Four Years Ago

Connor McKinley had the same dream every night for four years. Though he grew and his hair became as red as his mothers and he made it through middle school and his first year of high school unscathed, his dream remained the same. He was fifteen by day, but every night he returned to his eleven year old body to suffer at the hands of unspeakable demons.

He adapted. Kept water and crackers by his bed to fight the nausea he felt every morning. He learned not to need sleep, to stay up into the wee hours of the morning so he only had to endure an hour or two of Hell. He repeated the mantra he learned that summer before bed, hoping that maybe it would assuage Heavenly Father even for a single night. It never did.

Connor tried to blend it. He went on the occasional date and he did not tell the girls that, no, that purse did not work with those shoes or that their dress was so last season because he did not have stacks of Vogue under his bed. He got the reputation for being the hottest prude at the school, he never kissed any of the girls he went out with but he explained rather patiently that it was against his religion. They believed him. But mostly he stayed home and hid in his room.

With all his free time, Connor worked laboriously on his homework. Under his blankets with his reading light he would write and rewrite his essays until his hand cramped and he was satisfied. His teachers loved him, they spoke highly of him over their cups of coffee in the teacher's lounge and wondered where he found the time to do so much beyond the requirements.

One of Connor's biggest fans was Mr. Flannagan. The young, Irish teacher was fascinated by the ginger who reminded him of his brood of wild brothers. He enjoyed reading Connor's work and liked to push him in class to the point of blotchy red-faced anger after which the professor would ruffle his hair and encourage him to join the debate team. The teenager surprised him and made his second year of teaching a great experience. But Connor worried him. He could recognize the halted nature, the strange blue hiding-light in his eyes. He saw himself, unnerving for every teacher.

Connor liked Mr. Flannagan as well, even though he liked to play the Devil's advocate and his infuriating way of messing with Connor's hair. He liked the attention he got in class, of feeling smarter than the rest of the students and finally being good at something. English was his strongest subject and the glowing comments on his progress reports brought the look of pride back to his father's eyes.

Mr. Flannagan coached the golf team Connor tried out for to appease his father. It was a sport, but it was about aim and strategey and not brawn. But that didn't stop the rest of the boys on the team from teasing him.

"Connor, how's your boyfriend?"

"Hey girlie, Cassie says you didn't even try to make a pass at her. She's so easy, you must be gay."

"Did you see McKinley in English? God, he was all over Mr. Flannagan. What a creep."

That made his face flush and tears stung at his eyes but he kept his head down and worked on his swing. Mr. Flannagan chased the offenders off and told Connor that it was no big deal, that anyone who does as well as he did in class was bound to get that. Then he told a story about his youth in Ireland and how his college professor had to give him an extension on his term paper because he was in love with her and he had to find someone else to distract him or he would fail the class. They laughed and Connor hit his first hole-in-one.

Mr. Flannagan made him feel good, special. Connor liked the way the older man wasn't threatened by the older teachers or his students. Or by the nasty words whispered behind their backs about appropriate teacher-student relationships. Or by Connor himself, who maybe did cling to the older man a little too much and argued with him and refused to do the assignments if he thought they were unworthy of his attention.

It was wonderful, the one place he felt completely safe, until the afternoon his favorite teacher ruined everything.

"Connor. I'm curious." The rest of the class had already filtered out and down to the cafeteria for lunch. Connor pulled out his paper bag lunch, the one his mother made for him with his favorite sandwich, and pulled a chair up to his teacher's desk. He put his shoes up on the table, echoing Mr. Flannagan's usual stance.

" 'Bout what?" He munched on his apple, staring at his teacher.

"Why didn't you do the last paper?"

Connor froze for a moment, then snorted and swallowed. "Because I didn't think it needed to be written."

"Really? I thought it was one you would really enjoy. I had you in mind when I wrote it." Mr. Flannagan watched Connor carefully. The boy paled and looked down.

"For me? Why would you write something so awful for me?"

"Awful? I had no idea you'd feel that way. It's a rather provoking subject, I figured you'd like to argue with me about it. I know how much you love to argue."

Connor took a moment to answer. "Homosexuality is wrong. There's nothing else to say."

Mr. Flannagan sat up, looking concerned. "I don't know where you got that idea, kiddo, but I didn't mean to offend. Just...just so you know there's nothing wrong-"

Connor stood abruptly. "It's against Christs will. There's nothing. Else." Then he left, leaving his lunch on the desk. He never ate lunch with Mr. Flannagan again. He stopped speaking up in class. He went home and told his father he had to quit the golf team because one of the boys was gay and he couldn't be around him. His father was proud.

That night his dream changed for the first time in six years. There was no hot sky, no boiling sea. There was no Steve. There was nothing. Not whiteness or darkness. He couldn't wake up. Sometimes he thought he was trapped in his body forever. Sometimes he didn't think he had a body at all. Connor screamed and screamed and screamed but there was no sound. He was in the void. He wasn't. He was no more. He was there for years.

The crackers didn't help the next morning. He walked through the halls like a zombie. No one made fun of him, no one wanted to face his drained eyes. Mr. Flannagan didn't call on him in class. He accepted the next assignment with no questions. He didn't look Connor in the eye.

Connor McKinley would adapt. Again. He embraced his punishment. Again. He would deal with it like he always had and he would pray to Heavenly Father for it all to end when he knew it wouldn't.

Then he would be sent to Uganda.