Auto de Fe by David W.

Snee (About 4700 words)

David W. Snee 1160 Camino Cruz Blanca Santa Fe, NM 87505 atmansojourn@gmail.com

Snee / Auto de Fe

Auto de Fe by David W. Snee A glaze of post-coital sweat adheres your bare ass to the hardwood seat of the confessional booth. Breath heavy, you twist the hem of the purple drape between your toes, toenails painted white, the soft silk tickling your feet like the lingering ache in your loins. Father, priests too, like being told who your daddy is, forgive me, but that was great. Fortunately, absolution lay close at hand. John? Im here. You see him in shadow, through a veil of carved wooden lattice. Hes reverted to a trained state of sullen introspection. For men of the cloth, carrying their crosses, as it seems to you, amounts to constant decision between two afflictions, with regard to natural male impulse; suppression, with its frustrated irritation, or indulgence with its subsequent depressive guilt. The game is fixed for either way youre pious, whether by discipline or remorse; and either way youre sinful, whether in lust of the heart, or lust of the flesh. Its always win-lose.

Snee / Auto de Fe You try cheering him, which its half your job to do. Say a dozen Hail Marys, thats your name, though youre hardly a virgin, And buy me a drink. He fakes laughter, a task usually in your jurisdiction. For a moment you wonder which of he or you is the priest, and which the escort. Your ass makes a sound like Velcro as you tear it from the seat, and take the air of the sanctuary so that John can glut on misery alone. Christians, in your experience, are given to manic swings, what with the superlative poles of heaven and hell, forgiveness and damnation, playing seesaw with their emotions. At least thats the Readers Digest on every Davidic psalm you ever read in Catholic school. The cathedral is empty, though you shiver with delight at the prospect of waltzing nude on holy ground, where grave-bound goody-goodies in their Sunday best bribe the Big Man with their Amens and Hallelujahs. And you squeel with scandal, populating the pews with holy ghosts, staring wide-eyed and crossing themselves at the thought of Father John bending you over the pulpit, you biting down on holy text to keep from taking the Lords name in vain. You find your purse and light up a Virginia Slim, retracing your misdeeds as you collect your clothes along the trail of passion; heels beneath separate pews, khaki skirt hung on the altars heavy silver crucifix, and lacey negligee from within the shiny brass collection plate. Its a real Jekyll-and-Hyde act when John comes out to play, breaching the dam of celibacy to a reservoir of pent-up sexual energy. From then its a marathon binge of carnal depravity, like hes trying to stab you to death with his penis. Somewhere, deep down, that may be precisely what he wants. No matter, like a ground hog, when hes finally seen his shadow, he scurries back into his hole for six more weeks of winter.

Snee / Auto de Fe You glance back at the confessional booth. Its as devoid of sound and movement as the tomb. Lazarus, come forth! This time Johns laughter is sincere, though there may also be, hidden inside, a prayer against your mutual heresies. He steps out, bare as Adam on Day One delicious, a paragon of masculine form, utterly wasted, like a pearl tossed before swine, where its chastity that oinks. Every curve of muscle speaks to the priestly discipline that has permeated his life entire. His bright blue eyes are like the waters off tropic coast, as sure a draw to Sunday mass for old widows as a baby in a manger. He flashes you a saintly smile full of sinful mischief, and somewhere beneath his clerical faade, you see back to the rascal country boy, drag racing down dirt roads lined with wheat, leaving behind a trail of dust and broken hearts. It inspires the Christian virtue of charity in you, meaning that you want very badly to give to him of yourself. But then he turns, to collect his white button-down from where its strewn above the confessional, and the one thing that can distract you from his bare, perfectly-formed ass, is the fresh lashings across his shoulders and back, a penance so emphatic that the wounds drip blood and are swollen around the edges. It looks like there is a bit of S&M in relationship with God, though you decide its best not to say anything. He retrieves his shirt, tossing it onto a nearby pew to spare it staining from his back, and begins to look for his jeans. Have you seen my he begins before seeing that you have them, held back behind you, so that he has to step through you to get them. John steps forward, presses his body against yours, and wraps his arms around you. Hes hard again. You want to break into singing the chorus of Joy to the World. But he winces and draws back when you embrace him.

