Six Days for Salvation

Prologue.

The city of Sodom comes from the Hebrew word S'dom. Burnt.

Gomorrah is most likely from Ammorah. A ruined heap. Reduced to ashes. Fire and brimstone. Raindrops of ash and sulfur.

The word Exodus is Greek in origin. It means out. Journey. Escape. The bible tells a tale of the Israelites exodus from Egypt under the leadership of Moses. It is the second book in both the Torah and Tanakh. It is used to describe a departure of a great number of people, usually from the oppression. Tyranny. Affliction. It's the name of a thrash metal band formed in California in 1983.

But the word that applies in this situation seems to be resigned. As in "I am resigned to my fate." As in, "I am resigned to my inherent wrongness, my sinfulness, my a-strayin' ways." As in "I am resigned to the fact that I am sitting in a sunshine yellow room in a folding chair by a folding table waiting for an Exodus Youth counselor to come in and begin our first session in the E.Y. 'Six days for salvation' program".

My coming out of the closet could not have coincided more perfectly with the launch of this project. While the Exodus Youth team was taping up posters and booking appointments, I uttering those four seemingly simple words to my parents. I think I'm gay.

Two hours later, my name was written up in the E.Y. appointment book. The salvation directory. The "to do" list. Gabriel Delgados - Monday, July 12th, 2004 - 10:00 AM.

As if the self hatred, the guilt, and the denial wasn't enough, now I'm surrounded by posters portraying the typical, heterosexual teenager riding bikes, playing ball, doing homework, going on dates. With the opposite gender, thank you very much. A poster across from me asks; "Is there freedom from homosexuality?" Good question. What mental discrepancy occurred inside this head of mine that made me prefer boys over girls? More importantly, what mental discrepancy occurred inside this head of mine that made me tell my parents? After hearing my mother wail her life away to Mary, Jesus, God and whoever else was listening, my skin was humming all over with loathing. Towards myself. It was a hot, uncomfortable feeling. Sodom.

The door clicks open.

I look up to see a boy my age standing there, a brand-new looking binder held casually at his side, sporting a crooked sort of smile that looks as though he added it as an afterthought. His eyes are partially hidden by the shagginess of his hair, but nothing can be done to hide the beak of a nose the poor kid has. Against my instincts, I find my eyes casually grazing over his body. Small guy, slim to the point of scrawniness. But from what I can see, fairly toned underneath that snug shirt of his. Sanity kicks in, along with the memory of where I am, and I quickly return my gaze to his face, feeling my skin heat slightly. So much for salvation.

"Hey," he says, shutting the door behind him and walking towards me with a confident stride. He holds out a thin, sun browned hand, his smile widening almost imperceptibly. "Michael Norfield. I'm your youth counselor for the next week."

"Gabriel Delgados," I reply, reaching out and shaking his hand briefly. I wait for the automatic "you Spanish?" rejoinder. Mercifully, it does not come.

He doesn't suffer from sweaty palm syndrome like most guys do. For this, I am thankful. I expect him to take a seat across the table from me, but he surprises me by setting himself down on the table itself, bringing his legs up and crossing them casually, flipping his binder open and letting it rest on the casual V of his lap. His bony, sun tanned knees poke out through the rips in his graying jeans, and his t-shirt is stretched tight across his slender frame, a faded, soft looking red. It reads in crackling, black letters; "Jesus Camp. 1992."

Huh.

"So's this your first time with Exodus Youth?" He asks, flipping another page and glancing at me briefly. Through his hair, I can see that his eyes are coffee colored, and just as warm. I can feel my eyes squinch up in spite of themselves. First time? There have been second times? How many times does it take?

"Mmm," I murmur, averting my attention to the pages he's flipping through.

"Wicked," he replies automatically, clicking open the rings and taking out a few pristine, photocopied sheets. "Welcome, man. You're lucky you could get a spot here, things have been filling up fast. Here," he offers me a handful of papers, and I shuffle them clumsily on my lap, the sentences fragmenting and catching on my eyes. We are a group of ministry leaders, overcomers, friends… power of the Lord Jesus Christ to youth struggling with their sexuality…. to youth affected by homosexuality…. Following Jesus Christ is the only path that is…

"Description and list of initiatives," Michael says, motioning to the sheets. "Plus testimonials from overcomers and events happening in your area. Dude? Totally worth it. You ever heard of Jonathan Hunter? The Comiskeys?"

I'm unsure what to do with these sheets. I shuffle them again, lining up the edges until they are perfectly straight, folding them over once, twice, three times.

"Well, you should go to the workshop their holding. It'll make the whole process so much easier," Michael says. I stuff the sheets into my back pocket and murmur something under my breath. It seems my words have left me. They always do at the most inopportune times. Michael waits, as though he expects me to continue, but when it becomes clear that "mmm" is all I can muster for now, he clicks the rings of his binder shut, folds it, and places it to the side. He leans back, propping himself up on two stick-straight arms, before unfolding his long, thin legs and letting them dangle off the edge of the table.

"So, Gabriel," he says after a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. "I want you to tell me why you're here."

Is this protocol? I glance up, slightly confused, to see him staring at me seriously, all traces of a grin wiped from his face. I honestly wish he wouldn't. This is a kid my age who knows all about the one thing that I have tried to keep from kids my age. And he's staring. I feel my eyes drop back to the ground, craftily sneaking in another peek at the tight shirt.

Son of a bitch.

"Gabriel?" He prods gently. I can feel my face heat, so hot it would probably burn to the touch.

"I'm here 'cuz I'm gay," I say in a hesitant voice. I hear a rustle of fabric and look up to see that he's pushed himself up off his hands and is leaning forwards slightly, his eyes still trained steady on mine, as though an invisible line were pulling our gazes together.

"You're not gay, Gabriel," he tells me in a steady, clear voice. "No one really is. They just think they are."

I know this. Of course I know this. I keep my eyes trained on the floor. After a moment, I hear him continue.

"I'm an overcomer myself, y'know," he says. I'm not expecting this, but there it is. "All of us are, the youth counsellers. That's why we started the program. I mean, we all know it's a hell of a lot easier to talk to someone your own age than some 40 something psychiatrist or whatever," he says dismissively. "I mean, when I was going through all that bullshit, that was the last thing I wanted, y'know?"

I know. I know.

He studies me for one more agonizing moment, before shaking the hair out of his eyes and leaning back again, the intensity of the past few moments vanishing as though it had never been. I allow myself to look at him straight in the eye once more and at least attempt a smile. I figure that if this guy is going to be cleansing me of this sick thing inside my mind, it's the least I can do.

"Don't sweat it, Gabe," he says, weaving the casual nick name in almost imperceptibly. "We have a thirty to seventy percent success rate here at Exodus. All it takes is for you to re-establish a personal connection with Jesus, and it's his guidance that counts. Not mine."

He gives a small ironic grin that I can return almost effortlessly. I notice his eyes catching at the symbol on my shirt. His grin widens a crack.

"You like the Stones too?" He asks.

Written for B's challenge. Write six(ish) scenes about a relationship, the first scene being the first time they meet, the last scene being the last time they see each other. Each scene has to take place inside the same room.

Disclaimer: Skits and Bumlets don't belong to me, not by a long shot. Exodus doesn't belong to me either, which should come as no surprise to most of you. Their website can be found at http/ for the curious, the infuriated, and the masochistic. Although the Exodus Youth program is in full fledged operation, the "Six Days to Salvation" course does not exist and hopefully never will. And for the record, I ain't making jack shit offa any of this, bitchizzzzzzzzzz…