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ACT 2
Saint Joseph East Hospital, near 3:00 A.M.--laying, at the perplexing hour, in a low-lit room, being infused with I.V. Steroids and Fluids; plus, given Iron and Opiate-Derived Pain Medication, Patrick had been mumbling about needing a Priest to the loving physicians and modestly-garbed nurses in NIKE tennis shoes. Thus, after treatment, they offered a Catholic Priest--Father Young. He offered Patrick the Eucharist. Patrick refused, claiming he was not worthy; next, the defeated, sick man offered a machine gun-like burst of speech, giving the sum of his sins to the Roman Collar-wearing Priest, hoping to be given ascetic-laced penance.
PATRICK
16 years old I laid with a Sub-Eve, a Succubus. Slut-shamed her. Punched my best friend because he fornicated with her. Her too--in the stomach. She was carnally active with all my friends. She mutilated my genitalia with suburban witchcraft. Made me infertile. Then, I ran away from her. Testicles hurting. Thought it was testicular cancer. Celibate, ascetic, and praying for six years. Saw visions of the Queen of Angels, Mary. Wanted a friend. Contacted next door neighbor--she lived with her parents too. She blew me off as a loser; I was. When her parents went out of town--she invited men that she did not love to their house, and they spent some nights together; then, walking around the neighborhood in her bathing suit, all smiles. Too, her parents made me their yard slave. Forced labor upon me. Tried to pay me. Their daughter Molly would come over numerous times, but I hid from her, not wanting payment. They believed themselves better, and her mother mentioned it too--and they were better than me. I wrote her a poem. Still needed a friend after those six years of solitude, living in my parents' house. Next day--the Sheriff's Department encompassed my house. I had been dubbed a pervert for art. My attorney said Molly and her parents wanted me to suffer justice. The Ultra-Conservative Prosecutors too. I was trying to explain my crippled genitals and have synergy with her father's addictive personality--him a heavy drinker unable to handle the gift of wine--no problem for me save during football season when my team is losing. Molly would wave and smile at me when I drove past her afterwards. They had a party the night of my sentencing, celebrating my near suicide, of which they did not brainstorm, possibly blinded by my utter animal-like lack of educated consciousness. Was given a year of probation. Paid thousands of dollars in fees. Delivered newspapers at night because I was ill, having had to drop out in the 10th grade due to sickness. The 1st Amendment of God's Great United States was not mentioned to me by any attorney. There was no: 1) Fighting Words, 2) Clear & Present Danger; also, it was 3) Ambiguous. I broke no law. She came upon my suburban property and retrieved the poem after a meek phone call from me--the 2nd time I had ever called her in those near 6 years. I forced nothing upon them as they did me; nevertheless, I am a wicked monster. Continued with celibacy. Priests would laugh at my desire to have holy friends. The Church thought me a criminal and crazy, which I am, but isn't even a lunatic allowed the Blood of Christ at times? So, the Sub-Eve of my adolescence reappeared. Like in my youth she called me "fag" when I would not copulate with her. Confused--more stupid. Touched a man for one, single minute--no sodomy. No fluids or protracted action. Hated myself. Smashed my hand with a hammer, and I burned my face, spending the day at the Vanderbilt Burn Unit. Made Internet passes at two married women. Shot a video offering a millisecond of my disfigured genitalia to a saucy lass. These are my sins. This is my wicked life. Christ. So know it well Father Young--I am not worthy of the Eucharist.
