The Little Death

I push the massive wooden door of the church. It’s easier to open than I expect. It looks like it’s been there for a hundred years, but it doesn’t squeak. I walk in unnoticed. My steps are as light as my combat boots will allow. I stand in the corner and breathe in the familiar smells of wood and incense. Tonight, after all these years, I am drawn back here. Tonight, the eve of tomorrow, this place pulls me, like a trigger.

I can see them sitting solemnly in their pews, but they can’t see me. There are shadowy crevices, statues and columns to hide a stranger. Their ears are full of the priest’s words and their eyes are fixed on the altar. No light comes through the stained-glass windows and the pattern of my dress matches the angles and colours. I’m invisible as I move along the wall to the side of the church

The priest reads, “The wages of sin is death…”

I watch the congregation. They all have the same smug look. The confident look of certainty. The wages of sin is death. I repeat the phrase to myself but can’t find the truth in it.

The wages of life is death would be truer. We all die. We all end up as lifeless sacks of flesh.

Life, I remind myself, is slow suicide. This thought makes me smile. It’s not that I want to die, but I feel better knowing everyone will. Everyone in this room, comfortable in their knowledge, comfortable in their faith, is going to die.

Death is the equalizer.

“The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

The congregation does the sign of the cross in unison and says “Amen.”

The priest talks about Jesus’ message of peace and love and my mind wanders. Jesus was a true revolutionary.

I’m collecting water from the oasis. Behind me I hear him saying, “Love your neighbours as you love yourself.”

I pause and listen for a moment. “Love, too, your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

I stop listening and pick up my water pitcher. As I turn to leave I glance at this strange man who expects me to love the people who kill and pray for those who oppress. He catches my gaze and smiles. I quickly walk away and am not far along the pebbly path home when I hear soft footsteps behind me. They are light, as if the feet are barely touching the ground.

“Can I help you carry your water?” He’s walking next to me now.

Men don’t carry water. It’s woman’s work. But it would not be the strangest thing this strange man has been seen to do. I give him the pitchers. “Try not to spill any.”

He smiles . I turn my gaze to my feet and watch dust clouds form around my steps.

“I heard you talking back there. You really know how to pull a crowd.”

“I saw you listening.”

“I was…until you suggested that I love my enemies.” Jesus opens his mouth to respond, but I continue. “How will they ever respect us if we reward their brutality with love?”

“It’s you who gets the reward,” he says. “Hate destroys the vessel that carries it sooner than the object it’s aimed at. They kill you from the outside and your hate kills you from the inside.”

“Will love protect me from their weapons, from their taxes, their bigotry? Will love keep me and my family alive?”

“No, love will keep you happy. Death comes to us all.”

Death is the equalizer. We all end up as sacks of bones.

We arrive at my home and I welcome him inside. I offer him my softest cushion in the corner that gets the most breeze. I bring him tea and dates.

“You’re very kind,” he says. “If we all treated each other the way you are treating me, everything in this world would be different.”

“But if the rich shared with the poor, they’d no longer be rich.”

Jesus nods as he chews a date. “There would be no concept of rich and poor if we all loved our neighbours as we loved ourselves. There would be no ‘mine’ or yours’, only ‘ours.’. Our neighbours would no longer be our competitors. There would be no need to fight for land and keep our food locked away. There is enough of everything in this world for everyone to have as much as they need.”

“Sit with me.” He makes room for me on the cushion. I sit and am close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, to smell the heat on his skin. I am close enough to see the tangles in his long hair, the grains of sand in his eyebrows.

Because I can’t help myself, I reach out and touch his face. I run my hand slowly over his cheek, his jaw-line. My fingertips trace the long, curved bridge of his nose, they linger at his lips. He takes my wrist and gently kisses my fingers. His other hand moves up my robe. As he pushes me gently onto my back I think about how the stones flung at my naked body would feel if we were caught.

The choir starts to sing and I am back in this world. At the front of the church, centred behind the altar hangs a life-sized crucifix. There is Jesus, blood at his wrists, blood on his feet. His head bowed.

The only man I could ever love, killed between two thieves.

Death, the equalizer.

The congregation rises for communion. They line up to eat the body of Christ. I feel the dampness in my panties as I walk out the door. I’d prefer to take Jesus into my body another way.

There is life in this part of town. Here, where people live in houses and feel secure enough to raise a family. There are cars in driveways, trees in backyards. There are schools and pharmacies. No broken windows, no trash on the street. The sweetness of night jasmine floats in the air, the scent of hope .

I turn a corner. Monstrously tall buildings scrape at the sky, blocking out the stars and the moon. During the day these are offices, these are factories. Promises of a bearable future for those who work hard. At night they are locked up tight. Steel covers the doors, the windows – protection against the rocks and bats of the proletariat. These buildings look as abandoned as the people who sleep propped up against their foundations. There are gunshots and sirens. Screams. There air smells of smoke and piss.

I walk down an alley still thinking of Jesus and peace and love. If we fight violence with violence only violence wins. I push this thought into the back of my mind as I rap on a metal, grafittied door. Two quick knocks, pause, three quick knocks. I wait. Inside, someone knocks twice. I knock twice in response. There is the screech of metal moving across rusty metal the lock opens – there are six of them.

“Greetings, sister.”

I walk into the dim room. Cigarette smoke billows and wafts and looks exactly like incense, but it’s not as sweet. The paint is peeling from the walls in almost perfectly geometric lines revealing the layers of colors that preceded it. It could almost look like art, if not so filthy. “Peace, brother. How’s everything going?”

“Just going over final details.”

People are filling bottles with liquid. Others load bullets into guns. Around a table a group studies a map. Charlie looks up and sees me, waves me over. I walk closer and see that it’s a map of the city. Red lines and arrows lead to the parliament building.

