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## and you'll never be pure again

|| At first they try beating it out of him. Larry trainor religious trauma fic. Pedophilic & incestuous abuse TW.

Larry’s body is much smaller here. This is because he is only eight, and already he feels smaller than he actually is -- smaller in the eyes of God, smaller in the golden light core of existence, smaller than what composes life -- and already he knows that there is something wrong with him, he is already aware that God does not approve of what he is. He does not know what he is, yet, but he knows that it is sinful and therefore he should repent. He knows this better than he knows his multiplication tables or how to spell the word gravity. He knows this better than he knows himself — Lawrence Trainor is sin embodied, the opposite of holiness injected into a body.

And — bodies. At first they try beating it out of him, this impurity, his head crowned with abnormal colors, his shoulders and ribs searing like fire, entire body the hue of a vast and storming ocean. He chews it up in his mind; he cannot decide if no one notices the marks at school, or if they simply don’t care. Either way he deserves it. Either way this is his heavenly punishment for being This Way, this tainted, this diseased. He still does not understand why.

Benjamin Quincy’s parents love him. William Olson’s parents love him. Elizabeth Miller’s parents love her. Everyone in his life has a family that loves them; why are his parents different? What is the motivation behind his suffering? What did Larry do to evoke this kind of wrath?

If he was a good person —- if he was pure, if he was deserving — his family would love him. Obviously there is something inside of him, some defect, that they can sense, a flaw that everyone besides Larry can so clearly comprehend. It aches to think about. He aches to the bone, to whatever lies within — the ache bleeds into his soul. His soul is false. Everything about Larry Trainor is false, and he does not have a soul. It is very difficult to come to terms with this, when you are eight.

The violence stops for a week when he is twelve.

He is foolish — he almost believes that he has recovered. Larry allows himself to believe that he has finally atoned, that he is good now. Larry allows himself to feel optimism. He has healed, he is virtuous, maybe now he will deserve to have safety. His parents still don’t talk to him, but they don’t hit him. That’s better. That’s better. That’s better. Isn’t it?

He allows himself this fresh interpretation until his mother takes his hand and smiles at him, so sad, so sick. She is showing him kindness, she is showing love, he is finally, finally—

“Come with me, Lawrence,” she says. “Don’t be scared. I’m going to help you.”

And she leads him away. Cuts him open, an incision from the stomach—

Larry was never whole. He is destined to be broken—

A crash in his bedroom. An orchid has somehow knocked itself onto the floor, the pot shattering into fragments, in the same way that Larry’s soul or lack thereof had shattered into fragments; Larry as the orchid, Larry as something so innocent becoming so easily ruined.

But he is awake now. He is thankful for that. He is thankful, but the memories have resurfaced, the memories — he can feel this against his skin, begins clawing at his skin, the fire killed most of his nerves but he can still feel the ghost of invading memories like he is uncharred—-

he will never be whole he will never be whole he will never be whole he will never escape this he will never escape this he will never escape this he will never be clean he will always be tainted he will never be clean he can claw and scrub at his skin endlessly and he will

never

recover—-

A glow in his chest. He remembers that he isn’t alone anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his face now damp, “I’m so sorry, I can’t stop —- I know I’m safe now but I can still — I can’t — I’m sorry I put you through that — I —”

He doesn’t have to say it out loud. The Spirit reads his deepest desire — his needs — his everything, and exits his body. He doesn’t know how long he can retain consciousness without its presence, so the Spirit works quickly, and presses itself into bed next to him. Holds him close. Cradles him. Like: you’re safe now. I’ve got you.

Larry, normally, would be angry.

It buries its head his shoulder, burrows in, but he welcomes it, he invites its touch. It is the only being he can touch, and its touch feels warm. Its touch is gentle, without violence or pain like he had previously imagined; only a soft tingle against him, and he can feel it wholly.

Thank you, he whispers, and focuses only on a better kind of touch, the crackling a perfect distraction.

He is thankful.