Snee / Auto de Fe Youd forgotten the cuts across his back. Sorry. Its nothing. He goes limp, dons his jeans, and returns to the dark place of his mind. You sigh, and look around. If the God of the cathedral is anything like the place, he must certainly be massive, crafted of cold hard stone, ominous, and unresponsive. Where daylight made the stained-glass murals bright vignettes of Catholic milestone, worthy of childrens storybooks, the night transforms them into dark impossible standards, watching and judging, full of malign intent. It occurs to you how many glass eyes there are, sharp and piercing, and you want to find a fig leaf or something to cover your shame. Outside the cathedrals locked doors, its midnight in downtown D.C. The tall corporate structures, which dominate the day, have receded in the focus of the passing crowds, whove switched from one form of posturing and strutting to another having traded business suits for dancing shoes. The sun wont light their lack of industry, so street lights hum in proxy, lending artificial light to artificial life. Its your kind of city. Youve heard theres a great view from the cathedrals bell tower. You hope John will take you there, and that maybe hell take you... there. So, whats on the agenda? You stare suggestively below his waistline. I should really get back to work, John stands the pulpit up, which youd toppled horribly out of place, but feel free to relax and hang around. He always books you until morning. John, its Friday night. You take him by the hands and sit in the front-row pew, leading him down with you. Whatever it is, it can wait.

Snee / Auto de Fe Yeah, maybe he tries ineffectually to explain how he feels the need to compensate for decadent adultery with holy labor. Its just that after A sensitive man, his pretty face is a swirl of conflicted desire, devotion at odds with companionship. Where earlier, he seemed liable to renounce his vows, propose, and away with you, now he seems as likely to retire to some inner cloister, chanting before incense in a sackcloth tunic. You brush the tussled blonde hair from his face. I guess well just have to outdo our former lust, to clear your mind. For an instant, something seems minutely different in his eyes, like a spark of solemn zeal buried deep inside has surfaced for a second. Yes, outdo. He shakes his head, and wipes his face with his hands. You dismiss his social ineptitude as his supreme job qualification. So what exactly are you working on? He seems pleased with the prospect of an easy question, even a little eager to share. Well, with the recent consolidation of smaller bankrupt churches, weve had an influx of old books which Ive been sorting into the archives. Oh. You fail to fake enthusiasm. He laughs. Really, its quite interesting. You wouldnt believe some of the things Ive read. Hes literally bouncing his knee. Some of the older original texts could be showcased in museums. Youre reading them too? You act surprised, though really you arent. I guess I cant help it. Theres that shy smile again. They call to me. You light another cigarette. John doesnt voice the protest on his face. If youre

Snee / Auto de Fe so happy about it, whyd you seem so downcast before? When youd arrived hed been a veritable mess, like some alien cave creature wrested from academic hibernation. Oh, his cheer plummets, ItsI dont really want to talk about that. Never dangle taboo topics before a woman. Theyre like a conversational aphrodisiac. You let impatient disapproval lay siege to his discretion. The smarter sex can cripple, extract, and agonize with just the muscles in her face. Alright, alright. His resolve withers like a sun-dried tomato, though when he speaks, he cant seem to find your face. Do you believe in possession? You want out of the conversation immediately, but resign yourself to listen, as it was you whod brought it on yourself. Religious and superstitious are little-known synonyms. The monologue begins. In my line of work, I read about it all the time, Jesus and the disciples casting out demons. Its less something you dont believe in, but more something you associate with the far past. Sermon. You find it does inspire prayer that it will end, and you ask forgiveness for whatever youve done to deserve it. But I guess the effect is the same: Possession doesnt seem real. But then one day, you dont feel quite like yourself, almost as if youre acting outside your identity. And youre forced to ask the question: Was I myself? If in honesty, the answer is no, can you really rule out possession as a possibility? Youre not sure you understand. Im not sure I understand. Me either. A long silence passes, and he doesnt appear to have gained ground. Me either. Maybe this is a thing best not to talk about. It gives the Other less of a foothold.

