I was awoken by Dad opening the door to my bedroom. He urged me to ger dressed. It was early – too early in fact – and the strange blue light of the morning permeated my bedroom curtains. As my feet hit the floor, I wiped the sleep (or lack thereof) out of my eyes and followed Dad down the hall to the garage where we got into the car. Ambivalent birds sung their dawn chorus as we drive through the empty streets. Too early for traffic. My thoughts still foggy, I stared out the passenger side window, watching as the street lights silently winked off.
“What about Mum and Jamie?”, I asked, through a yawn.
“They’ll be waiting for you when we get home. You’ll see”.
When we arrived at the hospital, everything happened just as
Dad had told me it would. He stood there
proudly, watching me give the nurse at the front desk my name and all my
details.
“Samuel Gladstone.
Age Ten”.
Pretty soon, I donned a hospital gown, the type that tied up
at the back with flimsy strings leaving bare arse cheeks exposed. Once again, I found myself in clothes that
made me feel foolish, but Dad seemed pleased as he silently observed from the
sidelines, admiring my youthful composure and self-reliance.
***
That day was the culmination of a series of events that
began the Friday before my First Communion.
It started when the priest first came to our house. I remember it distinctly. Mum was in the
kitchen cooking, Dad reading his paper and Jamie, my little brother was
enduring yet another piano lesson in the spare room. The sound of him awkwardly playing the scales
echoed throughout the house while his piano teacher, Mrs Pritchard, sat beside
him wincing disapprovingly. Though I was
a few years older than Jamie, and mercifully spared such lessons, I hated Mrs
Pritchard. She always smelled of pickled
vegetables and wore a permanent scowl.
“Sam!”, called Dad a few moments after the doorbell had
rung. I bounded down the long corridor
of our house to see Father Medici clumsily wheeling a large, steel trolley
through our front door. It was
cumbersome, like the ones at the supermarket, and contained an assortment of semi
translucent plastic containers, each one sealed tightly.
“Hello Samuel”, offered our parish priest through a fraudulent
smile, “I’ve brought some options for you and your father to take a look
at”.
It was weird to see him out of context, almost as if his
powers were diminished by virtue of being outside the church and wearing “street”
clothes like the rest of us. I never
warmed to Father Medici, I’m not sure why.
Dad seemed to like him, but there was something about him I found
disagreeable. He was insincere, smarmy
like a used car salesman. Even as a child,
I could detect it. In the kitchen, I
could hear the sound of vegetables being chopped come to a halt. Mum didn’t like Father Medici either.
“Don’t be afraid, son” said Dad as he guided me towards the
trolley to examine my choices.
There were so many.
Some larger than others.
Different colours. Some were
squirming horribly, while others simply slept, apparently unphased by my presence. I’d never been this close before – I had no
idea what was expected of me or what criteria I should have used to choose
properly. I was told my choice was
important, especially as it concerned my First Communion. In the end, I merely picked at random.
“That one”, I said, selecting a black and white striped one
of intermediate size.
“Excellent choice” grinned Father Medici, a set of false
teeth on full display.
Dad placed his masculine, spatula like hands upon my
shoulders and squeezed them with pride. His
hands felt warm, but his approval felt warmer. He chatted with the priest
outside the house for a short spell as he loaded the trolley back onto the van
he’d driven. I watched them both from
the living room window, peering through a curtain. Just then, Nana entered the room, she clapped
her hands together in anticipation.
“Oh Samuel”, she said in her old Polish brogue, “How quickly
time passes. Just think, this time
tomorrow you’ll be a man”.
She wrapped her arms around me, dispensing the type of
embrace that only a grandmother can.
Unconditional, and free from parental expectations. The sound
of scales rang out throughout the house, yet again. Stupid Jamie.
The next day, anticipation filled the air. Mum had been up since 5am cooking, preparing
food in vast quantities for the party we’d have after the church ceremony. Annoyingly, I was awoken my Jamie, rifling through
my belongings. He’d often make himself
at home in my bedroom while I slept.
