Deliver Us From Evil

by Grace Wright

St. Paul’s sat on the street corner of Edina and Eve. It had always been a formidable monstrosity throughout my life, a form of elegance that was so self contradictory and angry that I could hardly understand it. From the outside, it was made of dark stone, the kind of stones that didn’t really match one another or align, so I always imagined a single person standing on a ladder, meticulously stacking each one until the walls were tall enough that young children developed a fear of the heavens when they walked inside. Windows surrounded the entire exterior. There were fourteen in total, depicting the stations of the cross. The most horrifying was right at the front, beside the towering oak doors: the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. It was already a terrifying image to shove in people’s faces, but this window left nothing up to the imagination. 

Jesus, made from the pressed memories of sand and limestone, was hanging from the cross, which spanned the entirety of the six foot window. As the story goes, his hands and feet are nailed to the cross, but the artist somehow made it so you could almost see the flesh tearing, straining against the power of the iron holding him in place. It was like, at any moment, his skin would give way and release him from his burden. Tears of blood leaked down his forehead, kissed with his crown of thorns. His face was twisted in agony, mouth agape in the middle of a scream. 

When I was five or so, Mom put me in a religious camp every Sunday after mass. The first day, the priest took us outside to show us the window, asking us what it meant. People gave their answers. Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sins. Judas betrayed Jesus, but Jesus forgave him. Mary was agonized over the death of her son. All I could think about was the scream. I was always taught that Jesus rested peacefully on the cross, ready to face death for the people he loved so much. That wasn’t what the window said. The window said that he was alive, that his scream tore through his throat and reverberated off the corners of the globe. But we would never hear it. It was trapped between those glass panels, forever immortalized in my nightmares. That same night, I had dreamt about the scream. 

I had dreamt that Jesus stood before me, his face identical to the window, but no sound came from his mouth. When he realized in anguish that he could not be heard, he dug his fingers into the gash in his side, peeling back the skin bit by bit. Soon he could fit his whole hand in there, but still he made no sound. His fingers dragged across his gut, splitting his trembling

stomach in an angry curve, so when he tried to scream again, his intestines spilled out at his feet. They puddled at his sandals and shivered for a moment, as if they had a life of their own. Then, unable to take this, Jesus dug his bloodied fingers underneath his eye sockets, in that quiet pocket above our cheekbones that hid our tiredness. Through the gaping expanses in his palms, I could see the delicate tears roll down his cheek, and I thought that he and I weren’t all that different. 

Then the Son of God jerked downwards, dislodging his cheekbone from his skull, sending splinters of bone towards me like little bullets. As his flesh hung limply over his quivering lips, he clawed at his chest unrelentingly, but there was no point of entry. Whatever lungs were inside, fueling his soundless scream, were untouchable to him. To this day, I was convinced he had been trying to reach his heart, but I couldn’t begin to understand why. I woke up from the nightmare hysterical. Mom wasn’t pleased to hear I had dreamt such a thing, not about our Lord and Savior, so she had me kneel by my bed and pray with her as sobs rattled my little chest. I didn’t say a single word of the prayer, only clutched my palms together to avoid her getting angry at me. When she breathed the final words, I responded the only way I knew how: The lord helps those who help themselves. 

Amen. 

Mom was waiting for me outside of St. Paul’s when I arrived. I was late. I had to show up in my school clothes, which automatically made her frown as I approached her from the path. “You’re late.” she declared, like it wasn’t obvious. 

I shoved my car keys in my pocket. “I’m sorry. Club ran late. Where’s Addy?” Mom pursed her lips. She was a short woman, stout, with thin black curls that had been turning gray far earlier than she had anticipated. No matter what she did, which salon she went to, the gray persisted. I would think it was what leant to her sour expression, if I hadn’t already known that was a permanent fixture on her face. 

