Repentance | M
Hypocrisy at its finest was a pungent red candle, burning quid after quid and smoldering the wealth into something palpable for a deity that man had created. Had throned to the heavens, both as judgment and creator; like a scale for all humans to weigh the balance of their worth. But if he were to do it, were to step upon that balance, he knew judgment wasn’t blind and that justice could be rigged. Because after all, he was marked for transgressions that weren’t his; so unnatural was his natural that describing it would be a sin. And yet the same couldn’t be said for all the stares held on him, or the ill and malcontent that were whispered through the church, as Tom Marvolo Riddle came and sauntered from the pews.
He descended from the front. Every footfall but an echo. Neither caring nor looking, but slightly amused when those around his age were distracted from prayer. Darting dirty, ugly looks unbecoming for a flock and yet he knew — he always knew when those children looked to God — no transgression on their part would warrant more than a lecture. Because they were good boys and girls and Tom doubted there was a neither. For that neither, that other and anyone who wasn’t either wouldn’t have looked at him in that way; and Tom knew this without a fault.
As he passed every feedlot that the matrons had gathered and crammed were the children, all divided by their age. So that the youngest and the smallest were at the very back of the church: too short to be spotted if they were kneeling at the pews, too quiet to even notice because supper was at stake, too tender and too soft as they rocked on either knee trying to find the perfect balance between another and something, and too hungry and too thirsty for the praise they knew as good.
For at five, six, seven and even eight: knowing they did a good thing was synonymous with that of love and it was the closest that an orphan — like themselves — could ever have.
That it didn’t matter if they were tired, confused or upset because someone — like a matron, like a Father, or like God — would ruffle at their hair and tell them that they were good. Even if what they did, what they felt, what had clung would mark this as anything but ‘good’ in another’s eyes. And if morals did exist; well, they didn’t in this church; then someone would have their fingers be burned into stubs and their eyes poked out with the lashings of a whip. And yet the funny thing about religion, and with all and not one, was that everything thought immoral were the sins the majority had figured out and sanctified and that the “real immoral” were those who were different.
Such as those who were different in how they loved, how they cared, how they thought — all on their own, how shunned they were away from others, and how perfect as examples that they were to all the youngest.
The matrons never failed to point Tom out for his faults and would feed to their conscience that he was someone to be wary of. Because he loved another boy, instead of a perfect catholic girl; because he participated in the flesh and somehow kisses, hugs and a shoulder to lean on were for marriage and for couples who were blessed by that of God; because he used all his thoughts and would think every day and would question authority for why something dared exist; and because he was nothing like the others.
Like the children or the matrons: that it was easy, so easy and in fact, no one hid it. No one hid their disdain or how much they would rid him as Tom sauntered down the nave and into a vacant twin booth. Illuminated by a mother and the patron for all sinners, that he supposed it was fitting that she’d look out for his interest. Not because he had anything or thought himself a sinner, but because even a mother would find it hard to love this Father.
When Tom peered through his lashes when he settled onto a cushion, and felt the cotton easing out from the holes near his thigh where hundreds of other children had worked their fingers without thinking, and it said something that the holes were in the middle of either leg. And that the leather in that area was discolored, worn out and more stained than the staining of St. Mary’s stained window. That Tom bristled when the stare through the cross-hatch divider seemed to darken when he narrowed, when he brought his legs together.
When he leaned back, not forward; when he signed without speaking; when he skipped the introduction and went straight into the gullet; when he lied — and of course, he lied — about the lies he had told and the sins he had done; and when he challenged every stare that the Father would shoot him back.
No reverence, no remorse, no sheep for him to look at: only the eyes of a young man who knew something about his own worth, who knew that nothing could deter him from the fire in his bones.
Try to hurt me, I dare you — said the smile Tom had worn when the Father met his silence and then asked him, “Is that all?”
And had the divider been made of wood, and of a solid plank while Tom was at it, how easily would the Father just curse him through his thoughts? How easily would he snarl at the little game Tom was playing and that the checkers he had reigned with everyone and the children had turned to chess within a moment and that he lost in seven moves? How easily would he have done this — plow his hand into his trousers — to work himself to the brink to relieve him of frustration?
Because the audacity of this teenager had robbed him of a feast and right now, he couldn’t do it. Not without admitting defeat and there was the challenge in that smile — in that grin, he watched it grow from the little boy he first saw to a demon in the other booth. And it was nothing without a fang biting lightly at Tom’s lip when he heard the Father and his leaning and saw him out from the darkness. And illuminated by a cross, that was somewhere in the distance, when it caught a sliver of the sunset and served it to the shadows.
“Is this all, Mr. Riddle?” He was pressed to his lips with a fury, even darker than the hobbies he pertained.
“For now,” Tom answered. He wasn’t sorry for any one of them.
But to follow what was scripted and branded to his mind, he said he was sorry for all his sins and that he was ready for a new life. He then recited the contrition and feigned his remorse, smiling while he did so when he saw the twitch in the other’s jaw.
Because now the Father had to play his own part with finding something for him to do and get him out from this booth: prayer, an action or just about anything for his penance. And if he could have his wicked way, without the others in the nave, he would’ve dragged Tom by his hair and given him something to kneel about. Just to pinch the little fire that the demon wore within his eyes; unbeknownst if that occurred, Tom would nail him to a wall and leave his dignity and its slather to the execution of the community.
Or perhaps, he’d do it himself for the Gospel had mentioned that if one had impure thoughts, simply lose the very thing that prompted you to act upon it. And wouldn’t that be an offering to a God made by man?
Tom thought so when he left, when he flung away his penance, and knelt among his peers towards the front and near the altar. And his thoughts on anything, but forgiveness and guilt: he thought of a boy even warmer and even brighter than the sun and that the crime of loving him was not so within his heart; that when he hugged him and was hugged back, it made him the happiest boy alive and he would shout it throughout London and would rattle the entire world; that the softness of his laughter and from the antlers of his hair were like an apple for Tom to bite, savor and chew on. Because this gentle, gentle soul had quenched him of his hunger and the thirst in his throat when he couldn’t murmur the three that were robbed from him in the orphanage.
And that was a sin if Tom could argue it was so for in what world would it be sinful to share, have and crave the love he had for Harry, who not only loved him back, but also loved him because he wanted to and perhaps, he was waiting.
Near the front gates of the orphanage, having ran there after practice and still sweaty from playing football and from the humidity within the air. And with a coupon for some ice cream and quid for the bookstore, run by his uncle and infectious godfather. Who’d heard more than enough and wanted to meet him in person so that one day — not today, but perhaps very soon — it would be easy to spot Tom when they told the matrons, “We’ll love to have him.”
And if the matrons were aghast, one would say, “He’s a good kid.”
And then the other would follow back with: “He’s a perfect fit for our family. It’s just Remus and me. I need someone to bounce off with and Remus, he’d have a book nerd!”