an extract from a Sapphic short story I never finished

Pride. They say pride is the root of all evil, a breeding ground for other sins. The older woman would mutter at Church about how brave Miss. O Sullivan must be too wear her colourful bright pants, walking around with pride. Father Howell would always preach to us, primary school kids, how “pride becomes a sin when it turns into arrogance and self-centeredness”, or was it selfishness? I didn’t pay too much attention during our weekly masses at that point. Far too preoccupied planning my big-fuck-you-to-the-man- upstairs. This plan consumed my every waking thought from the ages of eight to eleven. Every week, I would always plan the same thing, with little to no results. Every Friday, we’d be lined up in twos, everyone with a buddy as we walked on slippy, cold cobblestone paths towards the church after our Spellbound test. Chattering and shouting, disturbing the poor passer-by's or the little old woman who stood in the cold, collecting money outside the church’s silver gates. They aren’t real silver. I checked. Chipped away at the gates while my mother was talking to my Godfather about how my aunt doesn’t eat and is fond of the drink. Probably discussing her affairs as well, but I was never allowed to hear much about that. It’s just silver paint. It’s fake. Like most things in this Church. Like everything in my aunt’s marriage. Underneath all that silver paint, lies and droplets of rainwater, lies a black paint and a tinge of mould.

Our teachers would desperately try to quiet us down as we entered the church grounds. Not that it took much convincing. We knew the routine at this point: when to be quiet, where to bless yourself as you walk in, what seats we would take, the old noisy steps hidden around a corner to walk up if we had to go up and sing, all the responses and how to kneel just right as you take your seat. We’ve known it all since we were eight years old. It was an all-girls Catholic school after all. As soon as we entered the church’s grounds, I wouldn’t speak. Looking down, checking the length of my nails to see if they’ve grown much since last week’s mass. They never grew too much; undiagnosed anxiety led to awful habits starting young. Every week, I hoped it would be enough. Prayed even. Take my place two people away from the wall, focus on the ground or the pew chair in front of me. Go through the motions, standing, kneeling, sitting. Never replying, never responding, never blessing myself correctly, watching my peers and teachers to see if anyone was paying attention to me. Then I would act on my plan. Take my finger, mainly my thumb, and start scratching the pew chairs, edging in lines to mark my existence. That I was here. Maybe whoever would see my markings could feel the anger behind them. Be able to feel the pride running through my veins, knowing I had ruined something in the house of God. Would they be proud of me, too? I was proud. I was so proud of the four small lines edged into the wooden pew chairs. Victory. My-big-fuck-you-to-the-man-upstairs.