TW: Child abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, religious guilt
His first church made itself offerings in blood.
It offered knees on cold tile, splintering pews, and old crosses, the paint peeling. It offered blood, and was satisfied to have his own, spilled all over the floors and splattered across the stained glass windows and the immense painted walls. Once. Twice. Three times, more. He stopped counting.
His first church offered blood. It flowed like a dark river behind the bathroom sinks, droplets staining uniforms, smears of it in the small backroom.
When his father found out he had… unnatural desires, he was dragged to that same bloodstained building, red flowing from the doorframe as he stepped over the threshold, drenching him in its warm stickiness.
"On your knees." The priest hissed. His voice was a serpent that slid around Henry, choking all the air from the room, from his lungs. "Apologize."
He stayed silent, not trusting himself to speak. The walls and columns stretched high, holding the immense dome of the roof, paintings and murals of angels and saints, all staring down at him, judging.
"I said, apologize!" The priest's voice rose, bouncing off of the columns, causing his presence to become so much more smothering. He jumped at it, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor, not daring to lift his eyes.
"I'm s-sorry," he whispered, afraid he would say the wrong thing.
"Louder, boy!" The priest was evidently losing patience and it was showing in his tone.
"I'm sorry!" He repeated, voice trembling. He licked his lips, trying to keep his emotions from spilling over.
The priest loomed over him, a consuming shadow, an Angel of vengeance, wrathful as he seized Henry by his ear, yanking him up. The man's glare was as painful as having his ear nearly ripped off. "Do you want to live in sin and debauchery for the rest of your life? Is that what you want to be? A sinner?"
"No!" Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, as he clung to the priest's arm to stay on his feet. Small sobs wracked his chest, escaping his mouth, as he felt the feelings of guilt and dread overtake him. Upon seeing this, the priest only seemed to anger even more, and he slapped Henry with such force that he fell to the floor, painfully landing on his side. This, in turn, caused Henry to cry harder.
"How dare you cry at the prospect of absolution! You should be full of rejoicing, that I have chosen to lead you back on the path to God."
All Henry could bring himself to do was whimper harder, drawing himself into a fetal position in an attempt to protect himself. At the least, he wanted to hide his face, but that didn't last long. The priest seized him by his hair, lifting him to his battered knees.
"Pray!" The man screamed, spit flying through the air from the force of his words. "Pray to God so that you will be rid of this evil! Pray to be rid of this blasphemous affront to your Creator! Pray, goddamn you!"The priest shook him so hard that his teeth rattled in his skull.
Knowing better than to go against the instructions he was given, Henry put his shaking hands together and prayed, prayed to change, to be better, to never look on another boy with such dastardly yearnings, tears still streaming freely down his reddened cheeks. It was he who was the problem, he that had fancied his friend, and he that had gotten punished for it.
"It's a shame," the priest spat from behind him. "That you, of all the children I've led, turned out to be so… sinful." The man's glare pierced the back of Henry's head. "I expected better from you, but clearly I was wrong."
The priest stalked out, leaving him alone. And even as he begged and pleaded, he knew, oh how he knew, that he was worthless and evil, and he deserved it for everything he did.
His first church offered blood.
"Pray, then. Pray or be damned. Those are your only choices, and you don't want to be damned, do you?" snarled the priest as he shoved Henry away from him when he came to confess that the feelings hadn't gone away. They had only become stronger. The force of the shove caused him to fall back, hitting his head on the corner of the altar, bright arcs of pain searing through his skull.
"You vile monster!" His mother screamed at him, convinced he had committed some horrible sin by not keeping his thoughts from wandering during the service. She ignored his words, his pleas to the contrary. She always did.
"What on earth are you talking about?" Students laughed, baring teeth like tigers. "No one has feelings like that." Cruel grins, mocking. Abandoning.
His first church offered blood. So much of it.
It slips through his dreams at night, hiding there until he gets up, scrubbing his whole body raw and sends it down the drain. But it will come back, he knows. He is tainted with it, body and soul.