The Passion of Christ
by Tegan Smallwood
Content warning for: residential school trauma and sexual assault
The knife slid into Father Aubrey's neck, much easier than I’d expected. Blood spilled out of the gash and onto his crisp white collar — turning the shirt quickly into a bright red. I felt like I was hovering outside of my body. I drowned in silence — silence so strong it hurt my ears. My fingers turned white, holding that metal knife tighter and tighter. I pulled the knife out of his neck, his body fell back onto his chair. His dead eyes stared at mine. I watched the blood trickle down Father Aubrey's chest; it was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time.
****
The last time I saw any colour that bright, it was the autumn leaves in my Kokum’s backyard. I lived with her, my brothers, and whichever cousin needed a place to stay. It was a run-down house with duct tape keeping everything from the ice box to the mattresses together, but it was our house. Sure, it was usually messy, but when I slept on the couch the sun would rise and leak into the living room which would warm the whole home. My Kokum was always in the kitchen making our favourite food, and the house smelled of sage. I was 13 and never had my own room. All of us boys shared everything on the rez — deodorant, food, even underwear.
My cousins, brothers, and I played in a forest down the road from home. We’d built a tire swing on an old oak tree at the end of a path we’d gradually stomped into the ground. All day we ran around our yellow-and-red- painted haven — taking turns swinging, lying in leaf piles, and talking about the prettiest girls in our class. The air was rich with mulch.
My oldest brother bought a bow and a couple of arrows after a good season on his trap line. The rest of us younger boys carved our own bows to use. We set up targets in that forest and practised. The older ones told us stories about when their grandpas would shoot arrows for their dinner.
Hiding, being quiet, and listening was ingrained into our DNA as Indian kids. Our parents had spent their childhood in cellars hiding from the agents. Then they spent their adulthood in the shadows, trading their red skin for white cloaks, desperately trying to pass. So, when the day came to hide, be quiet, and listen, I was more than prepared.
My brother stopped laughing, his smile replaced with biting down on his lip. Furrowing his brow, he hissed for the rest of us to go hide, we darted in different directions — went behind trees, fallen logs, and bushes. I crouched down under a prickly blackberry bush. In the summer, we would make jam from its sweet gifts.
Then my brother's voice echoed through the forest, the words catching and falling on branches. I hoped I’d misheard him. I didn’t move right away, stupidly. My mind convinced my legs he was kidding; he had to have been kidding.
“Run! Now! Zagangansh!”
I saw flashes of corduroy, ripped jeans, and fleece sweaters. My cousins. Everyone ran as fast as they could towards the house. Everyone but me. My legs were frozen. It was too late, I knew it.
I turned my head to bury it in my lap, but I saw the tree where my cousins hid cigarettes and magazines under; I could see the top of the treehouse we’d built as kids now sitting empty. My gaze melted as my mind danced through memories.
Then, I could see boots stomping towards me. My heart dropped into my stomach and my soul winced. I held my breath in my chest, refusing to release any noise. I shifted my weight slightly, and that’s when the crack of a stick shot through the forest. Hands grabbed my navy sweater, lifting me off the forest floor.
My feet dragged behind me as the red- jacketed man pulled me out of the forest, and towards the gravel road. I tried kicking and wiggling away, but the man was at least 6 feet and 250 pounds—I was 5-foot-5 and maybe 120 pounds. I couldn’t win.
My body was thrown into the back of a Hudson Hornet, like I meant nothing to the man. Like a doll. The door closed with a bang. I finally yelled, screams pouring out of my mouth like water. Snot and tears stained my face. The shiny black car started driving away. My red and yellow haven became only a blur through tinted glass.
****
Shiny slippery black blood oozed out of Father Aubrey’s mouth, running down his neck and mixing with the red on his collar. He mustered up one final cough, more blood coming up. I stood over the lifeless body of the man I had feared for months. At that moment, I realized I was—for the first time since I had been asked to go to his office—free. Free from him.
****
The weeks mushed into months, every day the world around me growing darker and darker. It started with my braids falling onto the stone floor, swept away into a pile. Then, starved for three days after not properly making my bed. I lived each day doing as I was told, knowing submission hurt less than a black eye. By the time three months had passed, I had been kicked in the ribs for speaking in my language, whipped in front of my class, and cornered in the bathroom by an older boy who, a few weeks prior, tried jumping off the roof. He forced me to watch him pleasure himself.
****
My eyes for the first time glanced away from the limp body sprawled on the floor, and onto my own body. I saw the knife still in my hand, red dripping from it. That night at dinner, I had slipped it into my pocket, my eyes darting around the room checking for any staff before shoving it in my pants and pulling my sweater down over top. I hunched my back over the body, raised my hand, and shoved the knife into the left side of his chest, leaving it there to stick out. I looked at him, studied his face. Tears brewed behind my eyes and a lump formed in my throat. My hands formed fists and I looked at the man who stole my childhood, my innocence, my happiness. I cleared my throat, spitting whatever came up onto Father Aubrey's bloody corpse.
****
“Felix, Father wants you to go to his office immediately,” a nun announced at the front of my math class.
