Chapter Text
The porcelain Jesus stared down at her from the wall, his painted eyes wide with sorrow. His arms outstretched, palms bleeding into the air, as if offering himself up again. again. and again.
The bathroom tiles were cold under her knees, but she didn't dare move. The toilet bowl gleamed under the flickering light, its whiteness accusing her. Dirty. Rotting. An open vessel for sin.
Her stomach heaved, but nothing came. She'd been here for what felt like an entirety. Finger pressed against the back of her throat, willing her body to obey the rules. Cleanse. Purge. Make it stop. The cramps were a punishment she forced to endure. The blood was a reminder. Her mother had told her—whispered, really, like it was too shameful for words. That this was her body's way of preparing for a man. That her womb was a trap, her blood a stain, her very existence a temptation. "The devil works in the flesh," she said, her voice as sharp as a blade. "You must fight it. Starve it. Make yourself hollow."
So she did.
She'd read about saints who flayed themselves to purify their souls. Heard whispers in her mother's room, speaking of those who denied their bodies to prove their devotion. Her mother could speak to the lost souls, and to angels, to God and Jesus themselves. Dazai never saw them, but she believed in mother's all seeing soul. Her mother taught her starving was just another form of penance, so she listened. She barely ate, only eating sweets things to keep her soul pure, nothing bitter. Bitter was for the devil. Her mother promised she wouldn't let her body get defile like this, so why did it? Dazai theorized in her head it must of been her own un-doing, she didn't listen to her mothers words close enough. She must've sin somewhere between the lines. She missed something, ate something she wasn't supposed to without realizing, or gave a misguided prayer. Her mind spiraled, frantically trying to find the sin she committed, but she couldn't think of any. Now the devil tore her flesh till blood seeped from between her legs due to her own blind sinning. She pressed her fingers deeper, gagged until her throat burned. The toilet stayed pristine. Her stomach stayed filthy and full.
Dazai prayed and begged to the god high above the skies, beyond the clouds that she could've stayed pure and sweet. As lovely as lace, as gentle as the color of baby blue. But today made it clear, her soul is rotten. No matter how much she prayed to be covered in sweet frosting, to cover all the gross muck and guilt that etched her mind daily. To be comparable to prettiest shade of white like the angels in her mother's picture frames. They were so clean, so holy. The bile in her mouth taste like the bitter sin that refused to gut itself out. She prayed that this attempt is enough to prove she can repent, that this frail sweetness is enough to enter heaven.
The bathroom door creaked open. Dazai didn't look up. She stayed kneeling, her forehead pressed to the rim of the toilet. The porcelain Jesus watched from the wall, his painted eyes no longer accusing. Just tired.
A hand settled on her shoulder. Not rough, not necessarily kind. Just there, like a brand.
"Oh, my sweet baby girl,"
Her mother's voice was a hymn, soft and trebling with pride. Dazai flinched but didn't pull away. To pull away would be to admit she didn't want this. She can't refuse her mother's touch, not someone as divine and connected to heavens like her. Never.
"Look at you," her mother whispered, brushing the damp hair from Dazai's forehead. Her fingers smelled like incense and dish soap. "You're trying so hard. So very, very hard. Mama is so, so, so proud."
Dazai's stomach lurched. She swallowed the bile, not wanting her mother to see something so dirty,
"I saw you from the hallway," her mother continued, her voice a caress. "Saw you down on your knees. Saw you fighting. Fighting so beautifully." Her mother's breath hitched. "That's devotion, my sweet lamb. That's love."
Dazai's vision blurred. The toilet bowl glistened under the flickering light. White, pristine, and cruel.
"You think I don't know what you're doing in here?" Her mother's laugh akin to a tinkling bell, the kind that hung in church vestibules to call the faithful to pray. Dazai blinked, she hasn't been in church in so long, not ever since the summer of her 9th birthday. She didn't need a reverend or a church. Not when she had her mother, she was the most holiest person she knew. "Oh, I know. I always know. The devil whispers, but the lord shines through when you listen and obey."
