January 3, 0100

The Parish

Enoch stands against the craggy wall, every time someone speaks to him he says “No,” before they even get two words out.

My beyond greasy, beyond filthy, hair is plastered against my forehead, I rub it away with my scabbed palms.

“You know what Enoch?” Oscar’s brow pulls together. “No.” Enoch mutters. “I don’t even care. I’m no longer having this argument. I’m going to lock myself in the hole of a bathroom and starve myself until you agree to join them.” Oscar declares as he hefts himself from his cot.

“Try not to kill each other.” He says in a mock-maternal voice before the lock clicks. I sit awkwardly on the edge of my cot, fiddling with a clasp on my uniform. Oscars’s voice echoes to a stop and we sit in uncomfortable silence.

Animosity buzzes between us. His glare pricking my skin, I can hear hate rattling in his breath. An inexplicably strong anger boils up in my chest. “What’s wrong with you?” I hiss between teeth.

He doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve spoken. I don’t mean to erupt, I really don’t, but his ignorance burns my skin like acid. “I’m serious! Besides breaking you’re precious little laws what have I done?”
No response.

“You know what? I actually don’t care if you wish I was dead or not. Because you are an angry arrogant bastard with no regard for any actual religious morals. You just do what you’re told like a good drone without even summoning the ability to think for yourself.”

He stares at the wall, listening to my overflow of insults without so much as blinking.

Emma Irvine

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