Second-hand Sweater

Summer’s sticky heat mingled with the sweet grass and haze of smoke, filling my nose and stinging my eyes until the world became fluid. I tried to prod the orange-stained sky with my index finger, but my hand became a blur as I raised it into my line of vision. I finally blinked the cleansing tears away, and my eyes seemed to sing with relief before once again battling the drifting irritants. The heat had driven me to cut the sleeves off of the sweater I wore, meant for someone larger than I. The arms left gaping holes that revealed several inches of undershit to navel-level, sweat-stained and faded.

I finally propped myself up on my elbow from where I had stretched out aside a small, murky river like clothes worn too often, with faded colors and ragged hems. My chest tightened, a riverbed sitting empty and dusty from years of misuse and abuse. A haggard, abrasive cough strained it’s way from my mouth like a rock against sandpaper.

The hastily repaired strap on my travel weary shoes dangerously bent as I drew myself upward, and stretched my sun-kissed arms over my head to where the sun had been drowned out by a fog of dark, unnatural clouds. A casual glance at the worn timepiece strapped to my waist reminded me of my companions that waited for me at the station, and insisted I return within another fifteen minutes.

I turned to the horizon behind me, where the town had wandered and gotten lost in the labyrinth of itself, filled with kinks like knotted string draped over the hills. The small patch of grass where I had paused to finally rest away the stress of the last several days bloomed in the sanctuary of a small country church and the remains of a river, now dirty and tainted. None of the flowers in their scant garden bore blossoms, simply bare stalks browned with the final breaths of winter. As I rose from their bed, I decided to take a stroll into the tiny house dedicated to the lord.

I stepped through the open doors, an open invitation extended to anyone to come in and spend a few moments in whatever religion they practiced. A few lingered within the small building, which boasted walls that had once been white-washed and smooth but now bore candle smoke trails and age cracks like an old woman's face that had smiled once too often. Those lines on the walls and ceilings formed words and sentences to me, speaking of the dying world and the remaining hope. The stained glass windows were streaked, but even that spoke of respect. The thick grime that coated the ground and the air was hard to remove, even from a soul, and the thought that someone had attempted to clean the patchworked images brought a slight smile to my face.

"You haven't done that for a while."

I turned with an abrupt snap to the source of the speaker, a man seated at one of the pew benches with his arms sprawled across the back. Surprise and shock became instant friends within me as the words flew from my mouth in a high shout. "What are you doing here?" Inappropriate words littered the exclamation, causing several pious visitors to turn and look at me.

He turned his eyes on me, with some annoyance. "Would you please. We are in a church." He indicated to the bench beside him, but I chose instead to slide into the pew in front of him while my eyes trained themselves to stare forward to the pulpit, adorned only by wilting flowers and age.

"What are you doing here?" I reiterated, with a voice hushed and reverent-inclined so as not to disturb the sacred words flittering about like bird wings on strings.

"Do I need any reason?" he leaned forward like a relaxed vulture, confident of himself, crossing his arms on the back on my bench. I could smell him, just as strong as the smoke and heat and felt the sharp stab of sudden awareness at our close proximity. "If I may inquire, what is your purpose for the visit to this quaint place? If I recall, you denounced the name of the Lord some time ago."

Insulted, I refused to turn my head to meet his gaze. "This is my God," I hissed, as the familiar sensation of hatred and repulsion slither up my spine and wrap around my heart, coiling and squeezing like a python with a prey. "No one forced him on me."

His half-formed smirk seared my neck, before he nonchalantly commented, "That's not your jacket."

Defensive, I snapped back, "Yes it is."

"That's not your name embroidered on it." My hand flew to the left breast, trying to place my fingers as a magical barrier between the stitching and his inquiring eyes. I heard a lighter spark and detected the acrid smell of fluid-fueled fire before the repugnant odor of cigarette smoke joined the air.

"We're in a church," I spat his words back into his face as I finally faced him.

"So you still bear that brand like a cross," he commented, now leaning back on his own bench as he slowly drew on the cigarette. I turned in my seat to glare at his lackadaisical display, bracing myself with one hand against the back on the pew. "Where are those wretched and sorry excuses for human beings that you label as companions?"

My eyes narrowed at him, dark desires to strangle him and force the cancer-inducing instrument down his throat. "Don't talk about my friends that way. And they're not here."

