LatinosUSA

A yellowed night light glowed against the peeling wallpaper. The scent of Old Spice lingered in the stale, smoked-filled air. Suddenly, the elderly man sat upright on the sagging mattress. Drops of sweat beaded on his naked chest and lined his graying brows. His paper-thin pajama bottoms stuck to his sticky, hot skin. Thom Stark had had the same disturbing nightmare many times before. In fact, he had it so often, he dreaded falling asleep each night. His doctor blamed it on the heart medication, a rare side effect afflicting only a select few. But Thom knew differently. This consuming nightmare wasn’t concocted from the induction of chemicals—but from something much more horrific. Deep inside his acidic psyche hid a dark, horrifying secret. Long before his adoring wife of many years had passed away. Long before his crippling heart attack. And long before he became a decrepit old man.

It began in 1958, that ungodly year that changed his life forever. St. John Apprentice was one of the few remaining reform schools during the late fifties. A religious, holier-than-thou institute intended to restructure troubled boys.

Thom was a good boy—adventurous, ambitious, rebellious, inquisitive by nature. A typical 14-year-old adolescent. But his strict and arduous parents saw otherwise, giving in to their disturbing, twisted mindset, swayed by infectious religious beliefs.

It was there Thom Stark lost his living spirit, virtually crushed, then dauntingly smothered to the point of no return, whereby his shadowing growth into a man was beaten down incessantly by the exploitative wrath of an unforgiving god.

St. John Apprentice wasn’t an ordinary reform school. It was a prelude to hell on Earth—a dwelling of horror for misfits. Thom did not understand nor comprehend the evasive action his parents took that dreadful day in June when they handed over their only son. The frail boy wept that night as he lay alone in a tiny, damp room, shivering under a thin, tattered blanket. The stained, worn mattress held up by a few broken springs poked and jabbed into his young, delicate skin. Thom felt betrayed by the two people he held so close. Yet neither one gave him an explanation or justification for their appalling decision. Soon, he would learn the hard way—life at St. John Apprentice was not a life at all.

Thom learned immediately that Father Riderbach was the ultimate authority. His six-foot-two, immense frame towered over the frightened and misguided boys. Even though Father Riderbach neared sixty, his broad shoulders and athletic build intimidated his victims. The silver streaks in his short black hair were always cut close to his oval-shaped head. His thick pair of brown glasses perched on his slender nose hid the true evil that lurked within. His flowing black robe with dark, pearly buttons was pulled snugly around his muscular physique, enhancing his aura of superiority. And for the last twenty years, Father Riderbach reigned with vengeance over his own mortal kingdom, seeking to break the essence of the virtuous and pious destined souls.

At first, the mighty priest would sermonize to his flock of youthful lads on the wickedness of their ways. But the children quickly came to realize how Father Riderbach controlled them with hard, mean, and unrelenting retaliation if his rules were broken.

Thom suffered the horrific consequences of speaking when not spoken to. This was considered taboo and instilled into each of the children as one of the top ten commandments imposed by the powerful, governing dictator.

Thom’s split lip and bruised, swollen knuckles were ignored as he spent the next several tortuous days and nights down in the catacombs with the dead. Down within the extreme dampness and cold ruins, Thom huddled near the heavy wooden door, which slammed him into another terrifying world. The bed was made of smelly straw, and a scratchy blanket kept him warm. Only three tall candles lit the dungeon of graves from the past. With two loaves of stale bread, a basket filled with rotten fruit, and a jug of tainted water, Thom portioned his inedible rations with care. He prayed each night would be his last in the dank and dismal caves of the holy and long forgotten. But true to Father Riderbach’s word, on the seventh day, the traumatized and broken boy was released with a threat of return if he did not heed the father’s ultimate religious rules.

Hence Thom, like the others, tried his best to keep in line and abide by the almighty priest. Academic classes were few, but laborious work was plentiful and intended to cleanse the wretched soul. And as they grew older and into manhood, there came a sense of rebellion for the virtue and purity that was snatched away with their enthusiastic, youthful aspirations.

Year after year, Thom learned to despise, then hate the man who hid so cleverly behind the distorted, sacred lies of punishment instead of forgiveness, the man who stripped him of his dignity and scarred his very impressionable being.

As Thom reached his eighteenth birthday, he vowed his allegiance with many others to finally put an end to this sadistic reign of terror. Deception became easy, and so did the act they conspired to commit.

So, on that fateful, misguided day, as they all stood emotionless while St. John Apprentice burned freely to the ground, no one heard or chose to hear the cries for redemption from far below. Flames of red and gold stretched into the twinkling night sky, as if hell had opened up and swallowed its awaiting and last judged victim. When it was finished, with battered and beaten spirits, these young men made a sovereign pact never to confess their ultimate mortal sin.

Father Riderbach’s body was never found. In fact, there was no trace of him anywhere within the mounds of putrid ash left behind.

Now, many years later, a marble headstone stands in the place where St. John Apprentice once sat. Etched in black letters across its face reads: “Father Ethan Riderbach—May he rest in Peace.”

And sometimes on a starry, starry night, when the trees sway and browning leaves rustle from the softly flowing winds, the faint, weeping cries for forgiveness can still be heard as they echo endlessly against the haloed heavens above.

originally published in Querencia Print Anthology, Autum 2022