Work Text:
Whizzer's mother was not a kind woman. That's what Father Geoffery had said to Sister Rita, when she was interrogating him on why they were hiding a child within the church's walls. He'd been waiting for Father Geoffery outside of his office, and would confess to him later for his eavesdropping. But, he couldn't just leave. They were speaking of his mother, in such a sly, quiet way. He had to strain his ears to hear the fleeting words, attempted—things—was small. It was difficult to tell exactly what they were discussing now.
Whizzer's mother was not a kind woman.
He couldn't believe that to be true. There were many reasons, paramount being that Whizzer simply knew that no woman who put up with a son like him would be anything less than saintlike. In his eyes, his mother was comparable to an angel, with all she had done for him. With sitting at the dinner table for hours at a time, pleading with him to take only a bite of the bland food she'd prepared for him, washing his back, whenever he couldn't reach, kissing his forehead before bed every night. She would get cross with him, of course she would, every mother did. But the yelling was rarely directed at him, and she'd let him cover his sensitive ears when it wasn't.
Faith Darcy was a kind, saintlike, pious and fair woman. Whizzer's mother was not a kind woman. These two things could not be true at the same time.
Even as he was kept up at night, memory of an outstretched knife, he never faltered in his belief that his mother's actions were not within the bounds of sin. It was a difficult thing to understand, that attempted filicide may not be a damnation to the pits of hell but it was harder to imagine his mother's soul not ascending to heaven.
His days are flitting, within the walls of the Church of St. Anthony. He wakes, he dresses, he wonders if anyone is looking for him, or if he was paranoid once again. He confesses his sins, and listens to Father Geoffery's soft laugh and gentle reassurances. After the first night, he doesn't have much to confess, but he comes in anyways.
His mother's voice haunts him. What he did to her worsemore. Visions of her clattering down the steps, her promises as she positioned the knife to his chest, they plague his memory. He cannot believe what he did to her.
Father Geoffery only allows one confession per sin, a special rule for Whizzer. It felt unfair, that something that assailed him so dearly was allowed to be discussed within the seal of confession only once. But, he acquiesced.
He had been saving this confession for quite a long time.
He settles into the familiar seat, the small cushion of it always appreciated against the usual hardwood. He wonders if Father Geoffery's side is cushioned. Father Geoffery clears his throat, and Whizzer suppresses a small flinch. He crosses himself slowly, trying to draw out his penance, but knowing full and well what awaits him.
"May the Lord be in your heart, help you to confess your sins, and find relief."
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned, my last confession was yesterday."
"Yes it was, hello, my son."
Whizzer swallowed.
"My sin is the sin of Envy, Father. I have been envious my entire life, in a way that is vile. I have attempted to repent, I have done what I can to force myself to let go of these thoughts, but I am still tempted. It is dearly awful, Father. I cannot go a day without my petty jealousies."
For once, Father Geoffery was quiet, no soft laughter, no reassurances. Just quiet.
"I disgust myself, when I have the nerve to sit in God's church and still allow my jealousy to overtake me. I cannot stop myself, it is compulsive, I will do anything to rid myself of these thoughts, but nothing will work."
"And these thoughts, my son?" Father Geoffery says finally. There's a quiet thud on the other side of the confessional. Whizzer does flinch.
"I am so jealous of the fairer sex." He chokes out. "Of their buckled shoes, their braided hair, their voices, their eyelashes, when they stream into mass in a row of held hands and church dresses, I am overtaken by a need not unlike greed, Father."
Father Geoffery stays silent, and so Whizzer continues.
"Neil Goodway, when he used to pull my hair and call me a strange girl, I felt my heart sing. I-I when," he can't say it. Can't say the most horrible truth, even within the safety of confession, so he cuts himself off. "It is just so horrible, but there is nothing that will make it stop. I feel vicious. I feel like a sickness has-"
"Whizzer," Father Geoffery interrupts, and his voice has a shake to it. "Whizzer."
"Father." He forces himself to respond. Tears are streaming down his face, and he cannot find it within himself to wipe his eyes.
"Envy is a monster." He begins, and Whizzer shudders. He prepares for the vitriol, for the anger, the disgust. Finally, he has managed to disgust Father Geoffery. "But it is not the only problem."
