Onscreen, the point-of-view camera creeps onward, making its way through this chamber of crimson figures. It passes the chair-bound form and arrives at another body, this one twisted haphazardly over a metal bar and locked into place by multiple straps. Closer and closer this visual perspective draws, details sharpening until a horrific realization surges through me and my breath catches in my throat.
The television hue is just fine. These figures are deep red because they’re missing their skin.
The camera is so close now I can make out every detail of these mutilated corpses, the ripples of muscle and sinew glistening under dim light. The face of this particular body is hauntingly still, eyes glazed over in a reminder of just how delicate our mortal shells really are.
It’s utterly repulsive, yet I can’t bring myself to look away.
Suddenly, a breath of freezing cold air visibly pulses from the lips of the luminous face onscreen, still gasping despite their fully peeled state. They’re alive.
I let out a startled scream, the imagery finally too much to handle as I scramble away from the television.
The room of friends immediately flies into a state of chaos, classmates glancing between the screen and me.
One of the partiers jumps to their feet and hurries over to the television set, turning it off in frustration. “This is why we don’t watch secular media!” he announces. “Who thought it was funny to put on a terror film?”
Someone else rolls their eyes. “Holy cow! We’re not all Kingdom Kids here. God has better things to worry about than scary movies.”
“Hey!” Isaiah snaps, pointing to them then motioning toward the door. “Not cool! Go!”
The pandemonium is a lot to keep up with as my body reels from the shock of this grotesque imagery. Isaiah puts his hand on my shoulder in an effort to calm me down, and this human connection actually helps pull me back to reality.
“Hey, it was just a movie,” Isaiah offers. “It’s just makeup and effects.”
I nod along, half listening.
“Liberal Hollywood will do anything to make money,” Isaiah continues. “That kind of violence is disgusting, but it’s not real. It’s fake.”
I keep nodding, gradually starting to believe him.
Of course it’s fake.
I take a deep breath, hold, then let it out, now mostly terrified by what a fool I’ve made of myself.
Hoping to craft a social antidote, I abruptly sit up straight and pull it together.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “Let’s keep playing.”
The crowd begins to settle as I say this, reforming the circle once again. There’s a clear shift in mood, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.
Eventually, Morgan loudly clears his throat. “Let’s just move on to someone else,” he suggests, glancing around the circle. He stops on Martina. “Martina. Truth or dare.”
This question has power, immediately tugging the room back into a state of quiet intimacy and simmering tension.
Let no one deceive you by any means; for that day will not come unless the falling away comes first.
I find myself repeating this phrase over and over, the mantra cascading through my mind and rushing across my brain like soapy water. I’m okay. Everything is fine.
It was just a stupid movie.
Martina considers the query, taking her time. Her facial expressions begin to playfully shift, each one revealing something new and exciting.
The next thing I know, a ridiculous terror film is the last thing on my mind.
“Dare,” Martina finally replies.
My skin tingles faintly as she says this.
Morgan smiles, unmistakably craving this answer. It appears he has a great dare locked and loaded. “I dare you to get in the closet for seven minutes with the person you like.”
My blood runs cold, a surge of chilly discomfort drifting through me. My eyes are trained on Martina like a hawk’s, deeply invested in her decision as she surveys the group.
I’m flooded by a bizarre state of self-awareness, yearning for Martina to choose me but struggling to accept the context of this desire. The emotions are so powerful that I’m actually trembling, shivering with nervous anticipation.
What is it about my friend that I find so utterly fascinating?
I want to be near her, but not in a weird way. Obviously.
It’s not like I’m gay or something.
As Martina’s sparkling green eyes pass over me I feel my body clench tight with anticipation, aching for her to stop and prompt the whole group to erupt in a giant laugh. We’d go with it, heading into the closet where we could giggle together over this little comedy bit.
Martina’s gaze suddenly halts in my direction.
Thank you, Jesus.
“Parker,” Martina announces, pointing at the guy sitting next to me.
A wave of aching disappointment pulses through my frame. While the rest of the circle lets out a fit of excited chatter, I just stare at Martina and watch as she rises to her feet. Parker stands as well, and soon enough the two of them are heading toward the bedroom closet for a stomach-churning bout of alone time.
Parker’s not even religious, I suddenly realize. He’s not a congregation member, not even a CAPE Catholic or some other kind of lukewarm backslider. What the heck does Martina see in him?
What doesn’t she see in me?
Martina and Parker slip inside the closet and shut the door, disappearing from view.
The nauseating, heartbreaking sickness within me has done nothing but grow, and soon enough I’ve found myself too overwhelmed to remain still any longer. My breathing heavy, I climb to my feet and make a break for the exit.
“Rose!” Isaiah calls out, startled by my sudden departure.
I leave the bedroom and slam the door behind me, so overwhelmed with raw emotion that tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m as analytical as they come, yet in this moment I find myself unable to parse what’s happening within my body. These sensations don’t make any sense, but my understanding of that fact doesn’t taper their ferocity.
It just upsets me even more.
I stand in the dark hallway, struggling to catch my breath as I drift between worlds. Behind me is the closed door of a childish truth or dare game, a place that’s suddenly brought me immense sorrow and confusion for reasons I still can’t comprehend.
Before me is the rest of the party, a raucous scene where secular kids I’ve never met mingle freely with congregation members in a hedonistic free-for-all. It’s a spiritual battlefield, and while it doesn’t offer as much pain as the room behind, there’s still plenty of chaos.
“Hey” comes an unfamiliar voice, a tall, messy-haired partier stumbling down the hallway. He stops before me, bracing himself against the wall as he sways in and out of my personal bubble. “You’re hot.”
I say nothing in return.
“Trash party, huh?” the sloppy visitor continues, his words tumbling over one another. “Isaiah’s pretty cool, but these kids are fucking cringe. You want a drink? Like, a real drink?”
He holds up a water bottle, but the scent causes me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“Uh, hello?” the guy pushes onward.
I should probably be more annoyed, but all I can think about right now is Martina. My heart was viciously ripped from my chest, and now nothing else seems to register.