It was shiny, silver plated probably, and hanging upside down. He
stared at the ornate crucifix and gagged at the smell of feces and
vomit. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He lay, mauled, on
the bed. His hands were tied behind his head and his parents hadn’t
come to the room in days. The priest had to inch closer just to check
that he was in fact still breathing. Blisters and sores spread over
his tiny starved body, ribs poking through the scabs.
“Joseph?” he inquired at the boy.
“Father Stanley, you shouldn’t drink so early in the morning, you know
how people talk.”
“Sometimes we do what we must to get through the day Joseph.”
“Do the little boys get you through the day Father? Is that why you’re
here looking at my body?”
“You know that’s not what I’m doing Joseph, and I know you’re only
saying these things because of your  . . . condition.”
“What is my condition? I’m bound to this bed and the rats tell me
they’re going to leave me here to starve out the demons.”
“We don’t know what to do with you my son. After Father O’Reilly’s
death we’ve been treating the matter with much greater care.”
“You sick fuck, tying a little boy to bed and watching him wither to
dust isn’t what I’d call ‘great care’, fucking prick.”
“Why did you kill Father O’Reilly Joseph?”
“Why do you eat Sister Blanche’s pussy every Tuesday? That cunt can’t taste good, or is it fresher because she claims she works for God?”
“That’s enough Joseph.”
“You know she fucks the whole clergy, after every one leaves she takes them one by one into the confessional booth . . . your confessional booth . . ”
“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH JOSEPH!” Father Stanley stood up to the tiny boy, whose black shark eyes raged back at him.
“So touchy Lucas, control yourself! Oh I’ve forgotten, you don’t know control, do you? When you cut the heads off of stray cats you find outside your shit hole apartment, does it feel good, playing with another kind of pussy?”
“Fuck Joseph! How goddamn clichéd do you have to fucking be?” Father Stanley tossed his hands in the air and glared at the little tow headed creature. Probably from Southern Irish descent and a fucking brat at that. He’d been working on this case for going on 2 weeks after Joseph jumped on Father O’Reilly’s back and ran a straight razor over his throat.
“You forget yourself priest!” Joseph screamed back, his voice raising an octave.
“Joseph, what fucking demons do you have inside of you?”
“Baphomet, Verdelet, Nybras, Belial . . ”
“You honestly want me to believe that arch demons of hell are wasting their time with you?”
“Azazel, Malphas, Caym, Samael . . ”
“Please shut up Joseph.”
“Mephistopheles . .”
“JOSEPH! You are really starting to annoy the fuck out of me!”
“GIVE UP PRIEST!” Joseph convulsed on the bed, writhing and wriggling.
“Look you little fuck, Father O’Reilly was a friend of mine, which is the only damn fucking reason I’m here in the first place. You are a rotten little cock sucker and the only thing the last two weeks has shown me is that if any demons possess you they are the most annoying dickheads Satan has ever encountered!”
Father Stanley stood over the boy, who seemed relatively unmoved.
“This is your last chance Joseph.”
“For what foul fiend of God?!”
“To admit you are a fucking demented murderous liar, who killed my
friend because he chastised you at mass.”
“The demons have me now priest! I will admit no such thing!”
“Joseph, if you don’t fucking admit this to me right fucking now I will be forced to kill you.” Joseph’s face finally faltered as he seemed to be reasoning things out.
“YOU LIE PRIEST! YOU CANNOT KILL THE EVIL TRIAGE OF MY POWE—” Father Stanley stuck the silver knife deep into the child’s belly, turning it several times before he was satisfied.
“Well Joseph, I warned you.” Father Stanley collected his bags and headed down the stairs of the townhouse. Joseph’s idiot mother rushed to him, she had sworn this was a possession the moment Joseph started taking the lords name in vain and shouting about demons. She was a dumb hysterical woman with frizzy red hair, her husband might actually be a retard, Father Stanley didn’t know. Either way they were overly zealous Catholics and having a genuinely possessed son seemed the only thing that really got them wet and hard.
“Father!” Joseph’s mother exclaimed breathlessly at him. “I heard a commotion in the room! Is . . is Joseph. . . has Joseph had his exorcism? Is he our boy again?”
“No Mrs. Farley, I’m afraid your son has succumbed to the evils of hell fire and his soul will burn for all eternity. He is dead, threw himself at me in a demonic frenzy, in a moment of confusion I stabbed him with my sacred blade. I am very sorry I hope you understand.”
She stared at Father Stanley like a mentally deficient cow, her bovine jaw twitching slightly. “Dead?”
“Yes, you know demons, very relentless creatures. You do understand that because Joseph is a hell spawn we will not be able to bury him in consecrated ground, of course.”
“I . . .yes that seems about right. Will the paper do any article on it or something? A memorial?”
“I’m sure there’s a network or a magazine that would be more than excited to cover the happenings, maybe you’ll even get a made for TV movie out of it.”
“You think?”
“Who can say. Again I’m sorry for your loss, have a pleasant afternoon, please don’t ever call me again,” and with that Father Stanley walked out of the Farleys’ lives forever.

By Emily Smith-Miller