He tapped the cigarette against his shoe, and the small trail of ashes marked their path through the thick air to rest on the ragged carpet worn from devout and God-fearing visitors. His hooded eyes probed deeper through my face and past whatever shreds of my soul clung to the mortal host, before he casually and shortly stated, "Get some sleep."

"What?"

"You get next to none, don't you? It's in your eyes."

I turned back to the pulpit, unable to keep him in my visual range any longer out of disgust and fear. "I don't want to sleep," I reposted, a slice in my tone of voice.

I felt the warmth before arms wrapped around my shoulders, a gentle and loose embrace that almost pinned me to the pew. "Don't want to, or are afraid to?" he murmured, his breath hot on my face and smelling of foul smoke and chemicals. "You only fool you, you know. You know what you say isn't true, and everyone else knows it too."

I moved free of his hold, snapping around with a sharpness. "Don't touch me."

He covered his smile with his hand and cigarette, and suddenly I was reminded of a coy cat merely toying with a mouse before devouring it. I stood to leave, but his sharp command, "Sit down." seemed to remove any strength or willpower my legs had left to hold me upright. Silence reigned, other than the soft whispers of prayers and shuffling of feet as they passed by to return to their lives from the small moment of peace. "I know what you're planning," he stated quietly. "Why don't you just go back?"

"Go back?" I asked quietly, no longer with respect, but a lack of feeling and emotion. He rose and stood at the end of my row, as I continued to stare ahead without motioning to acknowledge him.

"You always listen to your friends-" the sickening sweet way he spoke the word seemed to drip with sticky honey, "So let me give you some advice. Go back to before all this. If you don't go..." He sat next to me and blew the smoke across my senses, causing me to blink rapidly to clear my eyes again. "I can tell you the ending will be sad."

"I can't. There's far too much at stake," I whispered, staring up at the stained glass windows. The pictures of Christ and his followers seemed so far away, and somehow refused to let the light shine through their dirty panes down onto me. "A happy ending might be just a dream, but I want to believe in it. Just like I believe in the God I chose."

The slap came sharp and abrupt, and when I moved to retaliate, he held the burning cigarette so close to my eye I couldn't focus on it. "Heroes have a right to bleed," he whispered hoarsely, his putrid breath almost causing me to gag. "But not to dream." He suddenly buried the burning ash into the embroidered name of my sweater, and I almost shrieked in surprise. His hand stayed my voice, as his eyes glowered at me with dangerous depths.

"Stop this silly game of pretend and dreams of a better ending for you," he hissed, his fingers digging into my face as he spoke. "And go back. Don't you see? There is no 'happily ever after'."

I struggled momentarily before wrenching my face free of his grasp, but his hand still wrapped around my wrist. I momentarily felt small and childish, like a young child trying to fight against their parents at bedtime. I shook the feeling off quickly. "I make my happy endings, and they come one day at time!" My whisper ended harshly.

He released me and I fell back on the pew to tumble to the floor as he looked down at me. "Don't you see? Aren't you listening to yourself? They've ruined you."

My foot connected with his face, as I discovered my body could move into impossible positions wedged in that small pew. I stood up as he clutched his nose and several interrupted sinners turned to stare, their repentance halted in mid-prayer.

"I learned to dream with my eyes open because of you," I snapped, anger flaring. I pulled the scorched sweater over my head and flung it at him, the cloth falling over him like a curtain on a final act. "I won't go back. I'll see this to the end, and whatever comes, I'll face it laughing."

I hoisted myself over the bench into the hall, striding straight for the door. I paused for only a moment to grab the handles of both doors and scream, "And guess what? I'm not ruined!"

I slammed the doors of the small church shut, and leaned against them for a moment. In the sudden silence of the sickeningly thick air from the city, my timepiece clicked and informed me I was due with my friends in a few short moments. I pointed my feet in the direction of the station, walking past the remains of the river. I paused by it's bank, following it's narrow curves with my eyes in the concrete bed until it disappeared around a corner. For a moment, I considered jumping into the short depths with a reassurance I would only fall through, and land in the streets of the place featured in so many dreams.

I knelt at the river's edge and watched my reflection in the surface, blurred and moving with the water. "Wait for me," I whispered. I bent and touched my lips to the water, the rusty and tainted water staining my taste sense. I stood again, and wiped at my mouth. I clutched my thin undershirt tightly to me as I pressed onward to the station, assuring myself that one day I would float away and never return, as the city burned behind me.