Thunder bellowed at the wordHell, God himself emphasising the priest’s warning. I sank lower in my chair, heart pounding as though I would be swallowed into Hell’s eternal flame at any moment. I did not want to cut off my own hand. Nor did I want to spend eternity in Hell, condemned to the Devil’s wicked games.
And so that night, as I prepared for bed, I kneeled before God, hands clasped together in prayer. The priest’s words echoed in my head like a broken record. I turned to God, begging that He repel the Devil who lay claim to my soul.
But it was the Devil who answered, a wicked hum in my ear, phantom claws curving over my shoulders. His presence cloaked the room in darkness as I prayed for God’s light.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name,” I recited the prayer from memory, the words spilling out despite my mind succumbing to distraction. I was not praying hard enough. The Devil was still there. There were doubts circling my mind like a fish debating a hook. If God was an all-powerful, omniscient being, why did He not answer my prayers? With allthe death and destruction in the world, it almost seemed like he wasn’t answeringanyone'sprayers. Was there even a God at all?
The Devil laughed—a cruel, taunting sound.
Closing my eyes, I resumed my prayers, desperate to ignore the Devil and summon God in his stead.
But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many nights I spent on my knees, calling out to God, he was always too far away, somewhere I could not follow.
***
“Ma-Ma. Say Ma-Ma.”
The grandfather clock chimed seven times, its song dancing down the hallway and into the living room where I sat cross-legged in front of Auden, his Winnie-the-Pooh security blanket clutched firmly in his hands. Colourful building blocks were scattered all around him, the play mat beneath us decorated with black and white roads for toy cars to drive down. My Batmobile was parked next to Thomas the Tank Engine, surrounded by Auden’s smaller Hot Wheels cars.
“Ma-Ma,” I repeated, sounding out the word slowly in the hopes that Auden would say it back to me.
He didn’t.
Despite nearing two and a half years old, Auden was yet to say his first word. I had mastered ‘Mumma’ and ‘Dada’ at nine months old with little prompting, hence why my parents were concerned when at twenty-eight months old, Auden was yet to speak.
I did not share these concerns.
Auden may have been quiet, but he was curious. His eyes would often track my movements as I played with my toy cars, built Lego, or reached for a book to read. He would sit on my lap, point to the characters on the page, and clap his handswhen the hero won the battle. Sometimes he would even reach for my superhero figurines as I flew them around the room, as if he too wanted to fly. He was always watching, learning, taking everything in. His silence was not an indicator of his intelligence. He just needed some encouragement.
“I just don’t know what I am doing wrong,” my mother told a friend on the phone earlier that week. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. I talk to him, I read to him, I play with him. What am I doing wrong? It just seems like I’m… I’m failing as a mother.”
Guilt pooled in the pit of my stomach. It was overwhelming, threatening to surge up and spit my lunch out onto my math homework.
I hated the thought of my mother blaming herself for something out of her control. I wanted to do something,anything, to ease her concerns and make everything okay.
If Auden started talking, if he just said the word ‘Mumma’, then maybe our mother would stomach more than just a few bites of food and sleep more than just a few hours every night. Maybe she would smile again, tuck me into bed, tell me she loves me. If Auden could just sayoneword, maybe we’d all be okay.
That was why I dedicated every morning before school to encouraging Auden to say that one single word.
Although he would watch my mouth, and sometimes even move his own, no words came out. But he was trying. And that was enough.
“Come on, Gus,” my father said, shrugging on his jacket as he wrestled to unlock the front door. He was dressed in his usual work attire—tan cargo pants, a yellow high visual shirt, and a navy jacket with his company logo on the back. “Let’s get you to school before it rains.”
I leaned down to kiss the top of Auden’s head, promising to return the second school ended for the day, and reached for my bag to follow my father out the door.
St Augustine’s Primary School was attached to the church. It had only two-hundred and three students from reception to year six, most of whom attended Sunday mass and Wednesday youth group. My year one class had eleven students, the other only had nine. Small classes meant we all knew each other quite well, but we were not necessarily friends.
At six years old, I was already an avid reader, face buried in a book when given the opportunity. In the highest reading group, I read novels written for nine to ten-year-olds, my report card delivering an A in every subject except mathematics, which glared at me with an unflinching C.
My favourite subject was art. While my peers spent their Friday afternoon art class flinging paint at one another, I dedicated mine to perfecting my drawings, experimenting with water-colours and acrylic paint to decide which felt more comfortable on my paintbrush and canvas.
The classroom was decorated with many of my artworks—some of which my teacher submitted to Rose Chapel’s youth art competitions. I didn’t win, but I came third place for my painting of the Nativity Scene.
Academically, I was successful. Socially, not so much. I didn’t avoid making friends. There were some days I would join a game of football on the grass or a game of tag, but I preferred to play on my own terms where I could control the narrative.
Having endured one hour of spelling and another hour of mathematics, I was itching to spend recess alone. There were stories in my head I wanted to play out—stories I hadn’t yet written down.
I found a long, sharp-edged stick in the woodland that divided the playground’s grass field from the school gates, the dirtlittered with fallen leaves and twigs of all sizes. Weapon in hand, I swung it at enemies only I could see, a sword worthy of slaying a wraith, a goblin, a wicked king. I battled each one, the hero of a story I conjured in my head.
