An Abyss of Worthless Sacrifices

The blinds were beginning to gather dust. The man ran his finger along the taunt fabric, coming away with a finger faint with dust. He licked the dust off his finger. It was the closest he’d allow himself to get to the outside world. The taste lingered, and he froze in the middle of turning to the kitchen. A glass of tap water a day, he reminded himself, that's all you're allowed.

When he’d been a teen, he’d often pray for hours, until his legs would be numb from kneeling for so long. He had taken pride in the welts and marks on his knees, but marks such as those had only been the beginning of his journey. He had also, at the time, needed to keep such things hidden. He’d had to blend in, especially not to worry Mary.

Mary, who’s ashes and urn he’d thrown away like all the rest of the trash he’d gotten rid of when he’d moved here. He’d waved off the hospice team’s concern, had told them that he’d wanted to die at home. Should I sustain my suffering, he wondered, or should I stop drinking anything as well?

He went to the kitchen, his bare feet making him wince at every step. He picked up the remaining cup and dumped it in the empty trash can. He smiled at the sound of the glass shattering. He’d already donated the cups and plates he’d had when he’d hosted dinners. When he’d sopped eating, well, the plates could go easily. No use keeping around what wasn’t needed.

He sat down with a old photo album. It was the one thing from his past that he’d kept. His last connection to the world, besides his body made of flesh.

###

The teen-aged boy’s legs were numb. There would be marks, raised and red, when he finally stood. The carpet was leaving patterns in his knees, the fibers burning in what little he could feel of his legs.

He kept his face pressed into the blanket; at least the down comforter was good for something. It blocked out the light from the hallway, and—more importantly—it blocked out the posters on the wall. The superheroes and musicians, all the things of this hateful world that he needed to keep up with so he didn’t worry Mother. He dreamed of having nothing but a cell, one day. He never spoke of these wishes, it wasn’t what boys his age did. He was always told that he was too young to make a choice like that, and he would have to wait.

He had listed the names of everyone he could think of. Now he’d never get his fingers apart, he’d clasped his hands so long. But he’d been told to never stop praying, so maybe he had to remain this way forever.

Maybe, he thought, I'll die this way.

He forced his hands apart, holding back the urge to cry out as blood returned to his fingers. If Mother caught him praying like this again, she’d be worried. She’d said it was possible to have too much faith. The boy thought that was a stupid idea, what did she know of his soul?

He’d been told by the preachers to deny himself, so he hadn’t brought any food into his room. He’d picked at his dinner earlier, claiming that he’d eaten a big lunch at school earlier. He’d eaten half of his pizza, and had thrown the rest in the trash. The lunch ladies didn’t check how much someone ate, so the lie went through to his parents easily.

The first thing he’d prayed for had been to repent of his lie, but he’d learned by experience that his parents didn’t like it when he spent too much time with God. They said that he should make friends his own age, but all the people his own age were trying to lead him astray from what really mattered. He’d brought a Bible to school, and kept it hidden in his locker. During his breaks between classes, when his other classmates would be holding hands with their dates, he would run his fingers along the pages of the book he kept tucked away in his backpack. Sometimes he would flick his fingers along the edges, anticipating the pain of a paper cut. It was a day he had a real reminder, when he had a small cut on his fingers.

He forced himself off his knees, tumbling forward that final step into his bed. His head bumped the pillows he’d set up to cushion his fall. Mother had heard him collapse into the wall one time. She had come running to see what was wrong. He had told her that he had simply slipped. She had appeared to believe him—but he wasn’t making that mistake again.

He rolled to his side and undressed, crawling back into bed. He wrapped his arms around himself, only a thin blanket to keep out the winter cold. He kept a thick blanket on the bed only to appease Mother, but would remove it every night.

Even his sleep must be an offering of suffering.

###

Online, he would find other like him who were giving up the world. They would talk about conversations they had with angels. The boy would stay up long into the night, reading threads about their fight against the forces of the world. There were those who gave up any music that was not of their values. There were those who went so far as to cut off all contact with disbelieving family. He was still a teen, so he could not leave his family behind. But, he thought, he could renounce them in some other way.

Mary wasn’t home. He slowly let down the ladder to the attic. It did not make a sound. He took this as a sign that what he was doing was right.

He began to rummage through old, dust-covered boxes. They were filled with letters and pictures of people who were long dead. People who didn’t matter anymore.

He found what he was looking for. The boy lifted the blanket. It smelled of rose perfume and moth balls. The colors were still as vibrant as they had been over fifty years ago. The blanket had been knitted during cooking shows, growing while watching someone else live their life. It had been a gift, but Mary hadn’t used it in ages. She wouldn’t miss it.

He lugged the blanket down to the woods. There was a fire pit there, which hadn’t been used since last fall. The boy began to gather kindling to burn his connection with this world.

He wished he had others who would wittiness this. Others he’d read about online had broken and burned music that was against what they stood for. They’d burned comic books and games that lead them away from their destiny.

