victor reyes. (strongarms) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-12-09 15:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, vic reyes |
WHO: Vic Reyes.
WHEN: 9 December 2012. Sunday morning, after Mass.
WHERE: The warehouse where religious services are held.
WHAT: Getting to Confession.
WARNINGS: Internalized homophobia, (Spanish) homophobic slurs, talk of homophobic violence. D:
STATUS: Complete narrative.
He arrived at the warehouse-turned-house-of-worship early, in perfectly creased black slacks and a crisp wrinkle-free white button down. His mother had always impressed upon him the importance of having a meticulously neat appearance at church as a child and it was something that had always stuck with Victor, even now when he could barely remember to separate his darks from his lights before doing laundry. There weren’t very many people around yet -- just a few IVI staff members arranging chairs and a few students milling about. No one he was particularly interested in talking to, even if he’d been in the mood to talk. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had arrived early for the sole purpose of talking -- to unburden himself from the secrets he was carrying and confess his sins. As if that would really make things easier. Now that he was here, Vic was beginning to think it was a stupid idea. He’d immediately planted himself down on one of the back corner pews, far away from the pulpit, to mentally prepare his words. A pointless exercise -- he’d planned out confessions in the past, only to have an completely spontaneous speech tumble from his mouth as soon as he turned to face the lattice opening. He tried to imagine how the priest would respond, what he would say to Vic’s dark secrets. Would he silently judge him? Would his eyebrows lift in surprise before his expression turned to disgust? What advice would he have for him? What would his penance be? Nothing good, he imagined. He ran over his prepared speech again. It was better to imagine the worst now than be caught off guard in the confessional. It was peppered with a long list of things he did not actively think about and the mere idea of voicing these things to anyone -- especially a priest -- made him feel uneasy: My best friend is in love with me and I think I’ve led him on for years. I like girls a lot, but sometimes I have unnatural thoughts about him and other guys. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to stop being friends with him, but the urge to give into these temptations is stronger now that I really know how he feels. But feeling that way is wrong and I -- Vic leaned forward in the pew, resting his elbows on thighs as he ran his hands over his face with a frustrated groan. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid and weak-willed. All he wanted to do was go back to ignoring everything, to suppressing these thoughts and feelings so he could focus on what he was supposed to be interested in. He didn’t want to think about Hunter in any other way aside from friendship. He didn’t want to feel jealous when he saw him flirting with other guys, he didn’t want to feel a knife twisting in his gut every time he imagined Hunter with someone else. He just wanted to be normal, like his friends here. Like his friends and family back home. He had stepped in and rescued Hunter from getting jumped, but there had been plenty of times he’d walked away from similar situations. He remembered his cousins teasing a neighborhood boy for being too feminine, pushing him around until their shoves had turned to blows, with insults being thrown in both English and Spanish, while Vic sat back and watched, feeling uneasy but remembering that there was something wrong with this boy. That maybe he didn’t deserve to be beat up, but he didn’t deserve to be treated normally, either. In any case, he had only been thirteen, too young to be of much use against his older cousins. He thought of his old best friend before Hunter -- Rafael, a fast-talking Puerto Rican boy with dark curls who was too smart for his own good. Vic remembered the way his friend would hurl a vicious verbal assault at anyone who didn’t fit into their mold of what was acceptable, how he had referred to the one openly gay boy at their school as the pato for a whole year. But thinking about Rafael brought up another wave of memories: his crooked grin, his intense dark eyes, his lithe frame, and once again Vic found himself awash with shame and disgust. He was so fucking stupid. But he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts anymore. -- An odd calm had a hold of him by the time he slid into the confessional. The priest welcomed him with a kind voice and Vic realized with a start that the scenarios from his imagination were always going to be worse than reality. His right hand moved to make the sign of the cross, his thoughts drifting to Hunter and how he would react if he ever found out about this. Confused, probably. Hunter was an atheist -- he was pretty disdainful of things like Confession. Or maybe he’d tease him. He thought of Hunter leaning back in his desk chair with laughter, his bright blue eyes lit with amusement. The image made Vic’s mouth curl a bit -- not quite a smile, but close. And then: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last my confession...” |