Luciano Torres | District 10 | Fin

My name is Luciano Torres.

I'm twenty-seven years old.

I live in District Ten. 

I'm building a cathedral.

My hand gestates lightly in front of me with four fingers up. The grime of showerless nights caked my skin. I urged up the thumb but I couldn't come up with another fact to justify it. Luciano, Twenty-seven, District Ten, Cathedral. No, damnit, I'm Twenty-six. That sounds more right. I shake my head aggressively, wincing away stress induced tears. One more, Lucia, one more.

My lips creep into a grateful smile as the fifth fact materializes in my mind. God loves me. I'm most sure of this. The father insisted, how could I ever forget. His hands formed into a prayer position for just a moment before his right hand slammed over and over again into his forehead, "Stupid, stupid stupid."

Father will be so m--


Father. Albin Garcia stuck me in this fucking dungeon. My hands grasp the bars and I shove my face through as far as I can, "Let me out of here you fucking psycho!" my words echo through empty halls and I fall onto my back sobbing. I reach out into whatever direction and hope he finds my hand and brings me home. He.. who is he? My husband? Couldn't be, I can't even remember his name. His name!? I can't remember it. Through loud sobs and choked breaths I can't quite seem to grasp I yell out for him, "I... want to.. t-t-to. Go. HOOOOME." The scream cuts sharp, deep into my vocal chords. It hurts, I can't speak any longer. I lie there, crying, crying.

I wipe tears from my face, but it's like shoveling water out of a damaged cedar canoe. But I keep trying, I was always so stubborn. With my hands populating my eyes, my sight catches on the black etching on my left wrist. A tattoo that shares a single name, 'Zechariah'.

Well, who could that be? The thought fades away and the tears continue to stream. One by one until I fall asleep.

---

I recount the day to him, the Father. I tell him how honored I was to be invited to the commune. That he selected me despite my young age. That I was good enough at my job to catch his attention and I was going to draw the blueprints for the new cathedral. I tell him I remember being disrespectful, trying to leave so soon. I was busy for some reason, though I don't remember exactly why. I had plans that night. I was meeting someone for dinner, though I don't know who. It was some sort of annual celebration, but that's all I'm able to recount to the father, he seems more than satisfied by it.

I'm grateful to have pleased him. 

I remember learning the truth of Ansgar Todd, he was more than a victor. I remember the clarity, how much sense it made. Like I'd done a puzzle years ago and I just found the missing piece behind an oak wardrobe. I remember asking the father if I could stay.

Why would I ask to stay if I had plans that night?

I remember being brought down to the dungeon, the father said it was a private place. No one would hear me-- bother me. He said no one would bother me. That I needed time to transition.

He didn't say 'transition' but I can't remember the exact phrasing. 

He said after a few months, once I knew the faith better and knew it's what I believed I could come out. He promised to let me live here, so generous. And then I could get to work on the Cathedral. 

"Oh a cathedral!" I say in amusement, "How grand! Father, before I get started can I ask one question?"

The father nods in approval. 

"What is this?"  I outstretch my left hand, a dark maroon scab surrounded by yellowish peeling skin on my wrist. "It burns."

The father looks at it  for a long time before finally saying, simply, "Cleansing."