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Friday, April 17, 2009
Zachariah wasn’t an attractive man by any means.
He was a frighteningly tall, round man, with a crooked nose, his mouth permanently curled into an intimidating scowl. His eyes were bagged and he looked sleepless. His hairline receded ages ago, the only thing left of it were grey patches at the side of his head.
Most of the town knew to stay away from him. And if there were any accidental encounters in public, they knew to keep the conversation brief—or avoid one altogether. The eldest Novak didn’t receive any visitors either, although he made his living preaching the gospel to these “smelly, blasphemous human things” almost every day, going door-to-door to his neighbors’ houses.
He was the Lord’s vessel, and through him God wanted the earth cleansed. According to him, the others didn’t deserve paradise. None of them did.
Even as a young child, he tried to do everything that was expected of him. Anything to ensure he’d have a place in the Kingdom of Heaven.
The child’s mother left three months after she gave birth, fleeing a life she apparently could no longer handle or want. Zachariah claimed he didn’t care. God would deal with her justly in the afterlife. He dealt justly with those who committed adultery.
But not Castiel.
That school’s gym teacher had called only moments after he got home, clamoring on about an incident that had happened at school. Castiel was in the center of it. They had allowed the boy to come home early. If Zachariah could have his way, he would never leave the house. He’d lock him away from the corrupt world to protect him.
So as his only child stood in front of him, wide blue eyes glistening and his hands trembling in fear that he had done something wrong, Zachariah sneered at him in disgust.
His son—his only son—lustful toward another man. Whatever they were teaching the boy at school, in those books, in those movies, had worked. They had poisoned him against everything he’d learned, everything Zachariah taught and worked to prevent.
Satan couldn’t have Castiel.
The boy, eyes watering behind his messy black hair must have figured out just what his father called him downstairs for and pleadingly raised his voice to implore of him, “You should have told me!”
Smack!
“We’ll pray,” the patriarch screamed at his son, seizing the boy’s slender arms and throwing him to the floor, “We’ll pray!”
“No…”
“We'll pray to Jesus for our lustful, sinning souls!”
“Father, no!”
“…If a man has intercourse with a man as he would a woman…”
“Let go of me, father, you’re hurting me…!”
Zachariah would hear none of it as he dragged the screaming child from the living room across the floor and into the adjoining kitchen. “…Both have committed an abomination…”
Wooden floorboards dragged against Castiel’s back, “No, father!” He aimlessly kicked his legs out, struggling to free his wrists from his father’s death-grip, “Let go!”
“They must be put to death!”
“Please—No!”
“Yes!” Zachariah struck Castiel’s face again, and tossed him face-first to the floor. Finally releasing Castiel’s hands, he threw open the closet door, pausing his demented mantra.
Hands now free, the ravenette pushed himself off of the floor, his back now covered in dust. He used this opportunity to wobble onto his shaky feet. His efforts proved futile, however, as his father wrapped an arm around his stomach and pulled him back.
“Their blood shall be on their own heads!”
“Please don’t put me in there!”
The older man shoved the shaken boy into the pitch-black closet, slamming the door shut after him, and locked and pressed his back against the door, “I will not lose you, Castiel,” his reddened eyes shifted toward the ceiling as he continued breathing through the prayer: “I shall set my face against anyone who wantonly …” He began ripping the few locks of hair he still had attached to his scalp.
“… F-father—let me out, please, father!”
“…resorts to ghosts and spirits…” he continued, ignoring the screaming and banging on the door from the inside.
“Let me out…! I can’t breathe!”
“And I shall cut that person off from his people…”
“Father, please! I haven’t sinned!”
“Hallow yourselves and be holy.”
“…I haven’t sinned, father, please—let me out!”
“…For I am the Lord your God.”
“Let me out, FATHER, GOD!”
Finally, Zachariah banged a fist against the door once, a signal for the foolish boy to get away from the door and begin his prayers.
Inside the closet, Castiel rested his head against the door, his now bruised hands falling helplessly into his lap. Confused, hurt, angry, and exhausted, the raven-haired boy sat back on his bottom, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.
“I don’t understand…” he whimpered, burying his face into his arms. Eventually, his sobs ceased as he struggled to control his breathing in the tight space.
He shifted his body so that it faced the statue of St. Sebastian attached to the wall. Striking a match and lighting two candles, he placed his hands together. If only he could control the shaking.
The flame illuminated his tear-stained face and he pressed his hands to his pink lips as he whispered, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven… H-hallowed...be thy name…” his voice hitched, and he wiped at his puffy eyes, “Th-thy Kingdom come… Thy will be done…”
Why couldn’t his own father realize he was different? Why couldn’t he try to help him without claiming everything was a sin?
Behind the prayer, Castiel uttered another of his own…one he repeated almost every evening before going to bed. However, he couldn’t let his father know.
Surely, he would die here in this house if Zachariah Novak found out.
This one, he kept to himself.
He prayed for a friend.
“Forever and ever…" he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, "Amen.”
Two hours later—by now it was dark outside—Castiel crept out of the closet, and clutched his stomach as it started rumbling in protest, despite learning not to expect a meal anytime he “blasphemed” and was sent to his closet.
In the living room, Zachariah sat at his desk, highlighting passages in his bible, of course. Hesitantly, Castiel began to approach him, hands behind his back. As expected, Zachariah felt his presence but didn’t turn around or even acknowledge him.
Castiel cleared his throat anyway, his voice sore from screaming and crying, “Th-thank you, father.”
The older man nodded, his eyes never leaving the book in front of him.
“Go to bed now, Castiel.”
Nodding, the ravenette leaned down and pecked his father on the cheek, his mussed hair falling over his eyes. Head bowed, he made his way toward the staircase, the stairs creaking under his feet as he ascended to his room.
Zachariah went about his business, humming to himself. Perhaps he’d keep the boy at home from now—
CRASH!
The sound of shattering glass startled the patriarch from his thoughts. He tossed his highlighter and spectacles onto the desk and marched upstairs to Castiel’s room.
Upon reaching the top floor, he moved to open the door. Locked.
“Castiel?”
No answer.
“Castiel, what are you doing in there?” he jiggled the doorknob, then released it, “Castiel, open this door.”
“It’s open, father.”
And true to the his words, the door slowly opened as the older man twisted the knob again. He stepped inside and found him perched on the floor in front of his bed, his head bowed.
“What was that noise?”
"Wh-what noise?" Castiel looked over his shoulder, sparing his father a glance, “I didn’t hear anything.”
Zachariah blinked at him and his eyes moved around the room, analyzing the sparse furnishings. Nothing out of the ordinary. There was only a bed, a dresser, a full-length mirror, and a chair in the corner which that ugly trench coat was draped over.
“Go to bed, Castiel.”
The ravenette nodded in reply before bowing his head again, “After my prayers, father.”
Zachariah eyed him wearily, slowly stepping out of the room and shutting the door after him. At the sound of the lock clicking into place, Castiel looked over his shoulder again. Then looked over at the mirror, where the glass miraculously looked like an elegant spider-web.
Perhaps he’d go to the library on Monday and see if they had any books on his condition. Until then, he’d have to find another way to control it.
Not here.
His father would surely kill him if he found out.