by Eric Raglin
(935 words)
I’ve done my best to stay sinless for the Transubstantiation. That word is hard to pronounce, but I’ve seen it written enough times that I can spell it out. Sister Mary tested all the third graders on the word’s spelling, and I was the only one who got it right. I’m not being prideful, Jesus. I’m just telling the truth.
The other kids aren’t ready for what’s coming. Jacob used the Lord’s name in vain when the desk lid fell on his finger. Helen cheated on the math test by writing time tables on her arm. And Matthew lied to his parents about finishing his homework so he could spend the night at my house. He’s not allowed to come over anymore.
Every week, Father George asks me to confess my sins, and every time I tell him I have none to confess. He always waits a few seconds after that, like he doesn’t believe me. It’s because the other kids are so bad that he expects me to be that way, too. I won’t tell him that though. That would be back-talking, and back-talking is a sin.
The Transubstantiation is today, and all of the third graders are standing in a single-file line. I’m in the back, which makes me nervous, because the longer I have to wait, the more time I have to sin.
We walk up to the altar one at a time. Father George stands behind a table decorated with candles and a white lace tablecloth. He’s holding a plate of bread and a silver cup of wine. The room is dark back where I am, but it gets brighter the closer I get to the candles. A statue of Jesus on the cross hangs from the high ceiling. I’ve looked at it a hundred times, and today, Jesus seems to look back at me. I can’t tell if he’s in pain because he’s been crucified or because he thinks I’ve sinned. I almost cry, but I hold the tears in. Daddy says only girls cry, and I’m not a girl.
Father George is speaking now, and I pay attention because you’re supposed to do that when an adult talks, unless that adult is an atheist.
“The sinners may consume Christ, but they will not feel His presence,” he says, placing the bread on Matthew’s lying tongue. “His second coming gestates only inside the pure.”
The line moves forward. Kids who have already taken the bread and wine sit in the front pew. They whisper to each other and laugh. I don’t understand how they can be so happy when it’s obvious that Jesus hasn’t chosen them as His vessel. Like Father George said, you’ll know it the moment you swallow the sacrament.
I look up at Jesus’ statue again, but I’m so close to the altar that I can’t see if His face is happy or angry. I crane my head so high up that I don’t notice it’s my turn until Father George calls me, not once, but twice. I hope he doesn’t think I was ignoring him because that would make me a sinner.
I walk forward. Father George hands me the bread.
“Take and eat,” he says.
I do. My throat is dry, so I almost choke when I try to swallow. But Father George passes the cup to me. I hold it to my lips, say a silent prayer, and drink. The red wine is bitter and makes me shiver, but I feel an immediate change as soon as I swallow.
BUH-buh, BUH-buh. Like an extra heart beating inside me. It’s strong, and it hurts my stomach each time it moves. I look down at my white button-up shirt and see a shape pushing out from my belly button. It reminds me of when mommy was pregnant with Elise, and Elise kicked her from the inside. I always thought it looked funny, but now that it’s happening to me, it’s painful. Maybe that’s because mommies are made for having babies and boys are not.
Father George sets the cup down and kneels next to me.
“No, it couldn’t be,” he says, and his eyes are wide and shiny when he looks at the kicking thing under my shirt. “Michael, you were telling the truth when—”
But he can’t say anything else because I stumble backwards and fall on the floor and start screaming. There’s a sound like when daddy cuts his steak, and I feel my belly ripping. There’s a red line on my shirt now. Father George runs over to me and puts a hand on my rip. His mouth is moving really fast, but I shift my head so I can see the Jesus statue behind him. His face is visible again. He’s bleeding under the crown of thorns, but he’s smiling, too. Smiling at me. And I think I’m still screaming, and I think Father George is screaming too, but I’m smiling right along with Jesus. If He can smile through the pain, then so can I.
There’s a wet sound as my rip gets bigger, and now Father George has splotches of blood and chunks of pink on his face. My vision is blurry, but I’m pretty sure he’s running away.
Someone’s crawling out of me. A big shape, bigger than Father George. So big its head touches the cross hanging high above. And everything’s going gray, but I know it’s Jesus. I smile even wider, and I do cry now, but it’s happy tears, not girl tears. Happy because I remained sinless. Happy because I was blessed to be His vessel.
END
Eric Raglin (he/him) is a speculative fiction writer, podcaster, and horror educator from Nebraska. He frequently writes about queer issues, the terrors of capitalism, and body horror. His work has been published in Novel Noctule, Fever Dream, and Shiver. Find him at ericraglin.com or on Twitter @ericraglin1992.