Sin For Me (bxb)

Changes

Thomas

"Have faith, children." Sister Diana's voice lilted over us, her hands clasped around the cross hanging from her neck.

A boy, half ghost, lay pale beneath her upon a white sheet. His chest rises and falls with each second that passes, breath stuttering through his lips.

We kneeled, completely still at the boys feet, each of our hands clasped together in prayer. Lips moved silently, our heads bowed and eyes drawn away from the tragedy before us.

Adam stood and closed the thin curtains that surrounded the boy. We all stood and turned on cue, leaving the sick child behind us and entering another perfectly normal day in our own lives. No one said a word as we crossed the arched exit of the infirmary, our steps moving in a simple cadence until sunlight poured above us, colored by stained glass.

Sister Diana escorted us away and directed us back to our chores. A few groans bounced between the boys behind me, a few murmurs of dissent from the boys ahead.

"He's going to die soon," Someone said suddenly. Eyes snapped towards the boy who made the comment. His eyes were dull, hands limp at his sides. A certain curiosity stirred between the rest of them.

"That means there will be a new boy taking his place." One quips, saying the words on all of our minds.

"It's been years since something like that," Another says, his eyes wide.

I stayed quiet and lifted a sponge from a bucket. Suds splashed back into the soapy mixture below, my hand going ice cold.

I stayed silent, because of course a new boy would be here. Because of course, someone would take that child's place. He would stay in his room, sleep in his bed, takeover his chores and his spot at the dining table.

No one needed to announce that, it was obvious. And it was obvious that soon we would forget Oliver, instead, we would look curiously at the new stranger and befriend him. Play sports with him. Go to church with him. We would do all of the things Oliver was too sick to do, and we would enjoy it.

As if Oliver was never here at all.

I squeezed the sponge, watching soap drip onto the wooden base of the confessions booth, and scrubbed until my knuckles went red and raw.

And time passed as it always did.

And a week later Oliver was dead.

His funeral was as pathetic as his life was. A sordid, but functional arrangement of people and a careful delivery of dry words that brought tears to no one's eyes.

Oliver was gone, and in a cruel way, the boys around me were giddy with anticipation for the arrival of a boy that would replace him. And as boys do, they only managed to keep it at bay long enough for Oliver to be buried in the Church Cemetery. On our walk back to the courtyard, the buzz of conversation rose.

"Hopefully it's a little boy," Daniel, our youngest orphan, pondered solemnly, "It'd be nice to have a mate my age."

"'He betta play football. Not anotha American, I 'andle enough of yuz, alroit? " Jack said while kicking around the black and white football.

"What if they finally allow a girl." Said Hanson who followed Jack's lead, "A pretty lass, Christ, I think I would cry."

I strayed from my path to turn and slap his wrist. He glared up at me only to quickly duck his head upon meeting my eyes.

"Watch your mouth, we've come from a funeral and you're here fantasizing?" The words come out hot and quick, like the slap on his wrist.

He shifted in his stance and shook his head once, his pale freckled face turning bright red as the other boys snickered behind us.