“Get out of here Jamie!”
I shouted, hurling a pillow at his head and missing.
“I don’t understand why the whole house has stop for your stupid First Communion”, he spat, before
issuing his customary raspberry and leaving.
Mum came in not long afterwards, “Ignore him. It’ll be his turn in a few years. Maybe then he’ll understand”.
After I bathed and brushed my teeth, it was time to get
ready. It took me ages to put on my suit. I’d never worn one before. I managed to put on my cummerbund, but Mum
had to help me with the bow tie. Now
dressed, I inspected myself in the mirror and immediately hated what I saw. I looked like a tiny penguin. Despite feeling stupid, and the general
itchiness of my attire, Mum said I looked handsome and that it was only proper
to dress up for such a momentous occasion.
Before we left, Nana got her camera out to take a photo of
me. She looked at me longingly, as if
she were trying to preserve that particular moment in time. It was an expression I’d never seen before. I wondered where Dad was. I hadn’t seen him all morning.
At the church, the air was thick with incense. It was a Saturday, and the church was full of
people. I loitered about the entrance
with a bunch of other boys who were also making their first communion that
day. I knew some of them from
school. There was Danny. He waved at me excitedly. He was wearing a suit too, except his was
grey. Father Medici made an appearance, now
clothed in his gaudy vestments. He shook
all our hands in a half-hearted attempt at ingratiation.
When the mass began, we all followed him down the aisle as
the opening hymn was sung. As I passed
the many faces of the congregation, all prideful and solemn, I contemplated the
sacrament before me. First communion –
but communion with what? Despite the
potent reactions from the adults around me, it all seemed so insubstantial. A rite of passage into manhood, no more
significant than a mere birthday.
We reached the altar, and Father Medici ascended the handful
of steps to the podium while we waited in line, as though presented before the congregation
for their viewing pleasure. I spotted
Mum in the crowd; she was sitting with Danny’s family. She watched me intently, discreetly wiping a
tear from her eye, hoping no one would notice.
Father Medici began to speak. I’m sure it was important but my mind had
started wandering (as it sometimes did).
My attention was drawn to the large crucifix behind the altar. Our lord and saviour Jesus Christ, nails
through his hands suspended above an ophidian.
Someone handed me a candle to hold as the choir began yet another dreadful
song. The wax smelled old, and the flame
illuminated my face. Eventually, it was
time for the scripture reading. The
priest approached the podium again.
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a
child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish
things” the priest droned on as I tried my utmost to summon my concentration. I scanned the crowd once more, finally
catching sight of Dad. His face was
stern and serious. Why wasn’t he sitting
with Mum?
After what felt like forever, the moment arrived – a thin
wafer and a sip of awful tasting wine.
Camera flashes aplenty, and for a moment, I remember feeling everyone’s
eyes upon me. It was euphoric. Not long afterwards, the mass was concluded
and Mum and Dad, now together, rushed towards me to offer their
congratulations. Mum cast her arms
around me, squeezing me tight, while Dad offered an understated backslap.
“Remember son, today’s only window dressing. The real ceremony happens tomorrow”. He was
right, I guess. From what I’d been told,
the next day would be quite different.
I left the church with my family joyfully and traversed a
short distance to the community hall where the party was to take place. There was a band and a huge cake with my name
on it.
“Congratulations!” and “Good luck tomorrow”, came the string
of well wishes from cousins, rarely seen aunties and various octogenarians
who’d crawled out of the woodwork just to pinch my cheeks. It was the biggest party I’d ever seen, and,
to crown the occasion was an entire table full of gifts – all for me. I crossed
my fingers, hoping for video games and a set of bongo drums, but past
experience cautioned me that books and clothes were more likely.
We ate and drank and danced until the evening became the
night, and I bid farewell to the friends and family who’d come to see me. Poor Jamie threw up by the bins outside – too
much cake. Served him right. At home, I cast aside my itchy suit and crawled
into bed where I quickly drifted off into a golden, dreamless sleep.