He should hate his family. This was showing that he hated them, burning a blanket his grandmother—no, Mary’s mother—had made. A new life was being made for him as he burned the old one. The fire was growing steadily. Surely it would be enough to light ancient cloth on fire.

When the fire was steady, high and blazing, the boy dropped the blanket in. The scent of burning cloth making him gag. The boy felt tears on his cheeks, and no joy was coming to him. He did not feel free, the way his friends only did. He only felt…empty.

###

That action had been what had gotten him thrown out. Mary’s reaction—her lack of understanding—had made him leave. He’d left with a single packed bag. From there, he had lived as simple a life as he could. That was what he told others. That was a description that did not send them running the other way.

He thought of his life as a series of sacrifices. It was all given up for ultimate happiness he would have when he died. Now I really am dying, he reflected, yet I feel no closer to my goal of living forever in paradise.

He turned a page in the book. After his teen years, it was blank. He had wanted to not exist. He’d gotten his wish; there were no traces of him aside the bare minimum to live in this world. No pictures of him hung on walls. There would be no children to mourn him. His old coworkers at his jobs surely did not remember him now.

He stared at the blank page. As he did so, memories of the final day he’d spent with Mary filled his mind.

###

His mother called his name, her voice startling him from his thoughts. Her voice drifted through the house from the attic.

“Where’s your grandma’s blanket?”

He stayed quiet, but put his history book down. He went to the attic ladder, and climbed, shifting his hands in hope of getting splinters. He lifted his head once he was in, the light revealing the mess of old letters, clothes, and photographs.

In the far end of the attic, near the window and surrounded by a mess, sat his mother. She was going through a box, digging through the remains of generations. The clothes stank of moth balls and roses.

“Where is it,” she said to herself. She pushed some hair behind her ear. Her bun was beginning to come undone, the light shining off the strands.

“Mary—” the words about the promise he made were stuck in his throat. He coughed, and opened his mouth to try and speak again.

“Am I not your mother anymore?” She looked up from the box, her hands buried in junk. “You keep calling me Mary, since you…you…went to the woods by yourself!” The words were a shout. “What even is happening to you?”

I’m becoming who I’m meant to be! He held back the words, and instead he said what she expected him to say.

“Let me help.” He sat down among the junk, the attic floor hard against his butt. He reached for a box, only for his mother to shake her head.

“I’ve been through that one.”

“I might look through it anyway,” he drew it closer, the scrape of cardboard on wood bringing up dust. “Curiosity’s sake, you know?”

He slowly opened the box, looking away to hide the grimace. He wiped his face on his sleeve, wiping away the expression as well as the dust that flew up at him.

“Those were your father’s old records," Mary said.

I have no father in this world. He pressed his lips together; let her assume it was the dust and scent of old vinyl that made him grimace. He flipped through the records. This was music that he’d never allow himself to listen to now. The lyrics would make him feel fear. Fear was something he should not feel. He’d renounced his family in exchange for peace, so why did he feel—

“Did you get rid of it?”

The normal volume at which Mary spoke those words made him stop breathing. It would have been easier if she had shouted at him. Then he could have screamed back at her what he had done—but no, he wasn’t supposed to feel any anger…

“Did you?”

He tensed, his hands tightening on the record. The vinyl bit into his fingers, the grooves catching his nails and making a shudder go down his spine. The record bent, then began to crack. Even the snapping sound could not make him answer Mary’s question.

“It’s a yes or no question,” Mary said.

The record broke at her words. The snap made him flinch. He stared down at the shards.

“You did, didn’t you?”

He nodded. He did not talk about burning it. She would never understand.

“Get out!”

He scrambled down the ladder, falling the final few rungs. He ran through the house, the scene around him a blur. He did not hear Mary following him. He looked over his shoulder, expecting her to be reaching out for him at any second—

He burst from the door, her words still following him. The sun was blinding. He staggered into the light, and began to run from the only home he’d ever known.

###

He knew it was the final night of his life. He closed the book and went to bed. The scrapbook would only chronicle the beginning of his life. He had vanished as much as he could. Sacrificed as much as he could. All for rewards in Heaven. He laid down with a smile on his face.

When his eyes opened, all he saw was darkness. He could feel that he was kneeling. The ground pressed hard into his knees. He could smell something surrounding him. Something that smelled like old pennies.

A tune began to play. He tried to reach up, to stop his ears from hearing. But he felt manacles around his wrists. The music he’d stripped from his life pressed in on all sides. He could not cover his ears, the chaos of sound breaking his heart. He could feel all the joy the songs would have given him, all the missed shows, missed friendships and fun.

The scent of food he’d denied himself filled the air, but he could not move to the table he now saw, plied with riches. He could almost taste the feast laid before him, food from all over the world. But he could have none of it.

The love he could have had filled his heart. Images filled his mind, all the friends he'd have made. His possible wife and children. All of that joy he'd turned away from. In the name of Heaven.

The tears in his eyes would not fall. He could not even weep for all he'd lost at his own hand.

He knelt, in chains, an abyss of worthless sacrifices.

THE END