My name is Emile Stéphane Martelle. I’m going to be nineteen forever now. I’m eternally in a state of youth. Youth, such a pretty thing, wasted for me, but it’s all I have.
I reside in Youth. If a city any more joyful and pleasant existed, it’s surely do to a recent revolution. Revelation, clearly then followed by a debt of the hardship of reconstruction. Of age. Surely a place like this has never come to exist in Youth. A place full of open mindedness, illusion, trust. Perhaps in another place, the aged one, you’ll find reality. Debts.Lust. Hell, a world of tortuous employment. Self pity, self wallowing.
Good thing for me. I’m Young. I will always be Young and I’ll only have to bother with the trials of Youth. In my little city, no sin and no rebellion, is a reflection of my outer persona. The persona, you’ll like him, as long as you’re not homophobic. I care for him, prepare him well- usually- for those visiting my city. He’s our mascot, our rock. Realize that he is crucially important. He kept the city bright and cheery when the thoughts of Rebellion and Revolution were entering the townspeople’s minds. Thank god for him, hero, and valiant protector of Youth.
Meet Aren, handsome and kind as he can be. He is the ambassador from another Land. You see, our sweet kind hero found Aren. He could see immediately that Aren was the puzzle piece to keep Youth from being overthrown. There’s a fountain downtown in Youth dedicated to them both. “C'est comment nous sommes venus pour être ce qui ne changera jamais.” That’s what the plaque says on the fountain. It has begun to rust already, I hear.
C'est comment je suis venu pour vivre ici. I was banished from the city. Perhaps it was my mind, sharp, allowing for change that sank me into this dungeon. Forever I shall sit.
A game of guessing.
Why was Youth so damn important?
Why let go of the possibilities?
As a scared child, wasn’t what I craved a revolution?
I was wrong?
Do not let me fool you. I’m not unacquainted with the role of a prisoner. It’s more comfortable being prisoner. No decisions to make, just ride along. No Revelations. No thoughts. Go with what they say. Do what they ask for. Invasion of privacy is a foreign phrase to a prisoner; to me.
The first time I was a prisoner I was in reality. In a cathedral. In a Bible school room. Is this why I fell into the comforts of a man that is obviously older than I? Our sweet, endearing hero was in charge of this part of my life, too. He saw fit to bend for the Father.
What if Maman found out that her dear Emile was a sinner? Father would surely, surely tell her that.
And as that sweet kind boy was introduced changes that would be taking place to his own body in due time, he felt contentment. Perhaps not the first, third or fifteenth time having the Father’s hard, gushing Bible lesson cross his delicate lips, but he did in time find his niche.
The Father would tell Emile, sweet Emile, how to make up for all the terrible things he had done. Now, Emile, if you cannot find time to practice these things you’ll never be Forgiven. Emile, darling, am I not your Father, protector? Find room for me in that succulent, little throat of yours. All of your sins will be washed away in one quick burst.
I’ll see you for Bible school next Sunday, kind, sweet Emile.
Yes, Father. Next time can I be Saved. I promise to try as hard as I can.
For god, for Father, Emile climbed mountains of virginity. He burst through virtue and purity. Wasted Youth.
As Father pushed his fingers deep into Emile, the little boy found clarity. He found the Holy Spirit. Blood running down his thighs, he cried out, singing his praises for his trusted Father. His trusted Father, pumping religion into Emile purposefully.
The little boy had faith sliding down his chin.
Our valiant hero of Youth.
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