'What I did this summer was…'

What are we, first graders? Aim higher next time, because I know that everyone else is sick of being asked this question eight times a year for the last eleven years. I can tell by the audible groans and sighs from my classmates surrounding me. Although, no one speaks out. No sir, we Christian kids are too well trained to say, "No, go fuck yourself and your stupid ass summer question, because you know that everyone's whole fucking summer sucked dick because we were locked away at bible camp, you mother fucker."

No, we're well bred. Which is why I write, 'What I did this summer was spend time in the outskirts of Salt Lade at Bible Camp, learning about the sacrifices that Jesus made for us and the love that He and His father hold for us sinners.'

What freakin' garbage.


I press my hands together, my fingers to my lips. My eyelids tightly shut. My knees ache, fire burns my spine, but yet I fervently mutter words that have nearly lost meaning to ears, but never to heart.

"Dear Mother Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with Thee…"

My string of smooth mahogany beads slide between my thumbs, damp with the sweat from the pads of the digits. My concentration slips with them. My eyes open; They settle on the crucifix that hangs above the lonely pews, above Father Marcus' plain wooden chair.

The man himself sidles into my line of view, clearing his throat quietly. His somber face, with deep-set lines that hold his congregation's worries and kind, loving eyes, is comforting to my sordid mind.

"Do you have something you would like to talk about, Ezekiel?" he asks me, his large hands folded together at his groin.

I swallow, lowering my eyes in shame, and wipe the face with the backs of my hands. Tears streak the pale flesh, and this startles me for some reason.

"Thank you, Father, but I have classes to attend."


At dinner I push my food around my plate and fool everyone with jokes. Well, everyone, meaning my mother and our maid Juanita. My father is absent as always. This makes it easy to slip under the radar, the only one who really notices me being Aunt Barb, who smiles sadly from across the table as I excuse myself not ten minutes into dinner.

Because my mother's on her cell talking to her boss and she just waves her hand at my jokes, only drinking water and hissing at us when we get too loud.

"Hey," Aunt Barb says after she knocks on my open door later. I'm doing homework, still sweaty from my fitness routine.

Every day, twice a day, I run four miles, do six hundred sit-ups, two hundred push-ups, and 1,000 squats.

But I'm not obsessed or anything.

And she knows this, so she just fucking smiles.

"Hey," I echo. She comes in and sits on the floor Indian style.

"What's up, Eli?"

Now I'm irritated. "You came to my room. What's up?"

She half shrugs. "You look sad."

"I don't want your pity."

"It sure looks like a party to me."

I sneer. "I'm not into socializing."

"Jeez, you're a bitch, Eli."

I pretend like that doesn't really fucking hurt.

"You can leave now."

"Fine. Your mom's better company anyway."

I roll my eyes and mutter, "Liar."


My bedroom knows all of my secrets. Sometimes, I think that walls really can tell their stories. Mine would have many to tell, of whispered confessions and muffled screams.

I've long since banned my family from setting foot inside.

Although, knowing that my parents do not know me doesn't make me sleep any easier at night. Instead, I strain to remain quiet as my waking nightmares torture me.

My entire body is hot, and I lay exposed, terrified that someone may intrude but I never seem to care too much when I'm like this. My sleep shorts are tented with my erection and, sinful though it is, I push a couple fingers past the waistband. My breath hitches, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying hard to keep the thoughts tamed.

Around the third or fourth stroke, though, I simply give up, clenching my teeth around his name. His fingers rub deliciously, offensively, against my pulse, and it's all I can do to contain my moan. I fist my hair in one as his pace increases, and my hips buck into his tight hand.

I softly cry out his name with my release, "Elijah!", tears sliding down my cheeks.

I rush to the bathroom to empty my stomach, only wishing that my sinful soul could be expelled as easily as my dinner.