Snee / Auto de Fe The Other? Youve always known John to be sensitive and impressionable. But hes swallowed this farce hook, line, and sinker. John, what is it that you think is trying to possess you? Im not sure. Again with the fake laughter. A book, maybe? Ive been filing some histories in the archives A book? Youd laugh too, and authentically, if John didnt seem so sincere. John, theres nothing living about a book. Its a possess-ion, not a possess-or. Then maybe the ideas inside? He rubs the back of his head, perplexed. I mean, there is a message in the words of a text that has its own power, but I believe that you can read it and still be separate from it. He pauses, his inner cynic making him reluctant to continue. Spit it out, Jonah. You realize the failure of your wit, but John doesnt seem to notice, like hes shrinking into or out of himself. But isnt there something else too, something between the lines, an underlying sentiment maybe, wherein the author injects his ghost. Its that influential something that reaches from the pages, unseen. It grasps, persuadeswhispers. What does it say? Its almost over, youre sure. It says, Let me in. John looks as pale and frail as an eggshell. Thats a conversation killer. You change the subject. How about I let you in? You kneel before him, but not in prayer. Before you know it your hips are butting with his, like territorial mountain goats. He has you on your back in the seat of a pew, your calves resting on his shoulders. But hes not looking at you like he normally does. Its like hes not even there. He grits his

Snee / Auto de Fe jaw, and begins thrusting harder. Your head is now slamming against the backrest of the pew. Ow! John, youre hurting me. But it seems he isnt listening, or that he cant hear. John, stop. His eyes meet yours, but it seems he isnt in them. He grips your neck between his hands and starts to asphyxiate you. You cant give voice to further protest. Finally you slap him, hard across the face. He lets go. You gasp and cough. What the fuck is wrong with you? He withdraws, and stands for half-a-minute in silence. You sit up, and examine him. His face is still his face, only now it seems to belong to someone else, someone who wears it differently. The muscles are relaxed in a strange way, and his posture has grown rigid, chest out and shoulders back. He even walks differently, now pacing back and forth. Exodus 22:18, he whispers to himself, Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. What? You scramble to collect your clothes and dress yourself. Im leaving. You hurry towards the cathedral doors. Locked, they jiggle in the frame. Thou art in contempt of court. Some Shakespearean version of John has come up behind you. He seizes a fistful of hair at the back of your head, and begins to pull you back before the altar. Pain flares in your scalp. Your knees go limp, and you see your feet, toenails painted white, being dragged down the red carpet of the church isle. The tribunal gathered here requires that thou remainest seated for the duration of thy trial.

Snee / Auto de Fe Trial? You grip his forearm in both hands, and pull to relieve the tension from your scalp. John tosses you back into the front-row pew. May I continue with the inquisition? He asks someone that isnt you in the otherwise empty cathedral. Apparently, the answer is, Yes. As it is written: All witchcraft comes from carnal lust, which in women is insatiable. Johns eyes have gone wide in their sockets, giving him the stupid violent look of a lunatic, or a religious fanatic. John, listen to me. You cant stop the tears that have begun trickling from your eyes. Youre not possessed. Could it be some form of paranoid schizophrenia? Youre just upset. Youve always known him for a sensitive and impressionable man. Whatever it was hed been reading had just gotten to him in some strange way because of the turmoil between his dick and his eternal soul. And Im leaving now, so you can take some time for yourself and get better. You start to rise slowly from the bench. A slap sends you flying back down. Youre not going anywhere! John! Your voice cracks with your patience, and echoes through the great stone chamber. Johns not here! The breadth of his delusion makes you lurch forward with vertigo, like youd over-leaned a chair. He leaps at you, sits on top of you, straddling your hips, and pins your arms back, grasping both your wrists in a single hand. You thrash and flail in panicked frenzy, helpless beneath his greater weight. With his free hand, he digs into your purse, retrieving from it the red lipstick you have inside. He pops the caps off with a flick of his thumb, sending it skittering across the floor, and twists it to its full height.

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Snee / Auto de Fe Before you can demand to know what hes doing, he begins writing with the lipstick across your forehead. Youre wracked with muted sobs. This man, whod been so gentle, whom youd known for so long, was being so different from himself. When hes finished, he tosses the lipstick aside, and fishes a wad of hundreddollar bills from his pocket payment for your time together, and crams it into your mouth. He forces your jaw closed and glares with naked disgust before stepping off. You fall forward and gag, coughing out the soggy bills. Gaining your breath, you realize that youre not crying anymore. Youre past the initial shock, too angry to be afraid. Calmly, you draw a pocket mirror from your purse, to see what he has written on your face. The word: WHORE, is scrawled across your forehead in red lipstick. Pride and adrenaline breed wrath in your heart. You are not a whore. Whores are drug-addicted teenage mothers with spray-on tans, who defile street corners with lewd hawking and cum-stained leopard-print, sucking dick for pocket change and handing out STDs to every passerby like fliers inviting them to join Club Plague. Whores are amateurs; discount unsophiscates vending second-rate lays. You are an escort. Escorts model the latest in high fashion, wine and dine in fine establishments, having upscale conversation with gentlemen callers before entreating them to carnal bliss in hotels with more stars than the highest Army generals. You are a professional. Temple prostitutes in ancient Greece were priestesses of Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure, and erotic love, for whom intercourse was a form of worship. Thats what you are a priestess, more than any man is a priest who abuses a woman.

