Something to Believe In

by justin jasper

1.

They came on past the oak tree then, forcing their smiling voices out though the neighborhood,
over the delicately manicured lawns, washing up against the big brick homes that lined the street.
The others hopped like spring birds around her. She moved slowly, resigned to the fact that no
amount of impulsive passion would force her body to break free of the earth. He smiled to himself
watching her slow-steady pace, imagining that she had already realized the futility of youth and
had given up on its heady enthusiasm. Passing the car in which he sat, she kicked at the autumn
leaves and a soft breath of wind lifted her shirt gently, just enough for him to see the hard
curve of leg. She had the legs of a woman, the full round ass of a woman. Her legs pumped
and he watched the jaunty thrust of her ass beneath the plaid skirt; watched and imagined what
that ass would smell like pressing down on his face, what her sex would taste like against his
mouth. As he masturbated, an image took his mind, the same image that took his mind every day
now as he sat in the car, watching her walk up the street. The image was of the girl’s body, nude
and glistening with sweat, perched on her hands and knees. He shuddered and came as she turned
the corner and was gone.

2.

The hours passed slowest on the weekends. Waking up, knowing he would have to lie back down
to sleep without seeing her. But those moments just after he’d park next to the oak tree
and wait, listening for the bell to ring, and upon hearing it ring, listening for the high,
bright voices of her friends, since she herself never laughed or squealed; those moments
every sinew pulled tight, his breathing shallow and hurried, those were the moments he
lived for. The memory and anticipation of those moments carried him easily through the
weekend hours, as he went out to buy groceries, or to wash his clothes, or to run any number
of errands, it was the thought of those moments that pushed him forward, let him live: to
see her, to imagine her naked and glistening, to watch her walk, and yet, when it was done,
to feel shame. Overpowering, maddening shame that tightened his grip on the wheel and
forced him to press down hard on the gas, rocketing the car into the street. Speeding away
from the scene, cursing himself, hating himself for his pathetic perversion. Spitting and
cursing and promising the Good Lord that he would never do it again, begging for strength
and focus. These were the times he felt most lost. His life seemed a meaningless,
hopeless sham. He would return home to stare at the walls, and on the walls he would see
faces. Faces that he knew were caused by simple tricks of light, of shadows in
imperfections, and yet he was still weary of them. Faces that were witness to his lowly,
pathetic existence; that watched him as he crossed the living room each morning, leaving
for work; faces that watched as he ate alone, and in silence; faces that would act as an audience
for him. He knew, of course, that they were not an audience, that they were nothing more than shadows,
and yet he could not help performing for them. Some nights he would return home and drop into the easy
chair with an exaggerated sigh, as if to say “Lord, what a day I’ve had!” He always felt some measure of
control over what the audience could see, and hoped to fool them into thinking his life had meaning and
importance. Though, he never gave into delusion. The time never came when he didn’t understand that
there was not actually an audience watching him, and yet, still, he couldn’t stop himself from sucking
in his stomach when he made his coffee in the morning, or lying at a certain angle in bed each night
so as to look most handsome. He was in fact more conscious of his appearance at home, alone, than
when he was out in the world, moving through the supermarket or waiting in line at the bank. It was
not a matter of rational though, but more an instinct. Growing up under the eyes of a god he no
longer feared, he felt it impossible to give up the feeling of being watched. And when he sometimes
couldn’t help himself, and so gave in to desire, or self-pity, those same faces saw him sitting in
dirty underwear, or watching pornography. They saw him in his car, jerking off to the little girl.
He knew what they would think of him; he thought the same things about himself.