“I told her to stay home today,” she said. “I wanted some alone time with my son.” I bit my tongue to keep from mentioning AJ. She had started talking about our family like she only had two children the day he came home with a book about Satanic Rituals. I swear, she would have had him exorcized right then and there if she could have. But the priests had all told her to keep an eye on him, to pray for his salvation. AJ didn’t need salvation. He needed a mother that didn’t try to save him with her thoughts. He needed a therapist.

“Okay…it doesn’t look like anyone else is here.” I said. I had noticed the emptiness of the parking lot when I pulled in. Usually Friday mass was as packed as Sunday’s. God was very important in this town. Some people really believed, I think. And most others liked to pretend they did. The first person who had ever told me they didn’t believe in God had been Kelley, when we were twelve years old sitting on the roof of the abandoned car factory that all the adults told us to avoid. We used to do that, back then. Like nothing mattered. He asked me what I believed in, and I hadn’t been able to think of a response. So, as gentle as the night wind, I had said, “You.” 

“Come inside, Matthew,” Mom extended her hand to me. “Father Crawford is waiting for us.” 

I hesitated for a moment before taking her hand. It was cold and clammy in mine; she wrapped her fingers around me like I was going to try to run away. I followed her through the oak doors of St Paul’s. The scent of incense was immediately overwhelming, accompanied by the denseness of the reek of ancient, crumbling men. The wooden pews sat on either side of the grand aisle, so I could almost imagine phantom heads bobbing up and down in anticipation for the Eucharist. The aisle led to the altar, which was pushed back into an alcove of the church. It created shadows around the cross hanging within the alcove. As my sneakers scraped the stone floor, rain needled against the grand window above the altar. It was nearly as tall as the church itself, spanning all the way to the vaulted ceiling and ending at a point. The window itself was pearl white, so we could imagine that God was with us during mass, overlooking us with forbearance and gratitude. The rain pattering against it just made it look rather obscene to me. 

Father Crawford was waiting for us at the steps leading up to the altar, his hands folded in front of himself. The way he tied his robes made his stomach bulge out. When we were kids, he would always walk up behind us, so we bounced off his belly like a foosball when he got too close. Then he would grip our shoulders, drag us closer so he could look at us. He would pat our cheeks, smooth down our hair, and tell us that we were beautiful children of God. Bile rose in my throat. 

“Mom, what are we doing?” I asked, my words echoing off the walls, “I thought this was a mass…” 

Mom stopped beside Father Crawford, but she didn’t let go of my hand. She turned in her spot so she faced me. “It’s alright, Matthew. Father Crawford is going to help you.”

I tried to pull my hand free, but it wouldn’t budge. “Help me? Help me with what?” Father Crawford gazed down at me sympathetically, the way a parent looked at a child afraid of thunder. A thin, familiar smile crossed his face. “Your mother came to me in your time of need, Matthew. You’re sick. But God is forgiving. You just have to repent.” I looked at Mom. My throat was tightening, a layer of phlegm growing to the beat of my heart. My body was speaking to me, but I could hardly move it. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” I croaked, even if I didn’t really mean it. 

“I had my moment of anger. I wanted to kill you for what you did,” Mom spoke calmly, pulling a folded paper from her pocket, “But then I spoke to Father Crawford. And he was right. I need to guide you, not admonish you. You are still worth saving.” 

Father Crawford was unwinding the chord from around his waist, so the robes around his body looked more like a nightgown. He folded it delicately between his hands. “You’re not a bad person, Matthew. You’re just sick. And I can help you.” 

I tried to pull away again, but Mom yanked me towards her, extending the paper. “I found the letter, Matthew. Don’t be afraid. We’ll make you better.” 

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating every surrounding window so shards of rainbow danced across the faces of my mother and the priest, as if we were trapped inside a kaleidoscope. With my free hand, I took the paper from Mom. My hand was trembling, so it took me a few tries to unfold it with my thumb. I smoothed it against my stomach before holding it up to the light, which was almost nothing but a few flickering candles by this time. I recognized the handwriting immediately. 