The last week flashed through my head. Had I done anything wrong? I forgot my English book in my room once, but I had gotten the strap for that already. Why did he want to see me? I pushed my chair back, a squeak filled the room. My dress shoes tapped against the floor, the sound bounced off the walls. I followed the nun down the hall, my palms getting sweaty.
The nun opened large wooden doors that said Father Aubrey in gold writing. He sat at his desk, scribbling onto some paper, but his head raised and a smile grew when he saw me.
“Thank you, Sister. You may leave. I just need to talk with Felix about his current school marks.”
She gave him a smile, turned around, and closed the wooden doors. Leaving me alone. Standing as straight as I could, my face neutral but friendly. Like how they taught us.
“Do you know why I asked for you, Felix, besides your grades?” He stood from his chair, walking to the front of his desk and leaning on it, his eyes meeting mine.
“No, Father, I don’t,” I replied, in a clear voice.
“I want to practise some Bible scenes,” he told me, resting his chin on his hand.
I nodded, “Which scene, Father?”
“I want you to show me The Passion of Christ, when Jesus was crucified.”
I placed my feet together, bent my head to one side, and extended my arms like a cross.
He murmured in satisfaction.
“Good, but did Jesus wear a school uniform?”
“Uhm, no Father, he did not.” I replied, confusion filling my head.
“Well then, show me what Jesus looked like.” He gave a crooked smile.
I began to undress. That’s what Jesus looked like, in every picture I had seen of him on the cross. Jesus wore only a small wrap covering himself. I removed my shirt first. His office was cold and breezy. The couple hairs I did have on my chest stood up. I delicately took my shoes off, prolonging what was to come. Then my belt. I placed it on top of my shoes. Finally, it came to my pants. I unzipped them, and slowly pulled them down my body. They got caught around my ankles.
I stood again, this time in just my white underwear that was given to me the day I arrived at the school. I positioned myself once again to imitate Jesus.
He stood up from the desk, and walked over, hand still placed on his chin, like he was thinking. His walk was slow. His eyes studied my entire body. I looked straight ahead, out of his window and to the grassy field outside. My chest felt heavy, like he’d placed his Bible on me. My mouth was dry and my body frozen. I wanted to run and scream. But it was like my body had already given up. He stopped in front of me, looking down at my white underwear. A chuckle cut the silence in the room.
“I don’t remember these in the Bible,” he said softly to me.
I felt his warm hands peel away the only cover I had left. My underwear fell to my ankles. Father Aubrey looked down, grinned, and murmured some more. His pants appeared to grow tighter. He grabbed some of my hair, pushing down on my head till my knees reached the cold stone ground.
****
Our showers were the furthest thing from comforting and often didn’t work at all. But all I wanted that night was to scrub my body, head to toe. Without warning, my lip quivered and silent sobs left my mouth. My body released everything it was too scared to. I shook as I cried, leaning on the bathroom wall. I felt so dirty. It felt wrong, but he said that God wanted this to happen, so it couldn't have been wrong.
Mindlessly, I pulled back the shower curtains and stood inside one of the stalls. I turned the water to as hot as it would go, and undressed. With each article of clothing I took off, I could remember his hand caressing that place. When I took off my underwear, I saw a mix of dark blood and brown staining the white. My stomach took one more turn and my lunch spilled out of my mouth.
That was the first experience, but it continued for months after, every week, like clockwork. In the beginning, he continued with the Bible scenes, but a few weeks down the line he stopped caring. The names he whispered while I was on my knees replayed in my mind every night. Worthless. Dirty. Faggot. He told me sweet lies while I pulled my clothes back on—God made me for his pleasure. God is proud of me. God loved me. Love was a word I hadn’t heard in years.
****
The day a nun stepped into the meal room asking for John to go straight to Father Aubrey's office, my heart stopped. I turned my head, watching six-year-old John scurry to the nun’s side. That night John sat at the edge of his bed, bandaging his knees. That was the day I couldn't bear it anymore, the day I decided Father Aubrey was never going to hurt someone again.
****
The clock struck ten; the chime rang throughout the room. I needed to get out of here before someone found me. I stared at Father Aubrey one last time, and thought of every child who felt the way I did. Like an object. I thought of every pillow that was soaking wet in the dark hours of the morning. I thought of every ripped, sore, bloody part of my body. I didn’t feel guilty. He deserved his fate.
****
I opened his door, trying my best to avoid any squeaks. I slipped down the halls that teachers barely walked down, carefully checking every corner before proceeding. The halls were lit by candles on the walls; orange filled the corridor along with my shuffles. I found a brown and dark green winter jacket hanging by the back door—the first lucky thing that happened to me at this school. I slipped the jacket on. It must’ve been the cook’s, since it was two sizes too big for any student. I was wearing the black leather winter boots they gave every kid, with white socks that went just above my ankles. I tucked my trousers into my socks, trying to salvage any warmth I had. I opened the back door. The sky was a deep blue with stars painting it. Cold pinched my cheeks. I stepped out, turning around and shutting the door ever-so -gently.
It was over. It was all over. I began walking on the crunchy snow, careful to walk only in the shadows of the night. I walked north, hoping, praying, I’d stumble back to my Kokum’s forest.