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Snee / Auto de Fe Shall we proceed, or dost thou wish to worsen thy standing? Please, you compose yourself, knowing the trick to male fantasy is to play along, do proceed. You take note of your surroundings, that there is pepper spray in the purse beside you, that the key to the sanctuary door is securely in Johns jean pocket. He continues, wary of your cooperation. Do you deny your profession as a whore? I do not. If you can get to the bell tower, you can lock the hatch, and call for help with the bell. Have you ever, on any occasion, practiced witchcraft? You accept that John believes he is another person. You steel yourself with mockery. I dont even own a broom. Answer the question. His glib look is vanishing like his self. I will not. You cannot win, playing by his rules. You answer mine: Do men not despise whores in the measure that they need them? Thats false You ignore him, the most devastating weapon in a womans arsenal. What does that say, then, about how steeped in sinful lust you are? Does it turn you on to torture and humiliate women? Is this your sorry substitution for self-inflicted blue balls? God will not be mocked! In a surge of sheer volume he breaks the chain of your badgering. Then by your own pronouncement you condemn yourself, who mock him in his own house, calling yourself his servant. You meet his eyes with a stare, which you like to believe matches his in hateful resolve. I will not be coerced into a confession.

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Snee / Auto de Fe His face twitches. Proverbs 29:1, his voice is Johns again, Whoever remains stiff-necked after many rebukes will be suddenly destroyed without remedy. You start to call out his name, but think better of it. Too late, his face has reverted again. Hear, then, thy sentence, harlot. Hes cooling. You need to incite him to advance towards you again. The Pope hath given us free faculty of the sword against enemies of the faith. You are thus, at our pleasure, given over to execution by hanging. You dry heave, tasting the foul toxicity of stomach acid at the top of your throat. John turns to address the empty pews. This punishment does not take place primarily, and per se, for the personal correction of the punished, but for the public good, in order that others may become terrified, and weaned away from the evils they would commit. While he was pacing the floor, making his case, you smuggled the pepper spray from the purse beside you, and are now concealing it under your hands, folded in your lap. There is but one other option. He turns back to you. Repentance. For the sake of thy soul, renounce thy fruitless deeds of darkness. Whoever he is, he shares Johns priestly love of monologue. Get thee to a nunnery, and live out the rest of thy earthly days in humility and prayer. Forfeit now, the names of the co-agents in thy profession, and their clients, that they too may be purged of this blackest lust. He pauses, as if to let his offer settle. What man has meant for evil, God may use for good. It seems to you that what God has meant for good, man has used for evil. You would never betray the other girls, or your clients confidences. You are not a whore.

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Snee / Auto de Fe You are an escort, a discreet professional. You find strength in the maternal protection of their identities. If John is going to devour you, you will make sure that he chokes on your corpse. I am ready to confess. His expression is one of complete surprise, even tinged a bit with disappointment. He hadnt expected, or even wanted a peaceful and easy surrender. I pray thee, he manages through gritted teeth, confess, then. I confess your brand of heavenly conduct stinks of hell. You bait him with spite, at peril to your life. He tries speaking, but froths and scowls instead. He roars, tearing fists full of hair from his head, leaving both temples bloody, and hurries toward you, MURDERER written in his intent as clearly as WHORE upon your forehead. But you are ready with the pepper spray. And he rushes face first into a steady fount of agony. He howls with animal rage, covering his burning eyes with one hand, clawing blindly at you with the other. But your rage exceeds his, reaching angers calm zenith. A true zealot, he cant keep his mouth shut, loud with violence and condemnation. You sidestep his clumsy sightless advance, and empty the remainder of the pepper spray into his open mouth. He immediately seizes his throat with both hands, revealing eyes as red as blooddipped rubies, set in a mask of tear-slick pink rash, swollen to inhuman dimensions. Tossing the empty canister aside, you kick out the back of his knees. Hes kneeling now, gasping ineffectually after the oxygen his swollen throat forsakes; undignified, like some hideous abomination praying in a language of choked

