[For the purpose of this promo and based on his profession, John Buckman’s dialogue will be purple as Zander Marshall does not appear.]
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Chapter 1
Winter sent a cold draft floating through the grandiose relic of architecture as the doors to the outside world swung open wide.
Why am I here?
What led Xavien Marshall to this ancient building on the east side of town was a mystery to the very man who had made the decision to come. He’d found himself reflecting more and more as of late. It was a reminiscent mindset that had the domino effect into him being here, but he couldn’t remember each individual domino now. He had given many thoughts to his childhood. Things were different as a child, and truth be told, Xavien missed the simplicity of the life he lived then.
FWA was an outlet. It also served as a career. Initially, Xavien hoped he could do… exactly what he had done. Use the FWA as a means to make money while legally assaulting people to the best of his ability with no fear of returning to the cage he had spent so long in. Relief passed over him after a victory, but deep down, Xavien wanted to be happy again. Not content. Happy.
Happiness had eluded him with the evasiveness of a mirage. He could never grasp it. He thought that winning the Tag Team Championships may grant him a sliver. It did not. The same idea had crossed his mind after winning the Gunfight One Ring, but to no avail. Each time he arrived home, the fury persisted.
Had Xavien been able to harness the anger, release it in the ring, and return home happy he would’ve been in the place mentally he had wanted for more than eight years. It simply was not unfolding as he anticipated.
The F1 Climaxxx was a challenge. It tested Xavien on multiple levels. He desired to win the tournament, both to carry the accolade of F1 Winner and North American Champion, and for his own ego. But the tournament carried a plethora of physical and mental turmoil along with it. With it came a sea of weight of psychological distress.
Being inside Xavien Marshall’s head was not a punishment most would wish to endure.
With some help, he had defeated Chris Peacock in under three minutes. Xavien took wins however they came to him, and in all reality, it saved him the wear and tear of a long contest heading into his second match of the F1. He would need it.
He had spent more time soul searching than he cared to admit as of late, sitting alone on the couch in a haze of smoke, considering phoning the counselor and wishing he could travel back in time. It felt like, to his clouded mind, that the memories of the time he yearned for only encompassed four or five experiences, standing out above the rest.
Back then, the negative aspects of his life were outweighed by the days of playing basketball with his friends at the local park, laughing and talking about girls. Today, each positive in his life felt like it was quickly held under the water by the bad, gasping for air until the memory of it had vanished.
Most of all, Xavien missed two things.
Peace.
And his mom.
As it stood, there was only an opportunity to regain one of them. The counselor was a bad idea. She was a cop. The rules are simple. If you work for a cop, you’re a cop. If you work with a cop, you’re a cop. She could never be trusted and her intentions could never be verified.
The underlying theme of the life story of Xavien Marshall was that in his positive memories, he had his Mom. In his negative ones, she was gone. The night that he attacked the police officer and nearly killed him, she was nestled away comfortably in their home. As much as he wished she was, as much as he needed her and her guidance, she wasn’t there in the police car as when the blunt realization sat in that his life had forever been changed.
She wasn’t there when he was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the courtroom and watch a Judge who only knew her sweet little boy by what a sheet of paper had concluded to be all he was worth, make decisions based solely on a bad moment.
This building was, in many ways, one of the few things he had left of the one person who had never let him down. She raised him here, inviting him to take part in the routines, and teaching him the traditions.
Those traditions had departed from him for so long now that it moved him back to the question in which he began.
Why am I here?
It was a desperate attempt to get the pieces of him back together that he had shattered with his own actions. A longshot chance to release him of his own anger and squash his paranoia.
It was a full-court heave with one second of the clock, with happiness at stake.
Unoiled gears of Xavien’s rampant mind screeched to an unplanned stop as the man pulled open the door of the room across from him. The man was old, likely in his sixties, and Xavien was certain he carried a familiar face. The man’s clothes gave a clue to where the familiarity came from. He sported a long cassock that covered him from shoulders to ankles. Around his neck hung a long, thin cloth, purple in color to signify penance. The design of his shirt made his role unmistakable. Its collar, buttoned to the very top, featured a small white square at the base of his neck.
Chapter 2
"Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained."
John 20:23
“I… is that Xavien? I have not seen you for quite some time.”
The raspy, friendly voice finally allowed the recognition to click. John Buckman had been as evergreen to this Parish as the pews in which his family sat. Early in life, Xavien recalled Deacon Buckman praying with his mother, supporting her when she lost her job or encountered hard times.
“Deacon Buckman… it’s been a while.”
“Father Buckman, now. It makes me most happy to see you today, do you remember how to begin?”
“It’s been quite some time, Father.”
The way he was expected to speak in these acts had always annoyed him. Then again, he had never seen a rule book. Nor had anyone directed him to talk this way.
“That’s quite alright, Xavien. Begin with the sign of the cross, Then go from there, if you do not recall, I will assist you.”
Xavien lowered his head, reflecting once more on the question he kept asking.
Why am I here?
How long had it been since he had even prayed? Thinking back, it had been prior to his final court date. A holding cell is the loneliest Xavien had ever been. In prison, he had been surrounded by others, albeit not people he desired to spend his days and nights with. The anxiousness in the holding cells were magnified by impending uncertainty.
Every time Xavien encountered uncertainty, his mind elected to envision driving on the long road to doom.
It was 7am when the correctional officers of the Cuyahoga County Jail opened the door to Cell Block 4 and beckoned his name. Usually, Xavien would have been enraged by being woken up an hour before breakfast, but on this day he had yet to fall asleep. In rapid order, he was given a bagel for breakfast, ordered to change into a more professional attire, and shoved in the back of a county transportation vehicle.
He arrived at the courthouse just before 8am.
His appearance in front of the judge was scheduled for 11:30.
Requiring him to wait was intentional. Nothing on Earth would ever convince Xavien otherwise. It was mental warfare. Mental warfare that had been weaponized against him. And he was losing. He was locked in a holding cell, surrounded by nothing but a block wall and metal toilet, with nothing to do but think. Thinking was his mortal enemy. In large part, thinking was why he sat where he sat.
Why am I here?
To free yourself of the holding cell that exists in your mind. To turn to the higher power and seek relief from the demons that control you.
Without a clock that morning, Xavien had resorted to listening to the sounds around him to estimate the time. When the Bailiffs would come down to retrieve other inmates, he estimated thirty minutes had passed. A new plaintiff was usually scheduled for every half hour. After this realization, he found that the half hours passed slower than he could ever imagine.
His lawyer had told him that there was a possibility of probation, despite his plea deal, due to his age. He argued that Xavien was the perfect candidate for probation. That decision came down to only the Judge. He had been young and impressionable, caught in the web of gang life that had chewed up countless teenagers before they ever had a chance to fathom success, and spat them back out to either die in the streets or waste their twenties behind bars.
Torture was the only appropriate word to describe the last half hour, by Xavien’s estimates, that he spent in the holding cell. Was the judge in a good mood? Had the officer’s family come to speak out against him? Was the officer even still alive? What if he walked upstairs to find that the cop was dead and he was charged with murder. Every possibility had sprinted through his mind without consideration for logic.
When the half hour felt like it should’ve been over, he prayed. If anyone could put the life that Xavien had lived for three years behind him, it was Jesus. He forgives. He loves you. