What mythical creature would you like to meet in October?

The priest looked as if he had had a good lunch and was still digesting as he read out loud. The light shone across the school desks making elongated rectangular patches on the pale laminated wood. The catechism room always smelled of mothballs. Robertino couldn’t quite decide if it was goodness that smelled like that or if it was because the lady that did the cleaning used the same product as his mom at home. Of one thing he was sure, his mom and the catechism had a lot in common. She had the same way of pursing her lips as the nuns that directed the singing rehearsals when he got distracted and looked at his feet, and the same wrinkling of her nose when he asked ‘unfortunate’ questions. These questions were not to be asked, and Heaven forbid he was not to repeat them in front of the priest. He had discovered a way though, to ask them anyway. He would think them very loudly in his head until his eyes glossed over. He would do that when they had quiet time before communion. With the other boys and girls, they would sit on the narrow benches in a small room that smelled of humidity. That was always disconcerting for Robertino since his mother insisted that the Devil got trapped in rooms that were not properly aired when she flung the windows open at seven sharp each morning. It preoccupied Robertino because the small room had a big cross in it with Jesus on it. He was nailed to the cross and looked very much in pain, so much so that Samantha had cried all the time before her first communion. Robertino was not scared of this Jesus, he actually rather liked him and worried about him being trapped in the airless room. The bluish shadows under his eyes reminded him of his uncle Franco. Jesus had the same resigned and rather fed up with the whole ordeal expression his uncle displayed at Sunday lunch.

Each week at the end of the catechism lesson they would shuffle out of the sunlit classroom and pile up in that room in a scared silence to think about what to say when the priest, sounding muffled by the grate and all the velvet upholstery, asked the dreaded question: have you sinned, my boy? A few times, Robertino had made things up, only to have to confess them the next week. The priest sounded exasperated, but Robertino felt quite relieved of finally having something to confess. Otherwise the best part of that stuffy hour before grovelling about not making his bed correctly and talking back to his mum, Robertino would spend it internally screaming to the wooden statue of Jesus. All the questions that were not to be asked crowding at the front of his mind. Sometimes he would have to look down if someone spotted him staring at Jesus, just in case the questions shined through the front of his skull. This time it was different though, the question was even scarier and the secret was even bigger. He felt a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach, the same way you feel after spending too many hours in the car without a toilet. He looked at the long face crowned with thorns and his brain floundered around four words: what have I done, what have I done? Just to be chased by another question: Is it my fault?

It had all happened the night before, he was tucked in his small bed and his mother had already come and gone, planting chamomile scented kiss on his forehead. He had put his head under the covers and held his breath wishing for the image to go away. At school that day Nicola had got beaten up. Robertino didn’t see the problem with long blond hair on a boy, after all his Jesus’s hair was long, light brown and curly. But apparently, it was girlish. The boys had decided that Nicola could not play with them at the break and had punched and kicked him until he was crying, blood trickling down his forehead. At that point, they punched harder and called him names until the teacher came running out of the classroom to separate them. Robertino stood on the side and stared, he wasn’t particularly friends with Nicola and being a lightweight himself he had slowly turned his back to the sorry scene, least the big boys decide to pick on him too. After all not being noticed was Robertino’s speciality, he had plenty of practice at home. The image that came back that night was Nicola’s mashed up face, long bloodied strands of blond hair whipping in the wind as the teacher lifted him up ungraciously from the gravel by his elbow. The boys yelling that he was a wussy and a girl and shutting up only when they encountered the stern glare of the teacher. Under the bed covers Robertino held his breath willing it all away.

Does Jesus love you, whatever you look like? He had asked his mother in the car on the way home from school.

She had paused and pursed her lips, but instead of reprimanding him she had looked tired and replied ‘yes of course, why? what happened at school?’.

He had quickly changed the subject worried that the twinge of guilt for not stepping up for Nicola would become even larger if he talked about it.

That night he dreamt of boys yelling at him and pulling his hair. You are girly, that’s why your dad left you! Then one big boy sat on his chest, it started hurting more and more, he felt he couldn’t breathe. He woke up and the pressure was still there, a big hand was holding him down, he couldn’t turn his head but he knew that the Devil himself was standing close to his Valentino Rossi poster, one clawed hand resting close to his on the quilted coverlet. Feeling like he was running through fresh cement he managed to surface and scream. His mother rushed into the room and held him until his sobbing passed. For once she didn’t seem annoyed and Robertino kept on crying a bit longer, just to make sure she didn’t leave. The rest of the night he lay in bed with the light on, eyes darting to every corner of the room and heart pounding. That’s when he decided he was going to have to ask Jesus. He was the only one that could help him with this, after all, he could hardly ask the priest about the Devil hiding in his bedroom. His mum didn’t let him watch scary movies but he knew that exorcism was a thing, and it sounded terrifying. Sitting on the bench in the stuffy room he looked at Jesus in the wooden eyes and asked all the questions: Is the Devil hiding in my bedroom? Is it to punish me because I didn’t help Nicola? Those questions came out loud and strong in his head. He let them bounce around like helium balloons. Then one timid voice asked. Why did Dad leave? Is it my fault mummy is unhappy? Jesus stared back at him unflinching until Robertino was called for confession. Sitting in the velvety cubicle he listened to the raspy voice of the priest telling him to do his prayers before bedtime. ‘Father, does Jesus love you whatever you look like and whatever you have done?’ The priest coughed surprised. ‘What have you done young man? You will be the death of your poor mother!’. Robertino hanged his head and muttered that he was only wondering.

The children rushed out of the Church, into the late afternoon light. Golden and red leaves whirling in the big empty car-park. Robertino didn’t know many of them, Samantha was the only one he talked to. Or mostly she talked to him, she had braces and liked horses. The boys all ran off to play football together as soon as the priest let them out, no one ever turned to him to ask if he wanted to join. So he usually hung back, waved at Samantha and made his way home on foot changing sidewalk when he passed the cement platform that served as a local football pitch. That day a figure appeared in the distance along the path through the olive groves. The sun was eye level, the person was in the shade with a halo of light all around it. Long wavy hair circling its face. Robertino held his breath. Was this a sign? Was he forgiven? The figure waved at him. His mum jogged up to him, she was wearing running gear. He hadn’t seen her in sportswear for over a year and she was smiling at him.

Disclaimer: The prompts for ‘A story a month’ are from Neil Gaiman’s project A Calendar of Tales (in collaboration with BlackBerry), but the content is totally mine.