Em, this is an attempt to delve into the mind of 13-year-old Curt, who was quite feebly depicted in personality. Long overdue.
"Chicken Soup for the Lost Soul"
"Hey, suck my dick faggot." this guy hollered at me.
Heh. That was funny. People are funny.
"Yeah…" I hesitated. Then… "You wish asshole!" I yelled back. It felt real good to say that.
Word of my shock treatment spread quickly. People need to fucking shut up. Not that I care anymore. I mean, I don't wanna be a closet-case or anything. But that's my business.
So I like boys, guys, men. I find the male race beautiful. Is that such a crime? And for God's sake, did they really think I knew what I was doing with my brother? That I planned it? Anyway, I like girls too. As far as I knew, I was just…spreading out. I did what made me feel good, what made me happy. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? All man really wants to do is find somebody to love, and be happy. In my case, I just had a lot of somebodies.
And those people who want to commit suicide and shit—depressives—they're all fucking kidding themselves. People say that everyone wants to be happy except for depressives. That's an outright lie. It sounds stupid, but depressives wanna be happy too. Deep down, they feel happy being sad. Or, they like being sad cause it makes them feel good. Whatever. Except for being mental, why else would they be willing to do sick things to themselves?
What this guy told me once struck at me more that anything. He said "All a man needs in this life is someone to love. If you can't give him that, give him something to hope for. If you can't give him that, just give him something to do."
Truer words were never spoken. I'm pretty sure I've gone through all those phases.
(----------)
Sometimes I worry. I worry that I do all the shit I do just to do it. I know I don't have someone I love. I think I'm too young for that anyway. Kids are stupid sometimes, getting into relationships and seriously thinking they're gonna last. But maybe I'm speaking from experience. If I did all those things, now I don't. No attachments; it's better that way. Love shouldn't feel like a duty.
Duties, duties. Of course there's the ever-present duty to please the mother and father. There has to be some defect in them, one way or another. Otherwise, they wouldn't be parents. They have to make some aspect (or aspects) of your life miserable. Though in the end, after all the crap you've swallowed, you decide you love them all the more for it because it supposedly made you stronger. You don't realize until later that it also made you weaker.
But heck, you wouldn't be on this earth in the first place if not for them, right? But seriously, who asks to be born?
If I had a way of doing that, I wouldn't ask to be born to my parents, and I know that sounds mighty ungrateful. I can sort of justify my ingratitude though. My mother? She's so…so tepid. My father? Very much the same, except that he actually took the time to contribute to ruining my life now and then. I flitted in and out of their lives without any real notice.
I should just barge in on them one day with plucked eyebrows, rouge, and in pantyhose. They'd give me attention then! Although even that can only last for so long. But it's not too crazy of an idea. I've always thought that I wouldn't feel weird or ashamed if I ever did that. It would just be like having another skin to wear and shed at my disposal. It would be like a second personality to fall back on, something to retreat to when there was nothing else. How could you go wrong with that?
(---------------)
There was one day when I did something I don't usually do. It was kind of an impulse.
I went to church. No, not to mass. Yes, there's a difference. Anyhow, I went inside one of those confession boxes. It was cozy, so I just sat there, leaned my head back, and breathed in. After a while, I heard this tapping sound. Then, the little window between the two sides of the confession box shuffled open.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelped, and almost leaped. Then I laughed.
The priest on the other side peered in.
"Well, ah, son, aren't you going to confess?" Apparently, he had been there all along.
"Um, I…don't know how." I said truthfully, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I'm not even sure I have a religion." I muttered to myself faintly.
"Well," he said. "Just say 'Bless me father for I have sinned.' Then you say how long it's been since your last confession."
"Alright."
"Bless me father for I have sinned." I started. "It's been—" I stopped. "What if you've never been to confession before?"
"Then just say that this is your first time." he said patiently.
"Okay. Bless me father for I have sinned." I started over. "This is my first confession."
Once I said that, I told him every sin I could remember doing and everything that I thought would be branded as a sin. I didn't hesitate to include the incident of my giving head to a family member. I said I considered it nothing more or less than "brotherly love," though I couldn't deprive myself of grinning, much less laughing.
Not too distantly, I felt the priest's eyes widen and narrow, widen and narrow as I narrated, but he said nothing to interrupt me. He waited until I was completely finished. And when I had poured out my heart and soul for the stranger that he still was, I found him oddly receptive.
I thought that priests were trained for this sort of thing, to handle the foulest of things to come out of tainted people. But this priest, this man, was especially understanding, or so it seemed to someone constantly, deliberately shunned like me. He accepted everything I said as if he knew me, and knew me well. It was like he could see in the past and into the future, like he could find perfect reasons for why I did what I said I did. All this I could sense in the silence.
Then he started to speak.
"Son, what's your name?" he asked.
"Curt." I answered slowly, careful not to sound all too eager.
"Well, Curt, no matter what you will commit mistakes and sins. You will do wrong. Always, always." he said, making the old concept sound new to my tired ears. "I'm not going to pretend and be self-righteous, I commit sins. I'm sure even the saints had their fair share of sins way before their canonizations."
I nodded humbly.
He went on.
"The important thing to do is to have love for yourself, because if you don't love yourself you can't love anybody else. That doesn't mean you should be selfish. What it should do is help prevent you from falling into deeper sin. You should develop a love that is strong enough to stop you from hurting yourself and those around you."
God, he sounded so mushy to me, though I could've listened to him for hours. He was one of those people who possessed a voice you could listen to all day long. And he was so comforting. Sometimes you find solace in the strangest places, in people you don't even know.
When I thought he was done (he began to close the little portal between the cubicles), he called me. The small door slid open.
"Curt." he voiced my name warmly. "You'll turn out fine."
I saw what I took to as a smile behind the mesh of the door. I don't know if he saw me return it. Then out of nowhere I couldn't help but compare what just happened to something I saw on TV.
(---------------)
Months had passed and I still thought of my visit to the church. It was people like that priest who now made me look out for something different, if not better, than what I had in my life. It was a life that lacked so much and was full of all the unwanted at the same time. I'm surprised that I never dreamed of ending it.
That priest kept me waiting for the new person I was gonna change into. He gave me more courage to consider one day, someday, I might just really dress up in hose and wear make-up. By then I'd give the town something new to talk about, something I'd actually want them to talk about.
FIN
Note: I yanked a quote from the movie "Flight of the Phoenix" (new version) & injected it in this fic. I think I've made it obvious enough as to which one I'm referring to.
Disclaimer: I don't own the previously discussed quote.