Title: Black Saturday

Genre: General/ Spiritual

Rating: T

Summary: As a Roman Catholic, they had always mourned during Holy Week, the week where Jesus had died and resurrected. That Black Saturday, the day of heavy mourning for Jesus’ death, however, the ritual will somehow change for one young man.

Black Saturday

He had never been a real Catholic at heart. He had never participated in prayers, holy rituals, and such. He had never known Jesus throughout his life. For him, he’s just another mythical figure that the Catholic Church had used to upgrade their own power, whether it be political or spiritual.

Now, during Holy Week, the week where Catholics reminisced Jesus’ death and resurrection—if there is such a thing—bothers him so much. Especially Black Saturday.

“Tate, wear your mourning attire. We’re going to church,” his mom said as she passed by his room that morning. He rolled his eyes and plopped his black-and-red Pentagram-shaped pillow to his head with annoyance. “Why do we have to go to church when I’m supposed to finish my thesis?” he lied. Lying has always been his number one avoider.

His mom just snapped back, “Well, we are a Catholic, Tate!” And the conversation ends there as she goes to the laundry room to wash some clothes.

He just grunted and turned on his iPod nano, listening to anti-Christian songs and pagan-based pops. There is rare music that deals with paganism nowadays, but he was lucky to have one in his playlist. He was always lucky.

“Tate,” a small voice whispered in his doorway. He just snorted and tossed an empty pack of M&M’s on the floor. “I’m sleeeeepy,” he groaned.

The voice was determined to get his attention. “Tate,” it said once again, louder this time. He pretended to have snoring fits. He would not let a small voice ruin his day.

“Tate, can you come here for a sec,” the voice ordered, this time, more stern. He did not mind at all. It’s just his sister after all. “Can’t you see someone’s sleeping? Go away,” he grunted.

His sister chipped her lip in a fashion that it scowled more than it should scowl. Finally, loud footsteps came in to his direction. And light began to filter to his pale-as-ice face.

“Jill, will you knock it off! I’m sleepy!” he groaned once again. His sister mimicked him with bitter sarcasm and grabbed his frail left arm with utter force. “Wake up! You have something to do!”

To stop it, he decided to give her the medicine. “What now?” he asked, stretching his arms and purposely hitting her strawberry blonde carefully-tousled locks. With this, his sister let out a pig-like shriek. He laughed out loud, as if that has been his happiest moment ever.

“Can you fasten the lock?” his sister asked in a small voice. She turned her back at him and as he saw what ‘lock’ is it, he began to snicker. Jill rolled her emerald eyes and huffed impatiently. “Hurry up already, I have to dress now!”

He has no choice. His makeup-obsessed, fourteen-year-old sister still doesn’t know the basic skills that every girl should know when her mom had purchased her first baby bra. “There. Happy now?”

Jill skipped along and slammed the door behind. He just let out a sigh as the first ray of sunlight streaked on his face. Today will be a day full of surprises. He has no idea, of course.

That morning, the whole family—him, dressed in a black, for-cocktails-party tie, his father who looked like attending a king’s supper, his mother who looked like the dead ring of Natalie Portman, his sister who looked like the sluttish Paris Hilton and the family watcher, black sweatshirt and ripped-off jeans. And they were going to a Catholic Church.

He just rolled his eyes as they entered the church. The church had always been a place for praying, worshipping, and spirit-seeking for some. For a few, a spot where they can make out quietly and undisturbed. A handful considered it a place where their eyes can be open in the most bizarre circumstances. And Tate himself belongs to the latter mentioned.

As they kneel on the pew to pray, Tate tapped the family watcher seating quietly from the others. The hood turned around and gave him one of its deadly smiles. Tate fumbled inside his pocket and motioned the family watcher to do their business at the back of the church, where confessions are held. Its hood nodded and together, they walked away from the praying others.

Black Saturday is a day of heavy mourning for the Catholics and for a young woman garbed in a black eighteenth-century voluminous dress which Tate and the family watcher found curious. Tate ushered the family watcher to come and see the young woman, crying in a lugubrious manner.

“You’re Tate Hawke, aren’t you? The kid who secretly practices cannibalism and paganism?” the young woman asked as soon as they reached her area. Tate doesn’t know how to reply—why would a crying woman suddenly talked to him as if they are acquaintances for the past years?

“It’s not a secret—everybody knows Tate is a Christian Rebel,” the family watcher replied flatly, keeping its head down. The young woman sniffed and motioned them to sit beside her. Tate and the family watcher followed.

“Well, it’s nice to have someone to talk to, you know. I’ve been alone for a while now,” the woman began. Tate just kept his eyes glued on the golden altar in front of the church. The Virgin Mary statue smiled down at him. He shivered.

“My son died a few hours ago. You know, many called him the ‘Saviour’, some called him the “Messiah’.” The woman paused as she sniffed some more. Tate shifted and discreetly listened to his iPod. “And I called him ‘Jesus’.”

The family watcher whispered something in Tate’s ear. Tate nodded and turned off his iPod. “Jesus?” Tate repeated. The woman nodded proudly and tears began to well up in her silvery eyes. “He was the greatest. He was this charismatic yet enigmatic leader of his time. He inspired millions of lives, you know. And now is the day of mourning for him. I’m so happy even people like you go and mourn for him.”

“Are you . . . Queen Victoria of Britain?” the family watcher asked monotonously, its head stooping lower than before. Tears began to welled up again, louder this time. And louder. And louder. Until all of the people in church turned their attention to them. Tate smiled back sheepishly. The people turned back to their businesses.

“What did you said, my dear?” the woman asked. “You looked like Queen Victoria of Britain,” Tate responded. The woman smiled and showed them a rose-beaded black rosary that she has been clutching. “I’m Mother Mary, his mother.”

At that, Tate promised to himself that he will never, ever practice Black Saturday with his family again.

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"Tate, let's celebrate Black Saturday," a child said to him, tugging his shirt. Tate was determined to stay silent. Who are you anyway?

"Please Tate? You know, you're considered a devil if you didn't celebrate, or rather, mourn on Black Saturday."

Tate sighed with frustration and tugged the child away. "I don't even know you! I'm not even a Catholic!" he cried.

In the corner of his eye, the crying Mother Mary gave him a look that changed his belief about religion forever.

"Fine, let's go." Then he knocked the Mother Mary statue on the altar in front with a remarkable force.

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