HIDING - every scar has a story

25. Jesus was that big.

{Jon}

When Bea heard Jon come in, she shot down the hall in her footed pyjamas, holding out a storybook. "Jonee, read to me?"

Jon hung up his jacket, feeling his dad standing on the mat right behind him. "I'm tired Honey Bee," he said finally.

Her face fell.

Jon looked down on her bent head, remembering when she had been small as Liam. She had been his favorite even then. He sighed. "Just one, okay?"

Her smile beamed again. "Okay."

They sat together on her bed, the blankets over their feet. Bea burrowed under Jon's arm to use his body as a pillow. The storm of Jon's emotions smoothed out as he read. One story turned into three, and Tabby climbed into her bed across the room to listen, too. Three stories turned into five before Jon realized Bea's breathing was slow and deep, her little body totally relaxed against him.

"Is she asleep?" he said softly to Tabby.

"Yup." Tabby got up and turned out the lights.

Jon eased Bea onto her pillows, tucking her blankets in tight. He brushed her hair back from her soft cheek. The idea of someone hitting Bea, or making her afraid jolted him with anger. He would want to be big enough to protect her and hit back hard.

The thing was, Cary wasn't big. Jon couldn't stop seeing the narrow wings of Cary's shoulder blades making his skin ripple hot red and purple and black.

Jon showered and brushed his teeth, then went into his room and shut the door. When his father knocked, he stayed silent, pretending to be asleep. He couldn't erase what he knew: God let people get hurt. Whoever that made him, he could never go back to being the shiny pastor's kid he had been.

Jon rolled over, slapping his pillow back into shape.

Jesus was in the room, leaning against Jon's desk.

Jon suddenly realized whom he was really angry with. Not his dad. Not Todd or Kurtis or the worship committee. Not even Cary's father. The person he wanted to hurt the most was standing with his bare, scarred feet on Jon's bedroom carpet.

Jon glared at Jesus. "What did you come here for?"

Jesus' face was covered with shadow. His eyes glittered in the city light falling through the window. "I came to answer," he said. "For what I've done."

The pile of things Jon was angry at Jesus for was heavy and hot on his head. "That's a lot."

Jesus was silent. The scar on the hand resting on Jon's desk shone in the moonlight.

Jon said the filthiest thing he could think of. "Cary's dad beat the shit out of him and you watched him do it. You watched."

"Jon."

The guitar string started ringing in his chest.

"Come here," Jesus said.

Jon put his feet on the floor and took a step toward Jesus, trembling.

Jesus lifted his shirt off his waistband. "Put your hand here."

There was a hole open, dark, in Jesus' side. Jon swallowed and put out his hand.

Jesus tore open. Jon's ears and eyes and mouth were full of his blood, and there was a terrible, bone-shaking cry. Jesus was full of all of it: Todd hurting him and the lies sticking to him at church, his dad's grief and Cary's stripes and more and more—all the suffering in the world. That cry went on without breath until Jon's legs couldn't hold him anymore.