“Group A meets here,” Charlie says, pointing at the map. “Group B will be over here. Group C is here. Follow your designated routes. Meet at Parliament just as the ministers are entering, and attack. An equal amount of explosives and guns in each group. They’ll be surrounded. There’ll be no escape.”

We’ve been planning for over a year. I’ve carved the details into my mind. I listen again anyway.

“There are nine safe houses scattered around the city. Those who survive can hide out at any of them as long as we need .”

Those who survive. He says it with such ease. I look around the table. Everyone has the same smug look. That confident look of certainty.

All roads lead to death, I remind myself. I can waste away slowly, suffocating under oppression, or I can offer my life to the Revolution.

Charlie recites his favourite Che Guevara quote, “Whenever death may surprise us, let it be welcome if our battle cry has reached even one receptive ear and another hand reaches out to take up our arms.” We all place a fist over our heart and say in unison, “Freedom, now.”

I’m in a jungle. Soft, dewy ground. More trees than I’ve ever seen in my life. Sun twinkles through the leaves. I hear gunshots and throw myself into the dirt. I reach for the rifle on my back and wait until I see their legs directly in front of me. Aim upwards and splatter their uniforms with blood. Four soldiers fall in a heap.

Behind me, someone says, “You have good aim, comrade.”

I roll over, ready to fire. He pushes my rifle aside and offers me a hand. I reach for it and he pulls me to my feet. His curly hair flutters beneath his beret. There is an inferno in his eyes and my cheeks grow hot.

“You’ve been shot,” he says.

Immediately, I feel the white-hot pain, like lightning stabbing my shoulder. There is a bloody hole that only adrenaline kept me from noticing before.

Che puts his arm around me and leads me to the river. He sits me on the grass and leans in close. He smells of cigar smoke, gunpowder and sweat. I let him unbutton my shirt. Let him pull it off my shoulder. He’s careful and gentle as he tears the cloth from my wound. My breath quickens when he unstraps a knife from his leg.

He strokes my head with his hand. “This won’t hurt more than getting shot,” he says.

I close my eyes tight, take a deep breath and try to convince myself to believe him. I nod, take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel the cold blade pierce my wound and hold back my scream as the knife tip wiggles beneath the bullet. Hishands are deft; a quick flick and I feel the pressure against my muscle and bone released. Che takes a flask from his pocket, unscrews the top and offers it to me. I swallow two mouthfuls and hand it back to him. He splashes some rum onto my shoulder and I gasp.

“You’ll live.” He smiles and I almost forget that I just killed four people. “Victory is soon,” he says, “Soon we will be free.”

I prop myself up with my good arm. “I know. I can feel it. Soon there will be no more killing.”

“Yes, the killing is the worst part. But it’s necessary. There is no other way.” He takes off his beret and rubs his head vigourously. “We die every day because of them. Even if they don’t put guns to our heads they kill us with greed, with selfishness. Until they realize that they bleed as we do, they will not treat us as equals.”

He looks at himself in the river. I sidle next to him. My reflection joins his. I run my fingers through his hair, over his cheeks.

“Victory is soon,” I say. “Soon, there will be no more dying.”

He turns his fiery gaze to me and I start to look away before I combust. He holds my chin and forces my eyes into his.

“Victory over oppression, yes. The war will end, but no one can free himself from death. He presses lips to my mouth and curls his tongue around mine. With a light tug my shirt falls to the grass.

Charlie puts his arm around my shoulders. “Tomorrow’s the day, baby. ”

I look up at Charlie and smile, “Yeah, baby. Tomorrow the revolution begins. Freedom, now.”

I wonder what dying feels like.

He quotes Che again, “Better to die standing than live on your knees.”

Death the equalizer. The only man I could ever love, hunted down in the bush, like a wild boar.

In our apartment Charlie stumble through piles of books, bottles and t-shirts and tear at each others clothes. I am desperate to feel him in me, desperate to have my body filled with something other than the images of cruelty and violence.

Charlie is on top of me, inside of me, and I try not to think that this may be the last time . I feel him sliding back and forth but my mind is in tomorrow, with dead politicians. I try not to think about their children. They won’t be the first to lose their father. Won’t be the last. Their wives won’t be the first widows. Won’t be the last.

I concentrate on Charlie’s breath. His groans tell me he is about to burst. My orgasm hides herself deep inside me, beyond his reach. I grab the back of his head and pull him in to kiss me. His face morphs into Jesus’ and we are at a desert oasis. I dig my fingernails into his skin and pull him deeper. My orgasm peaks her head out of her hiding place. I look Jesus in the eye and he morphs into Che. Sand changes to grass. We are in the jungle. Che flips me onto my stomach and pulls me to my knees. My cheek slides against the dirt.

Then, they are both there and my bed is like a battlefield, or a mass grave. We are a squirming, sweaty knot of arms and legs and tongues. They grab and pull me. Flick my most sensitive parts, slip into my moist places. They bite the soft flesh of my stomach and legs. I want them both inside of me, moving and living. But there’s not enough room. They can’t both fit.

My orgasm retreats and I whimper.

I close my eyes. I’m not in the desert, not in the jungle, not in the city. This is not a bed, a battle, or a grave. I do not look at Charlie, nor do I long for Jesus or Che. There is no oppression. No revolution. Just the tremors between my legs, the throbbing in my stomach.

Then, the explosion, like a mushroom cloud from my belly, a blaze of white behind my eyelids.

As the dust settles, there is only quiet. My head is light with its lack of words and images. If not for my machine gun heart, my breath like a hurricane, my blood like a tidal wave, I’d think that I were dead.