Well... this was actually an assignment I had to hand in for my bioethics class, a reflection on if we were the man in ditch in the parable of the Good Samaritan. Being me, of course I didn't write it from my point of view, but somebody more interesting- like, male prostitute more interesting. ;D Can't wait to see the grade I get back on it from my nun teacher ;w;
So, this fic was actually researched before I wrote it- male prostitution is mentioned throughout the bible as a Canaanite cultic tradition and thus condemned by the Israelites many times throughout the scriptures. I was just thinking, why would I have been beaten up and thrown in a ditch in ancient Jerusalem? Being gay. Or being a prostitute. So here he is, both. XD Until he meets friendliness, warmth and love at the hands of a Samaritan- why not?
tl;dr If you don't like gayness in your bible don't read it. Just my little fictional spin on things! ;)
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Lying in ditches is not my hobby of choice. I find it unpleasant, especially broken with serious wounds and covered in bruises, but it's not exactly uncommon in the profession I have. In the center of the Jewish holy land, living the life of a male prostitute is dangerous beyond the diseases. People tend to be less than… accepting of people of repute like mine.
Less than accepting to the point of attacking me without warning and leaving me to die in a ditch? Well, yeah. The shadows of Sodom and Gomorrah play over their faces when they see me, hostility and unfriendliness in the day, violence in groups, denying it publicly in hopes it'll convince them in their hearts.
Doesn't change the looks on their faces when I see them at night, and I know it's all a sham. The religion, the purity, the everything. But nobody asks a prostitute's opinion on that kind of thing.
So lying in the ditch wasn't unforeseen, although it is unpleasant. I can't help wondering if I'm going to die here, checking myself subconsciously for injuries that I can certainly feel but not move. I suppose I would be lucky if I could still go to the bathroom after this, but what did that matter if nobody stops with a bandage, 'cause hell if I can stand up to help myself. And who would stop to help the unclean of society, the manifestation of their shadowy desires hidden under the cover of darkness? Hide them all you can, men, walk on the other side of the street as me, but I still get customers every night in this "holy city". Destroy me, destroy the manifestations of your secrets, but they sure as hell won't go away.
This whole "beaten up and left to die" thing is really turning me into a cynic.
Rabbis walk by, priests and prophets, normal people trying to ignore their personal demons and the uncleanness associated with someone like me. I close my eyes, not expecting help. Who would come? The monger of the cult prostitutes, who could find another impoverished boy anywhere? My family, who sold me to the Canaanite temple when I was only 12? What a joke. I don't have friends, only customers. Nobody is going to come, nobody would associate themselves with me and sully themselves by being even in the same ditch as me. This must be the end, I think, and give myself up to a God who I know won't accept me into his heaven.
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I come back to consciousness, to my great surprise.
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I can't tell how long it's been, or where I am, or what happened. I'm surrounded by an odd feeling, one I'm not familiar with, one I haven't felt in years.
What was it called again? Oh yeah, cleanliness.
Cautiously, cautiously, I wiggle a few fingers. When everything appears to be responding, I move my hand slightly, sensing rather than feeling the edges of bandages and linen holding me together. I don't think anyone's bandaged me in my life, and I can't imagine who would start now.
Finally, time for the real test, something I don't want to do, reality I don't want to accept. I open my eyes a tiny sliver, shutting them fast when the sunlight pours in, sending rays of pain through my skull that extend until every injury in my body is on fire with the pain I had been too numb to think about.
So maybe it had been a bad idea.
Wincing, keeping my eyes carefully closed, I sink into my cot, allowing myself to relax. That ends quickly, though, as an unfamiliar hand brushes over my face, a soft hand, delicate hand, soothing me as it terrifies me. It's a big hand, not an illusion of my mothers, although god knows she never touched me as gently as this hand is right now. The sensation is unusual, but I allow it to continue, body stiff with nerves.
"You don't need to talk. Just nod your head. Are you feeling any better?"
I nod my head slowly, feeling the hand brush over my taped nose, lightly, like butterfly wings.
"I'm glad, but I'm sure it still hurts. You have no idea how badly you were injured- actually, you probably do. Your life was seriously in danger. You're lucky the innkeeper is so talented and doesn't ask questions."
The voice is a man's, but not like the other men's. It's not harsh and rude, not demanding, without that usual tang of accusatory guilt and fury. The voice is quiet, calm, gentle, like winds and- when did I become a poet? They don't pay me to love their voices, I shouldn't be complaining.
The man continues running his hand over my face, quietly, softly, exploring my injuries gently, without saying a word. Without even meaning to, I'm giving in to the gesture, and relaxing my body. A pleased hum comes from his lips at my relaxation, and he lets his hand just rest on my hair.
And I let him. You'd think that, after this long of being abused by men, I would have shied away, afraid of Jews and Gentiles alike. I know this man will want something from me; they all do. But for now, he doesn't seem to want anything, just with his hand on my hair, me lying there. And I'm alive. I owe him this, at least.
I make my hand move slightly, stiffly, on the bed. I can do this; I at least have the strength to do this one action. He didn't want sex, he had no visible reason for doing this, and he had just… saved me. My hand, with all the effort in the world, moves off the sheet, to a concerned murmur from the other man. I open my eyes just a tiny crack, and blurrily seek his other hand with blindly determined sight. Locating it on the covers of the cot, I painstakingly move my hand to where his was, and covered his soft hand with my bandaged one. Letting it rest heavily, exhausted with the effort, I close my eyes with a tiny smile, and fall back into a deep sleep.
When I wake up again, everything feels much more alert. Your body gets pretty resilient in my trade. Opening my eyes cautiously, wiggling more careful toes and fingers, I decide it's safe to move, but when I look around the room for my savior, it's empty, nothing's there, nobody's there. I stumble to my feet, looking around as if I might have missed him in a corner, and when I reach the desk, I almost fall over, feeling tears come hot and prickly in my eyes. As I lay my head on the desk, about to lose myself to loneliness and hopelessness once more, a slip of parchment catches my attention.
I pick it up with clumsy fingers, doing my best not to let it fall. Untrained eyes read an unfamiliar name and address- a Samaritan name, from a Samaritan part. It's the same to me. Something about my job makes me lose interest in what god someone says they worship. This is an invitation; a new world, one that can't be worse than the one I've come from. Touching my cheek, feeling the ghost of a gentle caress, I carefully fold the paper into four and put it in the sleeve of my robe as I shakily stand up to leave the room.
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see, not too offensive, right? could totally have happened. XD It's just fiction, please don't flame me biblically for writing it!