There was a long hall, so quiet, misterous and full of respect. Probably i was 12 years old as i remember. Dad and me were walking like in a funeral act. I think was the first time i saw the christ hanging on a cross conciently, a dead corpse represented, full of blood, with pain on his face, awful, scared like someone who knows that there is no more way to scape than faith. Faith is so fun, is the last resource of mankind but at the same time is the first and the must comfortably thing. Faith is absolute and doesn´t give any other chance to think unless you might to break all the things that had been listened for years and generations. In places like Mexico you must be brave even now to talk about faith. I do not know why before think in faith we can´t understand and accept that what is happening on this precisely moment is the future of what we was on our past decissions. Anyway i hate the image of the christ.
Walking with dad, seeing that almost dead corpse screaming in pain was the first time someone made me feel so bad and guilty about something. I think no one should do that to a boy or a girl. If that happened thousands of years ago, I cannot understand why they still think that it is the only way to attract people to the “real” religion and the true way of “salvation”. I think it’s disgusting and cheap. There is no other moment that I hate more than the whole stupid year that I was forced to take the course of the fucking first communion.
My dad decided that i was ready to receive someone’s flesh and blood for the first time (maybe a lot of serial killers with cannibalism started there). The teacher was an old woman with a really unpleasant smell, like a mixture of vaporub and badly treated diabetes, it was the smell of old apples. I learned that many years later, working in emergency services. However, the horror of being forced to be in church did not end there. I had to swallow year after year repeating in my memory prays that I do not remember now, I had to feel guilt over guilt until some years after being part (forced) of the “young catholic movement” Eugene appears, there is no name in English, it was her name, and that was weird in those years at Mexico.
A girl with blond hair and green eyes, I was about thirteen and she was fourteen almost fifteen, she was my perfect company or maybe I was hers. When she arrived everything changed, we took advantage of the poor eyesight of the miss, she was always reading and repeating the prayers like karma and speaking against communism and all the bad things that there were without the love of man who gave his life in a terrible way for our salvation. Anyway, the old lady never realized if someone was missing. Eugene and I used to stay on the stairs from the tower to the bells, she was different from everything I knew, really different, she was like a rainbow mixed with a storm, she was really special. The long hair, her movements, her smile and something in her eyes when she was surprised or happy. Sometimes she also used to cry or be sad, but every time i was with her used to be very special. Sometimes she bought weed, sometimes i had cigarettes. Most of the time we used to chat and laugh a lot, we used to make fun of the old ladies in church and then we ran straight to the bells. Sometimes we would sit at the top of the tower, next to the bells, watching every hour that our local “quasimodo” rang. At those times she liked to lean on my shoulder while I played with her hair and talked nonsense, asked me to whistle a song, or just shut up. That look from my neighborhood with her on my chest was unique.
Eugene was my first sexual experience, i was not the first for her, i noticed off in the way she started to kiss me that day on the bingo hall of the church, the way she looked me and the tender of her hands movements on me, to after take my hands with her guide to where she wanted around her body. I can say that i remember with so much love and respect to that little punk girl that pushed me out in the middle of that painfull corpse tasting a livefull body. After we did our “first communion” i never saw her again. I hope she was good, i hope she was a remarkable church woman (honestly i hope not). If I see her again I won’t be able to avoid kissing her again for one time.