SS- Give me something to pray for.

From a very young age, she always felt herself being pulled towards temptation. At eight years old she recalls sitting on the grass, watching the other girls chase each other around. Long skirts and pigtails curling in the wind, their laughter filling the air. She recalls telling herself to look away, forcing her eyes onto something else. 

As she entered her teen years and everything got more complicated, it only got worse. Everything was a sinful distraction. Every skirt was too short, every top was too low, and every curve seemed as though it was crafted by an artist. A very, very skilled artist.

She found herself constantly distracted, always trying to push her thoughts in the other direction.

She prayed to be fixed. She prayed to be able to sit in a room with her friends and never look at them the way a man would. She prayed to be able to gossip with the girls, to actually mean what she said. She prayed her dreams would stop teasing her, stop leading her astray. She prayed for Amelia to stop looking at her like that while they sat in Bible study.

As she matured, she found herself only pretending to pray. Sometimes peeking an eye open to see who else was looking. She could no longer convince herself she cared. No longer convinced herself to believe in a god who clearly didn't care. Instead, during church, she would look at Amelia. She would try to send her telepathic messages. Open your eyes. Look at me. See me the way I see you. It never worked, but it was worth a shot. 

She sat on the couch, twirling her hair and only half listening to her friends gush about who knows what. Her eyes were focused on her lap, her mind was empty, and she had a slight buzz from being so tired. She glanced up to scan the room, catching Amelia's eye immediately. Amelia quickly looked away, hiding her face and pretending to be interested in the conversation at hand. 

They both knew, but neither was brave enough to say something. 

As she entered adulthood, that was her only regret. She still watched her during church; she still caught her eye across the room. Though she was moving away soon, and she had finally made a choice. 

After a party of sorts, she found herself alone with Amelia. They spoke casually to each other, though none of their words really meant anything. She felt the words spilling out before she could stop them, admitting everything she had ever thought about Amelia ever since they were eight years old, climbing trees and finger painting. She was afraid, of course; this was the girl she loved. She was finally brave enough to admit it. Amelia stayed quiet, staring at a picture on the wall. After a painful few moments, she turned, scooting a little closer, their faces now inches apart. The air was thick; the room felt hot, though it was the middle of autumn. They stared at each other for a moment, the only light being a dim lamp and the moonlight. Amelia's eyes slowly fluttered closed. She followed suit, feeling Amelia's breath on her skin; they were barely an atom apart when there was a pause. 

Followed by a sigh. 

Followed by a sudden shift, a lack of warmth. 

She opened her eyes, seeing Amelia pulled back to where she started, looking at the picture on the wall again. She muttered a sort of apology and bid farewell as she slid out of the room. 

The whole room felt cold, dark, and empty without her. She felt her hands shake, instinctively playing with the hem of her shirt to keep them busy. She kept staring at the doorway, wondering when she would come back in. Waiting for her to say she loved her and that she couldn't stay away. After what felt like hours of waiting, she shifted her gaze around the room. Taking in the moth-eaten curtains and the way the moonlight was streaky and blurred through the old glass window. She dragged her eyes to the painting on the wall. 

Of course it was Him. He would never leave her. He would haunt her for the rest of her life. He knew she had sinned; it was far too late to turn back. 

She pushed herself off the bed, shaking herself off and fixing her top. She walked over to the painting; the closer she was, the worse she felt. It was as if His gaze was judging her, telling her He knew what she did. He knew where she was going to end up. She stopped right in front of it, studying it. 23 years of torture. 23 years of telling herself she was broken, 23 years of wasted time closing her eyes and praying for a mythical being to fix her. 23 years of self-hatred. She huffed and stepped a bit closer, touching the frame of the painting; its chipped wooden edges told her it had probably been around for longer than her. She felt her teeth clench on instinct, felt her stomach twist the way it always did when she saw Him. She felt her eyebrows twitch with one final decision, one last rebel before she left for good. 

I took the painting off the wall.