Structure Of Prayer

He speaks without looking at me, as if in conversation with himself.

For centuries, fire and ice, that is to say, heat and cold, have been considered the most atrocious tortures in the place of perpetual punishment. A great poet of antiquity describes a part of hell with the usual rain of flames, and another segment, that of the traitors, formed entirely of ice. The devil, as regent of this space of perdition, is embedded from the waist into the icy surface. He cries with his six eyes and flaps his six angry wings.

I imagine a hell of a lot of ice. Hades would be a paradise in comparison. An endless torture in perennial numbness. But what my body can now tolerate is the heat. An intense heat that continues as Father Misael's teaching advances and that oppresses me with the air charged by his close presence, so close. I admit his words as a sign of his spiritual wisdom. I do not intend to bother him any more with the frivolity of my questioning. I ask for his blessing and he gives it to me with greater strength, for he chisels a sacred kiss on my mouth.

*

We've decided to have bread, I'll have some wine and he'll have a glass of juice. At the table we talked about topics of special interest to him. I look into his eyes and as I explain to him certain conceptions about feeling the holy spirit I feel the back of his hand. Then I direct mine to his face. The impact of the blush brushes my face. I caress his cheeks and kiss him again, this time deeply.

*

Feel the abhorrent kiss that will mark the path of treachery and hell.

*

I'm in his room and he points to a beige pajama top. He indicates to me that I am fit to serve a representative of God in the world, who from now on will be his spiritual assistant. He explains to me that the cassock is the only sacred garment that human beings possess. My new tasks consist of undressing him and putting him in his sleeping suit. It is a simple occupation for me and I gladly agree to serve the father, a purified son of God.

*

His hands slide slowly down my thighs. They feel warm, healing, so disturbing and peaceful. I contain a groan. I vibrate when I notice her breathing in the area of my unclothed breaststroke, in the trepidation of my hairs which are agitated attracted by the wave of magnetism of his skin furrowing my skin by the touch of his chaste fingers. Now it is my breast that is satisfied, that rejoices in a delight that does not belong to this world. My skin is bristling. I am dominated by his touch. Taken over by the touch of his immaculate dermis. The folds of my shirt shake as they are slowly unbuttoned. I squeal without contemplation, but he doesn't stop. It seems that he has begun a torture from which he knows he is the executioner and does not want to see his victim escape. I see this segment of my existence as a vital moment. I embrace it and hold it for a time that I dare not establish. It is I who initiate the separation. You saw me with unsuspected agility. A hot flash inflames my body. Formal, he kneels in front of me and begs my blessing. I give him a kiss in his thick hair. I glimpse that my soul will not rest easy until it satisfies my body. My body will not be satisfied until it starts what my soul denies. I can't stand it anymore, and here lying down, I surrender to the sweet torment of solitary pleasure. Then it is the emptiness. I pray all morning for my salvation.

*

The father accepts the defeat of his soul, has resigned himself and gives himself to the will of God. He prostrates himself on the fresh tile floor and prays, falling on his face. My Father, if it is possible, do not make me drink this cup. But let it be done, not as I will, but as you will. Comforted by having avoided his spiritual responsibility, Father Misael tries to rest, but it is impossible for him to sleep. He looks out of the window and finally feels the breeze hitting his face and soothing the long heat.

The young man has entered the depths of sleep, and with him the calamity of the nightmare that does not leave him. This time he tries, despite the fragility of his make, to escape the gasps of the cyclopean beast that is just a step away from reaching him with its drooling fangs. He knows the inevitable end to his story. His sweat will be drops of blood falling to the ground. A blast of heat impregnated into the air circulates uselessly over the boy's chilled body.

We all know that God, being spirit, and the most supreme of all, does not feel. At least not like this wretched man, at least not like this poor young man suffering from a hell that has been inaugurated and is not even executed. It is time to sleep, Father, rest, for tomorrow the world will bring new airs. God does not understand your tortures.

Father Misael's shoulders receive a colossal weight. Exhausted, he lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. The nightmare of the knife and the ears will emerge again from the dark corner of guilt.

