Conviction

Doubt. The preface, typed in light, poorly printed green ink on the back of the program illustrated the writer's strong belief in the fault of society's lack of skepticism. People should not be so possessive of their opinions, give way to suspicion and growth. A bit of a rant of the evils of the Iraq war. In short, hypocrisy. It was a beautiful conclusion, however; she read it over and believed her boyfriend would agree, become engaged in the idea, and she was sad he would not be attending the play tonight. She later changed her mind. 1

A priest walked on stage, gave his sermon. For such a small theatre company, the set was well done, and the lighted stained glass window behind him, made of iridescent gels and cardboard and paint, really did look convincing. The plot unfolded. The priest was suspected of molestation of a young boy, the nun held to her convictions until the end and at last the priest was sent to another catholic school. Pointless. She did, however, enjoy her friend's performance. She made a cute nun.2

She walked home. The story swirled through her head, and despite the disappointment in the overall presentation, she could not get rid of the ideas. She ran through the darkness of the night, chased by her thoughts. The small burst of energy made her feel refreshed, but she could not help but brood over the thoughts, still.3

 A scary, dark world as she had never seen before. A story played out in her mind that she was not a part of. She had never dreamed in this way.4

She lay asleep and watched the play unfold in her own imagination. The curtains rose, and there stood a boy, obviously guilty. Shuffling his feet, downward cast expression, ashamed. A man moves forward, out from the darkness swirling about the stage in a heavy fog. Accuses the boy of terrible things. A dead wife of the man, kept in his bedroom, had been defiled. The lifeless corpse, beautiful still, preserved in the dream by sheer splendor alone, had been raped in her own eternal sleep by the boy, no more than thirteen.  5

"And you had the nerve to spread it? Your filth is everywhere!"6

As a demonstration, he thrusts his hand into the nearest naked female, of which seem to have accumulated on stage in guilty, matching posture of the boy. He forces each woman to drink of the nectar, a reenactment of some deed the boy had done, unclear, confusing to the dreamer. The punishment for the boy, in the end, sodomy. He does not dislike it.7

The curtains close, but rise once again to- not a stage- but the real world in front of her. Six o' clock. Chilly. Unwashed sheets. She is shamefully aroused.8

The shame is only a lasting affect of the dream, however, and she awakens more, stretches, accepts her arousal, and plunges it into  herself. She's used to finding deep, dark thoughts in the midst of her psyche in order to draw forth that feeling of lust. This wasn't even her conscious doing, and so destroyed her humiliation with greed of pleasure.9

She got ready, changed her clothes, brushed her teeth, went for a walk in the crisp morning world, turned, rolled over the conviction replaying in her mind, telling her that she was not wrong, that the play was at fault, that the boy in the dream was her love.10

11

Conclusions are meant to satisfy the need of stability in a being. She had only added a support beam to a condemned, ramshackle building that would soon fall in on itself anyway. To doubt would be to demolish, and she was not ready to rebuild.12

13

She told herself again, adding wooden beams to disjointed piles of rubbish: the boy in the dream was her love.14