Boys in the Valley

by Philip Fracassi

“Not the flesh, Father,” he whispers, eyes raised as if to make sure neither God or the Devil are hovering above, listening.

So, even with my secret letters, I stayed silent about my greatest fear: the knowledge that something dark and alive lived deep inside of me. Hidden in the folded shadows of my soul. A poisonous barb stuck through my heart that tainted my thoughts, turned my dreams into terror-strewn nightmares.

This hidden part of who I am will sometimes make me see things that don’t exist, think things no priest-bound young man should think. It is a black seed waiting to take root, twine itself into my bones, my flesh, my mind. It is my constant, silent adversary. A slow poison that I feel will forever be my secret burden, and one that I would never inflict upon another.

So yes, it felt good to have the coat, even if I felt a stab of guilt at accepting it. I felt like I was wearing a small part of John Hill’s history. A small part of his grief.

God’s greatest gift to us is our ability to love others, and to see it happening before your eyes … it’s like watching a garden grow.”

David is not easily knocked off his course. He has walls within walls to keep himself insulated from things of the world, from the needs and feelings of those around him.

Any emotions he may or may not feel at certain events, or punishments, or curiosities, are buried deep within him, visible only by his inner self. Which, I know, is exactly the way he likes it.

“First of all,” he says evenly, “be careful you don’t confuse evil with despair. One reason tragedy exists is to teach us how to help others, help others learn how to find a way through their own dark time, through a journey of growth.

If embracing the light makes me a man of faith, what would embracing the dark make me? The answer is simple. Just a man.

“He’s one of them.”

Obviously, we all realize that they’re not biological siblings—not even related—but we also know, deep down, what we’re seeing: a twin who has lost his other half.

Some, I can tell, even find it exciting. As if it were a game, all this murder.

Sometimes you just know the kind of person someone is, especially when they’re lowly and selfish. You find they rarely disappoint.

Who knows what’s best. In the end, I revert to the boy I am. A pugnacious child. A cheap imitation of a savior.