"I know it's wrong." Whizzer whispers. "Please, say you can fix me, or help my soul."
Father Geoffery hushed him, and he fell quiet.
"But there is a feeling at the base of your envy. Whizzer, do you wish to be a…" He paused. "A young lady?"
He sobbed.
"Father, forgive me." He responded, in lieu of affirmation. "Please, I beg you, allow me to repent."
"…I have an idea." Father Geoffery said, after a long moment of listening to Whizzer's tears. "Whizzer, for your sin of envy, I offer two options. The penance of allowing me to break the seal of confession, to discuss this with Sister Pamela, which you will speak to her this evening, or five Hail Maries."
Five? Five! Sister Pamela was notoriously strict, she would have something befitting Whizzer's sin. Not five Hail Maries.
"The first one, Father. Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner."
"I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and o f the son, and of the Holy Ghost. Go in peace, my… Go in peace, Whizzer."
He stumbled from the confessional, directly to the closet of which had been his bedroom these last days. He flung himself upon the cot, curling into himself and praying for whatever mercy the Lord would find befit to give him.
Sister Pamela knocked upon his door hours later, waking him from a fitful nap. He answered the door tripping over his own feet, staring at her nervously.
"Sister?" He asked quietly, looking up at her. "What do I owe you?"
"Follow me." Sister Pamela responded instead, turning on her heel. She lead Whizzer down the hall, eventually to her own room. Few of the nuns had their own quarters, but Sister Pamela was one of the lucky few. Whizzer's stomach rolled. He hoped, distantly, he would not find rice strewn on the floor. He wasn't sure his knees could take hours of kneeling.
Instead, Sister Pamela's wardrobe had a mirror leant against it, a chair in front of it, along with a large box beside the chair. A pair of scissors, and a sewing kit rested on her bed.
"It took some digging, and they may not be your size, dear. This may take some time."
"What's happening?"
"I talked to Father Geoffery, of your envy."
He shrunk, being reminded of his failures. "Yes."
"I believe the most beautiful thing is womanhood, dear." And she was crouching before him. This stern, shrewd woman was smiling gently, and tilting her head at him in soft kindness. "I would be honored to welcome you to it."
"Oh." He uttered. She uttered? Was he a she?
"You'll need a name, of course. Whizzer is not a name fit for a young woman."
"Is this- This can't be alright, the Lord-"
"The Good Lord saw fit to include you in the act of creation. Sit down."
She gestured to the chair, and he knew not to disobey. He dragged his feet over, setting himself down and sitting upon his hands. "How short will you be cutting it?"
"I'll simply be evening it out, it may have to be quite short, unfortunately."
Whizzer wilted. He'd thought so. He hadn't had a haircut since he'd screamed so loudly, the neighbor's complained to his mother. But he didn't think he could get away with that this time. He sighed, nodding. Sister Pamela was gentle with him, at least. Brushing out his hair, finding the shortest lock and cutting everything with it as the reference point. By the end, he had hair to his chin, curling up slightly at the ends. He didn't hate it. Quite honestly…he looked in the mirror, and felt more like himself than he had in a long time.
He smiled hesitantly.
Sister Pamela returned it twofold.
They brushed the errant hair away, he'd need to shower tonight if he wanted to sleep. As he finished shaking himself out, Sister Pamela opened the box beside them, digging through the fabrics and procuring a white dress.
"Try this on, I'll turn away."
"Oh- Eh." He protested, but took it anyway. Was this allowed? Sister Pamela didn't allow any room for protest, turning her back to him and covering her eyes. So, he undid the buttons of his shirt, shucked off his khakis, and tugged on the soft, satiny dress. It was loose, definitely a bit too large for him, but it was lovely. He felt beautiful, buttoning the top into place. It felt right.
Turning to gaze at himself in the mirror, he swallowed. He didn't feel like Whizzer anymore, that was true. There was a young girl in an ill fitting gown staring back at him, with a flapper's haircut and tears welling up in her eyes. The young girl felt prettier than she ever had.
Sister Pamela cleared her throat.
"May I turn around?"
"Yes." The young girl in the mirror murmured.
She turned, and Sister Pamela smiled. "There she is. You look lovely…"
"Eden?"
"Eden. Where did that come from?"
"I've always liked it."
"You look lovely, Miss Eden. How about we take that in a bit?"