"I am sick of it!" My mother exclaims, taking my ear between her forefinger and thumb. Her nails dig into the sensitive skin, and I curse loudly.

"Fuck!" I groan, trying to shove her away. She only glares at me, dark brown eyes piercing into my lighter ones.

"Watch your mouth!" Her accent is hidden by years of perfecting the English language, her horribly plucked eyebrows furrowed in disgust. "We do not swear so close to the house of God!"

"God can suck my cock." I grumble, flinching as she pinches my reddening ear.

"It is phrases like this which have thrown you into this exact situation!" She hisses.

The situation in question, is being practically dragged into the car to attend Sunday Mass. And that, is something I really do not want to fucking do.

I despise God, hate the bastard. Every unfortunate event that has ever conspired in life are at the likes of him, and all he does is sit back and enjoy!

Kids are being picked apart by vultures for what little meat they have, people are being crushed by rubble from earthquakes. You don't see God getting off his high fucking horse and helping, do you? Oh, how benevolent he is.

Fucking cock-sucking asshole.

"Get in the car, Christophe!" She commands, digging her nails deeper and deeper every second I don't follow her orders. Knowing that she will break the skin any second, I swiftly begin to walk to the car.

That's another thing God has done; turned my wretched mother into a religious asshole! Turned my once laid back, joke cracking parent into an obsessed freak.

She bans everything that God would deem inappropriate; video games, phones, porn websites, the list goes on! It's as if I'm being raised fifty years in the past, with practically nothing technology wise in the damn house.

It's especially torturous when being grounded, I usually sleep most of the days. Then, I escape through a tunnel I dug and take the night.

That's another reason why I'm being dragged to church; my mother found my secret tunnel, and had a friend come over and place fucking concrete paving slabs over my masterpiece. She then realised that grounding me wasn't teaching me a 'lesson', and that taking me to church would.

"Buckle your belt." She orders once more, sliding into her own seat and shoving her keys into the ignition. The crappy car grumbles, engine running horribly.

If we break down, I bet on my life God will be laughing at our pitiful misfortune. The fucking bastard.

My mother can clearly tell how bad the car is, and she cringes. "Don't make me repeat myself, Christophe."

With an over exaggerate eye roll, I buckle my belt and glare out the window. Anyone who catches the glance will have to read the pain and suffering, and hopefully they'll contact social services to pull me from the insane woman's Christian grasp.

We ride in silence. My mother and I have never had much to say to each other, especially since she 'found God'. Our differing views end all conversations with heated arguments and our contrasting personalities form a messy Mother-Son relationship.

Her car brakes squeal as she parks, badly, outside the church. Getting out, I realise she's parked said car over two yellow lines and partially on the pavement. Thankfully, the police in this town don't give a shit how anyone parks, meaning it's highly unlikely it'll be clamped.

Plus, ever since Barbrady shot a Latino boy most of the police force has been on the down low. They don't want to be criticised for doing their jobs.

"Come on, Christophe." She urges me to walk forward, hands glued firmly to her sides. She wouldn't dare pinch my ear or touch me outside the church. Feeling slightly triumphant in her being powerless, for once, I stick back.

"Non." I say simply. She tilts her head to the side jaggedly, dark hair falling past her shoulder.

"Excusez-moi?" Once I get over the slight shock of her using our native language, I repeat myself.

"Non." Her red lips have disappeared from her face, forming a thin line. The expression makes her look unnecessarily older, and she would probably scream if she saw herself in this moment.

And there's another thing my mother is a obsessed with: looking young. Ever since she passed twenty five, she's been paranoid about getting grey hair or frown lines. It's moments like this where I catch a glimpse of my old mother, the one who didn't obsess over a being which there's no proof of existence to.

Moments when she'll grab me, shake me and frantically ask me to check her hair for grey. I can easily remember the first time she asked, and I was around 10. I had told her how 'fucking stupid' she was being and that other mother's would attack her with kitchen knives for screaming about something at such a young age.

"You don't have to make this difficult, Christophe." She says calmly, lips puckering to their normal size. "It's just an hour. 60 minutes."

"60 minutes of 'ell." I grumble, and she shakes her head.

"How would you know? You've never stepped foot in a church. You could possibly enjoy the ceremony." Her left eye was twitching dangerously, although her tone was still calm and collected. Any second now, she'd lash out and grip my wrist like a vice.

Not wanting to feel her horribly pointed nails dog into my overly sensitive skin, I sigh in defeat and disgust. "Fine. I'll enter ze fucking church." I spit, and she smiles triumphantly.

