Arches

So, true to Ryans word, I amazingly got back to class intime. The bell tonEd just I walked through the front doors of the school, but I suddenly didn't feel like being in class. I felt like going home, I felt like sleeping off my proclaimed, imaginary illness that magically began churning my gut.

I wasnt sure what had brought on my current feelings if unwellness, and I prayed to God that I hadn't contracted some mysterious disease from that disgusting cigerette, but I couldn't help the temptation of hiding away in my room, or seeing my family. Mom and dad always make me feel better, and seeing my sister was beyond pleasant most of the time.

So I decided, I walked to the office, knowing knots of dread mixing with other feelings of a rolling, highly acrobaric stomach, and when I got there, the secretary just stared at me expectantly.

I will my mouth to open, to say something not completely obvious, but I felt the guilt clawing up my spine, and the fear of discovery hurtling it's self at me was unbearable. I messed up, I backed myself into a corner, I was a zit on the face of cowardess, so much peer pressure building up, that I just wanted to explode.

" I want to go home, please."

~*~*~

My mom came to pick me up no problem, rushed here to help make her baby feel better. No questions as to what was wrong, just alot if, 'oh hunny are you okay's . It wouldn have been strange to her, if I had ever called in sick before. I don't call home sick, even when I am sick.

But regardless of the guilt, and my complete and utter dismay towards myself, I made it home, safe, sound.

The fist thing my mother did when we walked in the door was sit me down in the kitchen and make me a hot cup of herbal tea. She sat the steaming mug infront of me, then took a seet across the table. My mother and i are identical, besides the difference of testosterone and aged estrogen, so when she looked at me with her wide brown eyes and relaxed downturned mouth, I knew exactly what was coming...

" Brendon," And it was the severity of her tone that concerned me more that the awaited continuation. " You're coming with your father and I tonight," It sounded like such a mundane statement, but if you knew, you'd know. " Because I think you need to talk to someone."

Why couldn't I talk to you? I wanted to ask her. Why coulnt I talk to you, rather than some fat old minister, who probably gets his thrills from seeing helpless teenagers squirm and admit themselves in juicy detail, in a cramped booth. Don't get me wrong, I love Jesus, but I couldn't help but wonder why He wanted you to confess to some man, that really knows nothing about you. Regardless of the fact that my mom and my dad and I all went to conffesional that evening, my gut was still churning tormentedly...

Wow, that sounded really emo.

I was still sitting in the booth, grainy screen my only window to the pastors face. I stumbled over every single word I said, voice breaking where it didn't matter, and my stomach flipled everytime I mentioned Him. I trembled and bit my lip until I couldn't anymore , but nothing eased my stomachs acrobatics, until, " God loves all of his children, and if you seek forgiveness, you will be forgiven, my child." My body stills, and the ease sets in, because God governs and heals all, and my experience, or lack there of, it's true. I say a quick ' bless you' and smile sadly before a final, " Maracoupa, my child."

Then I leave.

I meet my loving, amazing parents out front, and we drive home in a comfortable silence, and suddenly, I don't feel so bad anymore...