FRIDAY

Sweet and bitterPanem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie…FIRST STATION

The mouth opens in a yawn that erupts into an inaudible scream. The loaded and thick tongue forces him to swallow dry with the natural bitterness of the morning. He remembers the fall of the previous night. It is not the first time that he emulates the ancient practice of Onan, but it can be said that he had turned from sin and redeemed himself through a vast path of atonement and weary days of penance. The most elementary desires have taken the form of an agitated chorus that within his body demands satisfactions that his soul is not willing to consent to. And this fact dictates the condemnation. He feels his body dirty, he registers his soul maculated, he hates his crotch. His hands have been stained by the secretion and he contemplates superimposed in a light wake the rigid layer that gives him away. He gets out of bed and washes his hands with abundant soap. He intones a prayer.

*SECOND STATION

Forgive me, beloved Father, if my sins are great, greater is your goodness. Accept my prayer. Don't take me away from you. I truly try to bear this burden on my shoulders, Father, which oppresses me. Give me your help to keep on standing, do not let my steps falter, do not let my soul faint in sin. Be my protector. Be my guide. Help me, Lord, to stand firm on your word.

*THIRD STATION

It is good, indeed, to feel the respect they command for the authority of a representative of God on earth. These ladies have successfully made up for my absence in the preparations and here I witness a complete representation of the Way of the Cross translated by the clumsy movements of the boys. How slender they are. Especially mine, transmuted into the wounded, half-naked man hooked to the wood. An impulse invites me to look at the comfortable extension of his pale legs, the provocative stretching of his feet, the bulge that originates in his tights and that articulates in my mind an undignified image that I shake with a renewed prayer. I feel the awakening of a portion of me. I cry out to the heavens to bring down that betrayal of my body.

*FOURTH STATION

How to elude, beloved Father, the promptings of the devil. How. Give me strength. I turn to your word, to your sacred word, and I take comfort.

After short invocations, I am surprised to find inside the sacred book a picture of the Virgin. I observe the lines that draw her profile, the look emanating towards the sky, the magnificence with which the little one rests on her shoulder, unaware of the destiny that awaits him. The boy calls to me. I leave the Bible almost on the edge of the desk. I put it in my shirt pocket and go outside. The food has an excess of salt that I don't reproach the boy for. The cheese, on the other hand, is crushed on my palate and it reduces the feeling of salt. The sweet bitterness of the wine compensates for the shock of these extremes.

*FIFTH STATION

I am attentive to the attitude of the boy whose lip has developed a mimicry that allows me to sense his purpose in speaking.

Father, I've thought about what we talked about yesterday and I don't want to be in hell. I want to comply with the measures imposed by God.

I look at it with surprise. His words are a support to bear this burden that torments me, to wall up once and for all the heavy shutter of desire that is shown to me as an easy, fatuous, tempting and harmful subterfuge and to put an end, at last, to my intentions.

You will fulfill them, rumble my words in the dining room, while a headache begins to invade me. The bell, exasperating, bursts into his calls.

*SIXTH STATION

The boy has directed his steps towards the door. For my part, I lay on the couch with the annoying feeling of thousands of needles piercing my skull. I observe Mrs. Salome's anatomy as she approaches to attend to my discomfort surrounded by Thomas' annoying greeting. By her gestures, I sense that I am sweating since she is venting me with a handkerchief. She explains something to the boy who is going to the kitchen. I feel my head exploding. Then I taste the fresh roll of sweetened water. It's been an imbalance in my blood pressure. They both insist on calling the doctor, but I absolutely refuse. Mrs. Salome comes to me once more and with her dry handkerchief of my face the sweat that I have distilled in the trance.

*SEVENTH STATION

My head is spinning. The throbbing pain is gone, but there's a sense of weariness left. I'm not interested in the lady's presence. As she clears the table, I think of the boy. My desire to feel his skin is intensified in the emulsion of my blood pooling in my pelvic area. I notice Mrs. Salome's uncomfortable walk with me. I enter the bathroom. With my pants touching the floor, I stroke my limb. I stimulate myself for a few seconds and then rebel against the pleasure. I make an effort for my soul to impose itself on my senses. I achieve this and the erection, little by little, decreases.

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