The smile almost makes me stop, but she decides to place a hand on my shoulder. To any onlooker, it's a motherly gesture. Filled with love, admiration for her son. For me, it's a threat of nails into my shoulder. I can feel them, massaging the material of my shirt.

Entering the church is fucking painful. There's few people seated on the wooden pews, golden hymn books stacked on the ends of each. The place smells horribly damp and old, a lingering dust floating about the smoke ridden air. There's so many candles lit, that lights aren't needed to illuminate the building.

A stained glass window of Jesus' 'virgin' mother eyes me as my own mother forces me to sit in a pew. As soon as my ass meets the wood, I shiver. It's like ice. It's only now that I realise how cold it is.

Either they're 50 years behind (like my mother) or the Priest is a fucking cheap skate.

"Christine, how lovely it is to see you." A hushed voice greats my mother, and the pew creaks as someone sits down.

A plump, red faced, blonde woman sits beside my mum, holding a bible to her chest. She wears an unflattering, low-cut shirt, and I tear my gaze away from her cleavage in discomfort.

I'm sure the bible teaches not to flaunt your tits, yet I could be wrong.

"Hello, Sadie." Mother greets someone I'm assuming is her friend enthusiastically, and it's only then do I realise we're fucking early.

Did she really have to? Why couldn't we just arrive on time, instead of about twenty minutes too soon?

I can hear you laughing, God! Shut your fucking face, cock sucker!

He's working against me once more. Wanting me to stay put in his disgusting building, sat on his cold benches to endure his wicked hour of Sunday Mass.

While I've been lost in my endless cavern of a mind, two more woman have joined Sadie and my mother.

One is old, with heavy eye bags and age spots. Her hair is stark white, resembling a style similar to the Queen Of England. Excerpt she's not Elizabeth, she's poor and, probably, worthless.

The other is dark skinned, Latino most likely, with an abundance of curls pulled back in a pony tail. She's curved in the right places, a dimple prominent on her left cheek and she's definitely younger than Sadie.

"My husband is driving me bonkers." The Latino exclaims, holding her golden cross between her middle finger and thumb. She pulls it along the chain, the sound of metal scraping against metal making me (and Sadie) cringe. "He won't quiet about our restaurant! Restaurant this, restaurant that! It's as if he no longer cares for David and I."

Sadie places a meaty hand on her friend's shoulder. "My husband barely pays attention to me, too. He is forever in the shed, working with wood I assume. You know, he won't even kiss me anymore."

An immature side of me wants to laugh. Sadie's husband no longer kisses her, and spends all his time working with 'wood'. She may need to call Camp New Grace. Oh, and a divorce lawyer.

"My Roy is terribly ill. Appreciate your husbands ladies, as they won't be around forever." The morbid words from the oldest make me snicker quietly, and only mother hears. She shoves me, and I glare at her.

Sadie and the Latino mumble that the eldest is correct, and add that they love their husbands regardless. "What about you, Christine?"

Now, I can't help but smirk. Ah, husband talk. Christian family values. Now my mother is stuck like a deer in headlights. She has no husband, we have no Christian family values. She had sex outside of marriage, and has been divorced.

Naughty.

I give her a look, but she brushes me off. "I've had no luck dating. It seems most people are just looking for.. sex, while I wish for commitment."

My grin quickly fades. Her friends must know of her teenage pregnancy and lack of luck in love.

"However," my Mother speaks up, her hand falling onto my knee. "My son, Christophe, has."

Damn bitch.

She just had to drag me into the ear- raping conversation. Had to drag me in and talk specifically about my love life, or sex life as I prefer to call it. There's no love with the people I've been with, only sex. Some good, some fucking terrible.

This luck Mother begins to describe, is a date she set up herself. With a girl. It's a new hobby of hers really, setting up her gay son with female lovers.

This date however, ended well. We had gone to see a film, one she very much enjoyed but I hated, and ended up back at her house. The time came for a kiss, and her phone thankfully rang. That, was when her attractive, older brother sauntered into the room. Dressed in only loose tracksuit bottoms, he'd eyed me as if I was a dessert menu.

Minutes later, we were kissing sloppily and my belt was unbuckled, jeans hanging low on my hips. Not even his sisters scream of surprise stopped our locked lips and lust, and we eventually ended up fucking in the hallway.

I have a mark on my back from when he accidentally forced me against a wall holding a painting, but it was worth it.

However, Mother doesn't include the last details of the date.