Matty, 

I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t want to fight. There’s nothing I can say in this that I didn’t say last night, so I’ll keep it short. I love you. And it hurts that we can’t love each other the way we want to. I’m sorry. I promise to just admire you from afar. 

Love, 

Kel 

Tears burned my eyes. I lifted my gaze to Mom. My heart had a life of its own now, its only goal to burst out of my chest. “Did you go through my room?” I demanded.

“I did what I had to do. You were disappearing. With that boy.” 

“I…I didn’t even know he wrote…I never saw…” 

“It’s okay, Matthew,” Mom squeezed my hand. “It’s okay to be afraid. Sin has led you astray, but we can help.” 

“No, no,” I shook my head, pulling hard against her grip. “No, you weren’t supposed to…No, no.” 

“Father Crawford?” Mom said. 

Father Crawford moved towards me, holding the chord in both hands. He took my other wrist, gripping it so tightly that I almost dropped the letter. I gasped, shocked by the strength of the elderly man. My face was hot with tears. Crawford forced my wrists together, bringing the chord underneath them. 

“No, Mom! Mom, please,” I looked at her, but I didn’t recognize her, “Please. Please, I won’t tell anyone. I won’t talk to him anymore.” 

“It’s alright, darling. It’ll be over soon.” 

Father Crawford bound my hands together so the chord dug into my skin. Mom still wouldn’t let go of my hand. My chest rattled with gasps; no matter what I did, I couldn’t get a breath in. Every instant I tried, my sobs overwhelmed them. Father Crawford pulled a knife out from within his robes. A flash of lightning glinted off of the sinister curved blade. “Please. Please, Mom, Mom, I’m sorry I’m sorry.” 

“Just breathe, sweetheart. We’ll empty you of this sin, and you’ll be a Son of God again.” The cool metal of the knife pressed to my skin, hot and angry a moment later. Mom was whispering. When I saw the line of blood manifest, I realized that she was praying. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name… 

A drop of blood slid down my wrist, cascading to the floor. It landed in a perfect circle. Father Crawford frowned at it, then adjusted the blade for a better, deeper cut. ..but deliver us from evil. Amen. 

I thrust my arms upward with whatever strength I had left. Mom stumbled forward with the force of it, but the momentum freed me from her grip, sending my fists directly into Father Crawford’s face. I lost my balance, slamming into the side of the pew. My ribs throbbed with the collision, but I managed to stay on my feet. Crawford was crumpled to the ground, clutching his face. Blood ran from somewhere, gushing between his fingers onto the holy ground.

I looked over them for a breath. I saw everything in that moment. The old man, crumpled in a heap of his own blood, crying out like a baby to no one but an empty church; Mom, collapsed on the steps to the altar, gazing up at me with her halo of curls illuminated in the grand window; and the cross, hanging from the ceiling so we had to stare at the pallid body of Jesus Christ whenever we got on our knees and begged him for forgiveness. 

I don’t think all Catholics are bad. I believe there’s a reason they believe, and I believe that some of them really, genuinely believe for good reasons. I can’t really say what the right reasons for believing are; I don’t think that’s within my power or right, but I can say that I know I see them in people. I can say that I know, and have always known, that whatever reasons my mother believed, they were not good ones. 

I want to believe in other people. But they make it hard. It’s confusing when they believe in something so violently that it makes that thing something it’s not, so God Himself would disapprove of what they’re doing. People ask so much of Him, but they never actually give anything in return. 

It’s right there in the Our Father. 

And forgive us our trespasses. 

As we forgive those who trespass against us. 

Lead us not into temptation. 

But deliver us from evil, 

Amen. 

God fucking amen. 

I ran for the doors.

Grace Wright is a Sophomore in the English department, with double minors in Medieval and Renaissance Studies and Creative Writing. Her current favorite genre is horror and supernatural. In her free time, she likes re reading her favorite books or playing with her puppy, Sully.