A Different Kind of Outsider

Jesus Died For You Not Me

Angela's voice bounced off the walls of the house despite the blanket fort around me doing its best to dampen the noise. In my arms was the new stuffed pig Tim bought me as payment for going with him a couple nights ago. I still didn't think it was a fair trade but at least I was given something.

My door opened and I could partially see Angela's lower half. She was wearing her nice heels and a sensible dress with a hem past her knees. An uncommon look for her, strictly reserved for one thing. Church.

"Ray come on, get out of there. We're going to be late." Angela ordered. She liked to act like she was the boss of everyone and ran things. She wasn't but oh boy if she didn't try.

Like Ma though, Angela liked going to church. We were Catholics or more specifically my whole family was minus me. I guess anyone could guess by walking into our house and seeing all the crosses on the walls and the multiple pictures of Mary. Overkill in my opinion although considering my mother's complex and intense views of religion, very important to the household. Kind of creepy when you're walking past, and the eyes follow you.

"No thanks. Don't like church." I spoke softly. It was loud with too much off key singing mixed with scratchy fabric seats that made me want to rip my skin off.

Angela crouched in front of my fort. I could see her eyebrows were pointed downward in an arch out of the corner of my eye. I wasn't sure but I believe that meant she was unhappy with my antics. Out of all three of my siblings, she was the most likely to force me to do something outside my comfort zone. Even though, she understood my diagnosis and the perimeters around it very well.

"Ray, we're not doing this again. You haven't been to church in ages-"

"I don't like it." I softly interrupted her as I began to rock. My grip on my pig tightened as I rubbed my face against its fur. She tried to get me to look at her, but I yanked my face away.

"I know, you're very vocal about it. But we're a Catholic family and Catholics go to church," Angela said, reaching for me. I guess she was right in a sense. Even Tim and Curly went to church. I wasn't sure if it was for pure belief or just to get Angela to stop nagging at them. Maybe a mix of both, "Now let's go. I got a dress you can borrow."

Angela grabbed my arm, but I screamed and ripped it out of her grip. I didn't like screaming but sometimes it felt like the only way to get people to let go or leave me alone. Even though it made me look and feel worse most times. Angela especially didn't seem to appreciate it.

"Rayanna Marie Shepard!" She donned a voice like she was talking to a child. I hated when she did that. I wasn't a child, I was fifteen. She didn't have a right to scold me. She was only ten months older than me. Guess you could call Angela, Curly, and I Irish triplets.... whatever that meant.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by her hand gripping my wrist, practically dragging me out of my fort while I kicked and tried to pull away.

"Stop acting like this! You're going to go, and it'll be fine. It's only an hour or so. We sit, we pray, we sing, Father McKenzie does his sermon..." Angela began to slowly explain the concept of church to be like I had forgotten. Although I stopped listening after she said Father McKenzie.

My breathing felt short as the memories came into my brain despite my best efforts keep them out. I tried to forget being stuck over the broken pew that someone aimlessly shoved back there to keep from ruining the beauty of the sanctuary. The hand on my head, keeping it pushed down and the one on my hips. The smell of his cologne. His false words of comfort, only meant to keep me quiet. I hated it. I hated remembering how it felt. It hurt.

It felt like everything was bottling up inside me. Why did everything feel so loud? Angela's voice, the rattle of the ancient fan above us, the creaky floorboards in the kitchen, and the awful constant running of the water. I couldn't stop what I came next, and I tried. A scream erupted from my throat as tears formed in my eyes. I writhed and squirmed as I pulled away from Angela. An electric impulse of pain cascaded across my thigh and my head. The idea of beating oneself probably looked insane. I hated having meltdowns. It wasn't like I enjoyed them but they happened, nonetheless.