of them he knew. They weren’t exactly friends, but they used to have conversations sometimes, while it was nothing special he enjoyed these moments and looked forward to them. There was a third man, however, that he didn’t know. He was Oscar’s replacement for the time he was recovering. They haven’t officially met, even though he’s been back here for three days already. They whispered amongst each other, sending him worried glances. It was clear he was the topic of their conversation.
One of them split from the group and walked across the room, his footsteps heavy, but careful. He placed his hand on Oscar’s back. He knew what was coming before he said a word.
“Are you well, my child?” Father Gregory said calmly and quietly, as if afraid of scaring him off.
He fought the urge to laugh. Everyone could see he was not well, that’s why they kept him away from the churchgoers, a gesture he was eternally grateful for, but nonetheless a gesture caused by distrust. He wasn’t hiding his alcohol problem anymore and he cried more often than he would like to admit. He barely left his room and purposefully avoided other people. He also refused to talk about the accident that had made him this way.
“I should go back to my room.” He responded. He knew he was of no use in this state and he didn’t want their pity. Or their help. They couldn’t offer him what he needed.
He had to pick himself up on his own. And soon too, because he would not risk being excommunicated. No, not when he has just begun uncovering truths about the world. Not when this was the only place Arthur would look for him in, had he wanted to find him.
Tomorrow he’d sort himself out. He’d stop drinking. He’d find one priest to confide in and tell him an elaborate lie about what happened and he’d move on. In a few months he’d learn how to live without a left arm and he’d accept he’d never be able to put his hands together in a prayer again. Everything would be back to normal.
He had no idea how long this lie would sustain him for, but for today it was enough. So he would indulge for one more day. He’d pour himself one more drink and one more night, he’d stay awake sitting by his window waiting for a knock that will never come.