***
It all seemed a world away from me now, as I lay in my
hospital bed, patiently waiting. All of
the necessary forms had been filled out, and I had been given a plastic wristband
which bore my name and birthday. Before
too long a friendly orderly came to wheel me into the operating theatre where
masked doctors were waiting. I drank in
my surroundings, noting the steel accoutrements, harsh LED lighting and the
blue latex gloves everybody wore. A
nurse with gentle eyes rested her hand upon my chest in reassurance. It felt warm.
The head surgeon, a tall man with wiry hair protruding from his mask
introduced himself.
“Hello Sam. How are
you feeling today?”
“Fine. I guess”, I replied,
unsure of how one should be feeling mere minutes before surgery.
“What we’re going to do today is make a transverse incision,
along your abdomen. When we reach the large
intestine, we’ll make a smaller incision into which we’ll place your implant”.
I nodded in agreement.
“Nurse, bring in the implant, please”.
The gentle eyed nurse disappeared from the room for a
minute, and returned with a translucent plastic container, exactly like the one
on Father Medici’s trolley. Inside was
the snake I had chosen just a few days earlier.
There it was, glistening and livelier this time; I could hear its
distinctive, breathy hiss from inside its plastic prison. Vermicella
Annulata – its proper name, was hastily scrawled upon one side of its
container in black marker.
As the surgeon prepared me for the anaesthetic, instructing
me to count backwards from one hundred, the snake and I locked eyes. Its serpentine visage looked back at me with
cold indifference. The edges of the room
grew fuzzy, and my eyelids became leaden as I started to succumb to the
irresistible urge to fall asleep. Sinking
beneath the inky blackness of unconsciousness, I wondered if this was what my
death would feel like.
***
Dad was there, waiting for me when I woke up in my hospital
room just a few hours later.
“Don’t touch them”, he cautioned as I examined my stitches
and the large scar that ran across my stomach, “They won’t heal properly if you
mess with them”.
Father Medici was there for some reason. I wondered why. He and Dad shook hands and seemed quite
pleased with themselves. As my drug induced
stupor began to wear off, I recalled the surgery – why I was there. The
snake. The black and white striped snake
that had been put inside me. I could
feel it, moving, churning, settling within me.
My insides felt cold, as though I’d drunk a few litres of ice water.
“You’ll get used to it” Dad simply said after I’d complained. His words seemed distant and meaningless.
Back at home, things seemed different somehow. I spent a few days suspecting that everyone
had changed, but in reality, it was me who had been altered. Mum was happy to have me home, though I
carefully observed unguarded moments where she seemed to regard me with almost
nervous apprehension. Nana’s touch felt
empty, and her tone with me no longer warm.
As for Jamie, he seemed terrified of me, staying well clear of my
bedroom. It was as if consciousness felt
like a waking dream, or perhaps something even less than that. Like the fading embers of a memory. I didn’t
realise I’d feel this way. Was this what
First Communion was supposed to feel like?
I inspected myself in the mirror and felt nothing at all. An absence of self, generated by the reptile
now nestled permanently in my belly. I stared,
vacantly into my own empty eyes and could suddenly taste the annihilation of my
boyhood. It was deepest red, like arterial
blood and roughly hewn as if from a woodsman’s axe. An empty chasm where joy used to reside now
supplanted by a simmering, calculating rage.
I’ll never forget the words Dad said to me in my hospital
room after I’d awoken from surgery. He
said that he had been through the same procedure, as had his own father. It was all part of the sacrament – First Communion
– communion with the serpent, to take it inside you and make it a part of yourself. It was the birthright of every male. As the old priest opened up his prayer book
and offered foolish words on my behalf, Dad clasped my hand tight and offered
the following advice.
“Every man has a snake inside him. It is what it means to be a man. You must learn to control it son, or it will
begin to control you”.
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