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Snee / Auto de Fe coughs and spittle. You retrieve the heavy silver crucifix from the altar, and answer his petition. God comes down first into the top of his skull. The crucifix sticks, and you have to pry it from the bloody rift in his scalp with leverage from your foot, toenails painted white. You rage with a force greater than your own. It is energized by the vengeful spirits of tens of thousands of tortured and humiliated women. God says vengeance is his, so you let it be. He comes down again, catching John, now fully prostrate, square in the cheek. His face collapses with a sanguine crunch. An image of a woman, screaming from the heart of a wooden pyre appears in your mind. Strange, how near the fiery purging seems to the pagan burnt offerings it protests. God comes down a third time, in a heavy silver flash. The blow lands at the base of his neck. The break leaves his mangled corpse forever unorthodox. Johns outward ugliness finally matches his vile beliefs. It occurs to you that youre out of breath. You look down at the bloody cross, then further to its bloody servant, and toss the idolized instrument of torture aside. You collapse into a pew, suddenly exhausted. John dies twitching in a carmine puddle, like a fish that might have lived had there been more blood spilt. Amen, you say, before crossing yourself and then spitting on the corpse. You light a cigarette, and inhale deeply, eyeing the carnage-littered sanctuary. It seems so difficult to explain. You wonder if people will ever hear the truth of it. You glance at the tip of your cigarette and contemplate burning the whole cathedral down. Fuck it, you flick the lit cigarette onto the bloody carpet.

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Snee / Auto de Fe It hits, and then sizzles between burning flesh, as Johns fingers pinch the fire out. Your heart hammers against your crumbling sanity, before your breath leaves with the last of it. You find you can neither run nor scream, and so you gawk, doubt, and will the truth away. Matthew 10:28, he pushes his chest from the floor, severing the bloody tendrils that bind him to the carpet, and rises to his knees. Fear not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul, His broken neck lolls from side to side. But rather fear him that is able to destroy both body and soul in hell. The man who was John is standing now, half his swollen face collapsed, red eyes nailing you to the wooden bench. He fingers the hole in the top of his skull, and draws back blood, before rubbing it between his fingers, and then wiping it on his jeans. You wait for his reaction. Will it be anger? Confusion? His eyes return to yours, and he pairs his passive stare with a smile, bloodstained and sinister. Your survival instincts regroup, and sprint off down a hallway, dragging you behind. Proverbs 28:1, the thing that was John struts passively behind. The wicked flee though no MAN pursueth, his voice has achieved a guttural baritone, like hate whispered through a distant brass instrument. But the righteous, he makes that last word sound like an insult, are as bold as lion. He trails off into a lazy sacrilegious chuckle. What does that make you? His words make it sound like hes right beside you, but his body limps far behind you. What is this impulse, where you retreat to higher ground, further from an exit? Do you pray that evil is bound to lower depths, or that nearness to God will win his active

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Snee / Auto de Fe attention? No, youve wanted to see the view from the bell tower all along. Your footfalls on every stair sound your location, like sadistic ascending applause, sarcastically praising your reason. You push up through the hatch door. The world is black and cold. The lights, of the stars above and cars below, are small and far away. You circle the bell, peering at the ground. You cant jump and live. The Washington Monument stands lit on the horizon. You didnt know the view from the cathedral extended so far. Now, where were we? John is on the tower with you now, wrapping a rope around the middle of the bell. You forgot to lock the hatch. The bell rings, like a call to mass, when he tests his knot with a pull. Oh, yes. Death by hanging. He braids the ropes other end into a noose. What are you? Your screaming stings your throat, and unnerves what courage you have left. Some kind of ghost or demon? He laughs with condescending pity. Ghosts and demons dont exist, Kitten. Then what are you? Youve no strength left to resist him, as he loops the noose over your head, and pulls it snug. A memory. He winks, and kicks you off the ledge. You fall. The airs motion suggests youre traveling the wrong way. The ground looks increasingly impatient. The rope tightens, and you stop with a snap. Your neck does not break, but something in your throat has.

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Snee / Auto de Fe Your vision fades about the image of the Washington Monument, the monolith standing skyward like a huge white phallus, erect, in salute to God. Ironically, you consider the Christian saviors dying words, Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. You dismiss the sentiment, realizing that for such acts these, there is no forgiveness. You join the Inquisition memory, victims being the forgotten half of crueltys remembrance. Its HIS-tory after all. Your name was Mary.

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