"How sweet!" Sadie smiles, grinning at me. I roll my eyes, not interested in being spoken to.

"As sweet as it may be, make sure you're not having sex young man." The Latino tells me sternly, waggling a finger. "Sex before marriage is a sin."

I give my mother a look, but she ignores me.

"How old are you, Christophe?" I open my mouth to answer the eldest with a snarky remark, but my mother interrupts me.

"He's seventeen." She says quickly. Rolling my eyes once more, I slump back in my seat. Soon regretting the action, I shift and sit up.

Whoever designed these damn benches to be wooden clearly has autism.

"So you'll be moving out soon?" The same woman enquiries, a barely visible brow raised. "Finding a wife, having children?"

I almost burst out laughing at her words. While I can't wait until I finally turn eighteen to leave the Christian crazed prison, I do not want a wife or children. I want the complete opposite; a bunch of sexual partners and a shitload of alcohol and cigarettes.

However, my mother's warning look and nails against my knee have me answer professionally. "Oui. Very soon."

My mother sighs, letting go of my knee. "Please Christophe, speak English around English people. You don't see Jessica speaking Spanish."

"You mean I wouldn't 'ear 'er speaking Spanish." I grumble a correction, and she just rolls her eyes. Sadie laughs.

"You both look so similar doing that action." The eldest smiles too, Jessica giggling.

"I believe the mass will begin soon." The white haired woman speaks up, standing with the he'll of Sadie. "I will see you after the ceremony, Christine?"

Mother nods, and her friends depart.

It seems the oldest has been attending the church so much she has the exact time for mass memorised. As soon as the three woman are seated, a young priest walks onto the alter. My mother seems to brighten, sitting up straight and brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

I on the other hand, sink down on the bench. I ignore the uncomfortable position, allowing my hair to fall before my eyes. I am in dire need of a haircut, yet I'm banned from all of the local shops for threatening to stab the stylists if they cut wrong.

When the priest begins to speak, I begin to want to stab myself.

60 minutes in this cursed building. 60 minutes of hymns and prayers. Of uncomfortable benches and a priest who resembles a rapist.

God, you fucking asshole you, strike me down if you have any mercy.

****

As the Mass progresses, I realise that God truly has no mercy. He hasn't stroke me down, hasn't killed me on the spot. He's letting me endure such torture, and he won't even suck my cock for surviving thus far.

I never did the sacraments. Didn't reconcile or receive communion like most in this town. At the time, my mother was too busy working two jobs and looking after a temperamental child. She tells me now that if she could, she'd go back and have me complete each sacrament up until marriage.

However, the fact that I've never gone for communion before doesn't seem to matter to her. She forces me up, forces me to line up with her. Her hands are placed together, fingertips pointing toward the ceiling. She stands proud, heels dull against the strip of red carpet as she walks slowly.

While I'm supposed to copy her hands, I don't. I slip them in my trouser pockets, surveying the church instead of focusing on keeping my steps quiet.

People seem to sing louder in an attempt to drown my steps out, and while I'd usually challenge them by stamping I'm caught off guard.

Getting close to the alter has allowed me to see upon it. A choir is stood by a few pews, clasping him books and supporting perfect and prim smiles though songs. Said choir is made up of mostly girls, only about two boys. They're all young, definitely teens from ages 13-17.

It's not the melody coming from the young members I'm entranced by, it's a member himself.

Stood in the centre, his smile is the brightest. The straightest teeth I've ever seen gleam in the candle light as he sinks, dimples prominent in each cheek. A pink tongue taps a thin upper lip as a word with the letter 'L' is sang, and I feel myself flush. Continuing to stare, I admire stunning blue eyes and fluffy blond locks. His hair is neatly styled back, complimenting a killer jawline.

Just staring at him and how angelic he is, makes me feel ugly by comparison. And, to tell the truth, I'm not ugly. Or so I've been told by the males I have fucked in the past.

For a second, I swear the endless pools of blue flicker up and catch my gaze. My breath hitches at the possibility. Feeling such an immense attraction to the blond has my mind racing, and I (literally) can't think straight.

I almost stumble into the priest, which almost causes him to drop the 'Body Of Christ'. He gasps, and I groan. I'm about to complain to the priest and shout to hide my embarrassment, but a light, melodic laugh causes me to stop. I jerk my head in the direction of the choir, to see the same blond laughing to himself.

Our eyes lock, and I can't help but smirk.

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If you're offended by my autism joke this is not the fandom for you