Wrath White: Orgy of Souls

“How are you doing?” Samuel asked.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“What do you want? I’m still dying, but I feel pretty good. Bring me my mirror.”

“Why? You still look beautiful.”

“You are an accomplished liar, Father,” Nkosi said. “Every morning I look at myself in the mirror. Then I’m ready to say my prayers.”

“You’d have made a great nun.”

“I’m still breathing. No need for the ‘would haves.’”

She sat up straighter in bed as he handed her a mirror. Using the IV stand to raise her body, she studied her reflection until satisfied. She set it down and began the Lord’s Prayer. Samuel joined in.

“What’s the matter, Father? Your head’s not in the game today.”

“You’ve been in America too long.”

“Not long enough.” Nkosi gestured toward her cup. Before Samuel could feign protest, she put her hand to her head in a dramatic swoon of being too weak to pour her own water.

“Neither of us chased after AIDS.” Samuel filled the cup and handed it to her. “It’s not like we asked for it.”

“True, but I know how you get, finding any excuse to blame yourself.”

“It’s not me I’m blaming right now. I know that the church is supposed to be Christ’s bride, but I feel like we’re the wife clinging to an abusive husband.” Samuel took the empty cup from her and offered to refill it. She waved him off.

“I can’t be angry at God. He didn’t send this disease, but I can be angry at it. This invader.”

“But God…”

“Don’t ‘but God’ me. Your arms are too short to box with God.” Nkosi said.

“Now you sound like my grandmother. I’d like Him to at least know He was in a fight.”

She laughed that infectious laugh of hers. “Maybe I should be the priest and take your confession. You’re not doing a great job at the whole ‘comfort the dying’ thing.”

“I know.”

“Hey, I was kidding.”

“I’m just tired. People forget that we’re no different, you know? I’m no further up the spiritual ladder than anyone else, I’m only on the clock more. It’s hard coming to terms with the fact that this is where God wants me to be. What He wants me to go through. I don’t know. There’s something…not very humble about the whole ‘God has a plan for me’ line of thinking.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’re a good friend, Nkosi.” Half the time Samuel didn’t know who was meant to be comforting whom.

“Come now. What else? You have that ‘worrying about things I can’t control’ look on your face still.”

“It’s Samson.”

“Your brother?” Nkosi asked.

“Yeah. He’s back and I have this feeling he’s in trouble—in way over his head—and I don’t know if I can help him.”

“You can’t save everyone. Not even those you love. We make choices and we have to live with the consequences.”

“Free will’s a bitch, huh?” Samuel gave a sad smirk.

Nkosi sat up as best she could and put her hand on his. “Sometimes when a person is bound and determined to destroy themselves, you just have to get out of their way. You have to come to realize that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

“But you don’t really buy that, do you?”

“No. That’s why God created big brothers.”

Samson tried to rid himself of his perpetually bored expression as he prepared for his photo shoot. He wanted to get this thing done in as few shots as possible and he knew that this photographer was a perfectionist with no qualms about wasting rolls and rolls of film while his models stood in some ridiculously agonizing pose waiting for him to get that one in a thousand shot. Samson was not in the mood.

His disposition was completely wrong for modeling. Even when the fashion industry first embraced Samson, he’d been rather dark and brooding. He hated the fake smiles and artificial laughs that went hand and hand with high fashion. It pained him to manufacture emotion the way the camera demanded. His disgust at the world and disdain for the entire entertainment industry bristled in every syllable he spoke, which explained his failed acting career.

Now—being sprayed down with a mixture of water and baby oil in preparation to shoot an underwear ad while the effeminate photographer called for him to purse his lips and then to smile and look sexy as if he were some poseable action figure—he had to stifle the urge to slap the hell out of the patronizing little queer.

“Don’t lift your chin that way. It makes you look like Popeye. Flex your abs a little bit more. You should have done a few more sit ups, honey, you’re looking a little soft. Is there anything we can do with that bulge? We aren’t shooting pornography here. Maybe we should tape it down or tuck it back or something. Don’t worry, darling, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. I’ve spent entire weekends with mine tucked back so far you couldn’t see it even in a bikini.”

The photographer’s name was Jacque Willet, and he was the hottest fashion photographer around. Samson was the hottest male model in America, if not the world. However, the two did not mix. The man had a way of making Samson feel degraded, but even he had to admit that the photos were amazing. Samson didn’t care how much he was getting paid for this shoot, and it was quite a bit—he’d signed a multi-million dollar contract with the underwear company to be their poster boy—he still felt exploited and it pissed him off. The smile fell from Samson’s face as he stared at the photographer. All his hate and disgust for the man boiled to the surface.

“Oh, now that look could work. It’s not what I was looking for but it’s actually kind of sexy. Hold that.”

Jacque Willet snapped off photo after photo as Samson imagined sacrificing him to the god of debasement and destruction. Not until then had he truly believed that he could do it. When the photo shoot ended, Samson stormed off the set into his dressing room.

“I don’t know who the fuck pissed in your Wheaties this morning, but you almost fucked up the whole shoot! I don’t work with prima donnas!” Jacque shouted at his back.

“Neither do I,” Samson growled as he slammed his dressing room door.

There was something about the hospice that made Samuel immediately rush to the shower when he returned home. A film of death, an inevitability, that he had to scrub off. He looked at his mild paunch in the mirror, cupping his belly and jiggling it up and down as if he could shake it away. He knew it was only a matter of time until his “AIDS diet” stripped him of it. He had already lost a lot of weight. The outlines of his bones began to reveal themselves along his arms and legs. His belly, as had been his curse all his life, was the last place he lost weight.

The water hit him with a hot sting as soon as the glass door closed behind him. He moved to turn the temperature down then decided that he wanted to feel the scald, enjoy the ability to feel anything. The poor water pressure spit out drops in fits and spurts within the glass tomb of the shower stall, splattering his shaved head. The other family legacy was his premature baldness. His illness nibbled at his vanity, but not so much that he wouldn’t shave his head rather than nurse a balding pate. He turned his back to the stream, leaning against the rear of the shower enclosure to allow the hot water to scourge him. If he had any courage whatsoever, he’d open his veins now and be done with it. The thought of being discovered naked in the shower—a conflict with his personal vanity—was only made worse by the knowledge that suicide was one of the greatest sins. Ultimately, however, he wanted a better ending to his story.