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Connor Mckinley, contrary to popular belief, is not a good Mormon.
He can pray, he can repent, he can cry himself to sleep, but he can never be good; never good enough.
You're probably reading this, cozy in your bed or awkward at your local church, thinking to your stupid little self, “It's just because he's gay, isn't it?”. Well, your stupid little self would be horribly and utterly wrong.
His same-sex attraction might be the core of the problem, but his entire self- pink sparkly vests, provocative dances, his voice, personality, gestures, they're the real issue at hand.
The ugly truth is, he's not trying hard enough.
He never has.
Because it hurts.
It hurts to hide yourself; to shield yourself from the judgement of others; from the judgement of Our Heavenly Father.
It hurts to be inherently broken, diseased, cursed, whatever you want to call it- it's unbearably painful to be forever punished to live a life of celibacy and of mourning the man you could have been; one not tainted with fantasies of sodomy and sin.
Fantasies that dirtied his dreams, filth presenting itself in the purest of forms: Kevin Price.
Elder Price, the angel sent to bleach his mind and force our wrongdoer to finally get back onto the path of eternal life.
Back then, his only goal was to follow their new prophet to salvation. He thought he could fix himself and get on the right track even after all this time; baptize some Africans- get rid of his SSA, and that's what he did, right?
Wrong. Pathetically wrong.
Price proved to be an immature and downright juvenile distraction.
Instead of clearing the fog clouding Connor's mind, his existence bloodied up not only the floor of the mission hut, but also the district president's entire being, starting with the feeling of soft touches on his face and ending with self-inflicted punishments.
His nightly hell dreams now evolved, featuring Price in different sexual situations- vulgar, repulsive ones. Just like the ones he's trying to escape right now; hugging his knees on the hut's bathroom floor.
He struggles to sit back up, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
Hands lean on the cold sink and facial muscles grimace at the sight of someone who looks similar to Connor Mckinley, but not him. Red swollen eyes, wild hair, deep eye bags; intruder in Mormonism; fraud in faith.
Wherever he casts his gaze, cerulean blue sin stares back.
Those eyes, those windows to the soul, they ask impossible questions.
What would Price think if he found out? If he discovered the nasty thoughts Connor has about him?
Would he scream and cry, spit and puke?
Would he break his perfect Mormon façade and rip his knuckles with the impact of a punch sent to Mckinley’s face?
Would his vile self like that?
To be hurt.
For blood to trickle down from his broken nose to his busted lips; for him to lick at the liquid, nip at Price's bloody knuckles and suck at the expanse of his fingers; for Iron to overwhelm his taste buds, excitement to blur his thoughts, pain to punish his nerves; sensations to build up arousal- stimulation- climax-
Bile gathers in his mouth.
He lunges for the toilet and pukes up clear liquid, one that leaves a stain of sour in his throat and a stinging sensation in his eyes.
Trembling, he lowers himself back onto the ground, and fresh hot tears replace the ones already dry on his face, and fresh hot shame spreads under his skin, itching, burning, boiling under his pores.
He claws at whatever stringy or fleshy texture he encounters; reddening his skin, drawing blood and choking on snot and saliva.
A routine he's perfected over the years: scratching just enough to tear, but not enough to leave noticeable scars.
Inhale- exhale, Elder Mckinley, just like Counselor Miller told you.
Just like that dumb catchphrase all over the room's walls: “If you didn't act, it's not fact!”- even though it's stupid and wrong and even if you didn't act on your thoughts, they're still there, and it's still a sin.
Panic rises in his chest, filling his lungs.
No matter how many mouthfuls of air he bites, his hunger for oxygen cannot be satiated.
So, he chokes and gags, blurring his vision with the effort, and instinctively clasps his hands together.
Vocal chords vibrate with the silent sound of murmured prayer. “Heavenly Father- I have sinned- sinned against You. I am not worthy to be called your son.”
The sound of his voice makes his ears ring, and despite his gasps for air, he finds himself unable to stop. “Be- merciful to me. Christ, Jesus, savior of the- the world.”
