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joaquin sanchez. human. m.

Arms scarred, knees red, eyes shifty, smile trembling. Hair unruly, shoulders hunched, heart bruised, faith strong. The preacher drones on, the crowd listens, the air reeks of desperation.

Knuckles stay white, eyes stay closed. The Faithful—brown skin, green eyes; dimpled smile and freckled cheeks—hangs his head lower as if that will grant him more of The Last God’s love. Everyone in this church is of varying amounts of faithful and desperate, and yet The Faithful stands out with his devotion.

To be on your knees is an act of begging, and begging is all The Faithful ever does these days. Begging for atonement, begging for salvation. Begging for devotion that does not demand sacrifice and ambition that does not demand damnation.

He is being foolish. He is wasting his time. Devotion is a thankless job, and he will end up in the Lower World with the rest of the Damned. No amount of skinned knees and cut fingers will grant him entry to the Dead Skies. No amount of sleepless nights and weapons made will save his family.

But death is far better than thirst. He should know that. But he is foolish. But he is faithful. There is not much of a difference between the two. Who can blame him? The Last God is said to have saved all of humanity two thousand years ago; it is only natural to hope he will do it once more.

The preacher ends their sermon, the audience slowly stands. It is solemn in this church—The Last God does not like noise. His likeness looks down upon everyone with a marble smile and cold eyes. He is not listening. The Divine never listens.

The Faithful stands, foolish as ever, and looks up at the marble with watery eyes. He places a palm flat against his chest—a sign of The Last God—and nods as if he is communicating with the deity himself. He loves Him. He worships Him.

And to The Last God, he is just one of the millions begging for His attention.

I watch as The Faithful looks around. Families and friends stand close together, lovers even closer. The Faithful stands alone, his family safe in their humble home. He carries the loneliness and the difficulties as sacrifice, as atonement for what he did. What he caused.

An heirloom from his dad: the responsibility, the faith, and the suffering.

His fingers twitch, itching to hold something. He stuffs them in his pockets and looks around, chewing down on his lips. He is always so jumpy, so restless. Too big for skin, too anxious. Too desperate for validation.

I have watched him do pottery in the past. Hands that mold weapons, molding clay into delicate shapes. I have watched him wrap them in paper and shyly hand them to the people he shares his living space with. Brightening when they accept with a smile. As if it proves that he can create something fragile, something delicate and beautiful, instead of something meant for destruction.

As if it will erase all the harm done. Foolish boy. No amount of tenderness washes away the blood, no amount of soft smiles stitches closed the bullet holes.

He walks down the aisle—wide shoulders hunched together, messy hair covering eyes, scarred hands stuffed in pockets—and towards the exit. The Last God’s eyes follow him, judging and impersonal. This is the only way he can ever turn his back on The Last God—as he is walking out on a mission to spread his word. To do what he thinks The Last God expects of him. What he thinks will save him.

He stops, and I already know what’s gotten his attention. A family of four—a father, a mother, a brother, and a sister. The Faithful’s heart is an ever-bleeding wound. One that never heals.

It is clear to see—he sees himself in the brother. The way the brother steps back as the father buys a toy for the sister. The way the brother shakes his head when the mother asks him if he wants a toy of his own. The way the brother smiles to himself—a tinge of bitterness underneath the adoration—as he watches the sister.

He moves as if to approach the family, but stops short as a call cuts through the air. The family looks up at him, and he apologizes sheepishly before hurrying away.

The brother does not get his toy. So close to getting that one bit of happiness, snatched away by a call from someone more important.

(How many times was The Faithful so close to getting happiness without sacrifice like the brother? How many times did someone more important hinder that?)

I look away from the family. What a boring day, a boring memory. The Faithful makes my stomach turn—all that destruction caused by his hands—and yet I cannot hate him. I should think him disgusting; I should call him what he is: a monster.

But the monster does not know he is a monster. The monster thinks it is helping, bloody carcasses of its victims between pointy white teeth. Offering them up to his God. He thinks he is saving everyone. He does not understand why he tastes copper.

I know how this story goes, I’ve seen this story before. I know it will come. He will shatter, like shrapnel upon impact. It will be messy, it will be gut-wrenching, it will be disastrous.

I cannot find it in myself to be thrilled.

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