Dazai's fingers twitched. She imagined them digging into her throat again, to prove she could. To prove her mother she can be a good girl, for her and for God.
"You're purifying yourself," her mother murmured, pressing her palm to Dazai's chest, right over her heart. "I can feel it. The Lord is pleased. He's so pleased with you. The angels will guide you to the light, by my hand."
Dazai pressed her palms to her eyelids until stars burst behind her skull. She dug her nails into her temples, as if she could peel back the skin and let the divine rush in, but her hands were too weak. She held her breath until her lungs burned, until the edges of her vision blackened, until she was sure the angels would have to answer. Just like they do with mama.
Nothing.
Just the hum of the bathroom fan, the drip of the faucet, the thud of her own heartbeat in her ears.
She gasped, her chest heaving. The disappointment was a physical weight, pressing down on her like the Jesus statue's gaze.
"Please," she whispered.
Her mother's hand stroked her hair. "Shh, my love. They're here. They're always watching. Always"
just once. Please just show me.
She rocked forward, her forehead hitting the toilet seat. She imagined the porcelain Jesus leaning down, his painted lips brushing her ear. "You're trying so hard," he said. "But you have to believe."
So she believed harder.
She pictured the angels. Their wings, their robes, their golden faces. She forced the light into her mind, a blinding, searing glow. She held that image, desperate, until her eyes water. But she could only see them in her head, not with her true eyes.
Dazai's hands shook. The failure tasted like copper in her mouth.
"See? They're proud of you. They always see."
She wanted to vomit up the nothingness inside her.
But she turned around, hugging her mother.
"I'm sorry for getting dirty mama."
And her mother cooed, stroking her hair. Her mother's praise wrapped around her like a second skin. It was warm, suffocating, and holy. For that tiny, fragile instant, Dazai felt it—the cleansing, the lighting, the brief, fleeting absolution. She was almost pure. Saved. She couldn't see the angels, or hear God's voice.
But she could hear mama, and that was enough.
Chuuya pedaled fast, her helmet straps loose. Beside her, Albatross rode with her usual easy grin, her bike's chain clicking in time with the rhythm of her humming.
"Hey slow down!—That's that thing."
Chuuya pressed on her brakes. "What thing?"
"You ever notice that little white house on the corner?" Albatross asked, nodding toward the peeling paint and overgrown yard overrun by milkweeds. Chuuya felt the goosebumps on the back of her neck prickle up, the house looked haunted.
Chuuya glanced at it, her grip tightening on the handlebars.
"Yeah…Why?"
"People say the mom's nuts," Albatross said, lowering her voice. "Like, full-on schizo. Talks to God and angels like they're her roommates."
Chuuya scoffed, letting out a laugh too forced. "So? Religious people are dramatic."
"And the daughter?" Albatross raised an eyebrow. "They say she's just as bad. Probably some freak too. They say she's covered in bandages."
Chuuya's stomach twisted, but she rolled her eyes. She glanced at the white house, at the windows, wondering what happened behind those doors, probably something sick and twisted. "Oh my god, you're such a drama queen. Just because someone's mom is weird doesn't mean the kid is weird…If anything I kinda feel bad for her, having such a freakazoid as a mo—"
Albatross got off her bike during the middle of Chuuya's rant, suddenly clutching the girl's shoulders and yelled, "BOO!"
Chuuya let out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak, her cheeks burned.
"D-Dont do that asshole!"
Albatross laughed calling her a scaredy cat before getting back on her own bike. Chuuya didn't wait for her friend to start riding, creasing her shoes as she pressed hard into the pedals. "Idiot!"
"Hey chuu! I was just joking! Wait up!"
She pedaled harder, her heart pounding. She felt as if the shadow from that house stretched longer than it should have, as if it were reaching for her. The air smelled like damp earth and something sweet that night. It smelled like spoiled fruit.