“Lord, Holy Father, remember me in your- your kingdom.” The tension in his body begins to dissipate, a familiar plea for forgiveness providing temporary comfort. “Purify my heart, and help me to walk as a child of the light.
“Amen.”
Connor sluggishly fishes for the cross necklace from underneath his garments and places a soft kiss on the golden object, holding it in his palms for just a bit more, like letting go would mean losing not only his relationship with God, but with himself.
Even in the serenity of Our Holy Father's spiritual embrace; even after connecting to his divine self, he couldn't help but feel alone.
“Hey, Connor?” A soft voice comes from outside the door. “You' okay in there? Why're the lights off?”
How do they know it's him? “It's Chris.” ..Thank you, Heavenly Father.
“Yeah, just…hell dream” He lies as convincingly as possible, using his district leader voice. Poptarts doesn't need to be burdened by his problems.
“Are you sure? The Elder insists.
“Yes, Chris.” His voice shakes. Why does he care so much? “Go..go back to bed.”
“...Okay. Goodnight, Connor.” Poptarts sounds defeated, almost like he knows more is going on, but is painfully aware they're not close enough to talk about it.
“Goodnight, Elder Thomas.”
And with that, it's quiet again. Unbearably so.
While trying once again to escape the thoughts that might want to try and break the silence, he realises sleeping is definitely not a choice, lest he spirals again.
He figures he can probably get some work done; be efficient.
So, with slow, deliberate movements, he rises off the floor and makes his appearance presentable- for no one, really, except for himself.
He slowly opens the creaky door of the bathroom, stares into the pitch black abyss of the hallway, and takes a few steps on the wobbly hut floor.
He should really try to fix that sometime- maybe buy something to fill in the gaps between the wooden planks… Is caulk what he's supposed to use? It's fine, he'll talk to Mafala about it tomorrow morning.
Finally reaching his office and, once again, making way too much noise when opening the door- He should really fix the hinges; people can't keep hearing him exiting and entering his office at any given moment; especially during times like these- He sits down at his desk, turns on his lamp and searches the drawers for anything to do; he's already filled the daily mission report, even though they don't need it anymore- it's a good way to get some alone time.
Ah, the chore chart- finally, something useful. “Let's see..” He mumbles to himself, biting the end of his pink sparkly pen.
Connor has laundry and maintenance- he cannot trust any of the other Elders with his clothing- or any electronics- so those two are off the table.
Poptarts and Elder Church used to be on cooking duty, but ever since they ruined an entire pan and kettle- Connor decided that vacuuming and dusting would suit them best.
Elder Neeley is now the one who cooks, he's surprisingly good at it- even if he will snap at you if you make even the tiniest comment on his food- The boy knows his way around the kitchen, alright?
Davis is on groceries- usually he and Neeley go together; they get along pretty well, maybe with occasional friendly banter- but nothing too serious. He's proud of his boys, and very glad they're good friends.
Elder Michaels has washing dishes- he's the only one who doesn't mind the kitchen sink gunk.
Schrader helps with the calculations on electrical bills and supply count, it's a blessing that the boy is so good at math; otherwise they'd all be doomed.
Arnold is working on his book- sometimes he helps each of the Elders with their tasks, but he doesn't have a defined schedule.
Connor swallows down the knot that escaped from his stomach and traveled to his throat.
Lastly…Price is on garden duty- he doesn't want to think about him right now.
Done too quickly with the list, he peels his eyes away from the name Elder Kevin Price and fights the urge to rip the piece of paper in two.
He could really go for a cup of hot chocolate right now. If they even have any cocoa powder left.
Sitting up, a wave of nausea overwhelms his senses, making him almost tumble to the ground. “This is not the time, body.” He mumbles; he cannot have himself get injured- the mission president would force them to go back to America; and he's already skeptical enough. So he ignores the fatigue and carefully sits up.
Connor tiptoes through the halls of the hut, trying and inevitably failing to not step on the creaky parts of the floor. When he finally reaches the kitchen, a familiar face is sitting at the dinner table: Kevin Price.
“Elder Mckinley?”
Heavenly Father either didn't hear his prayer…or He just hates Connor.
It's probably the latter.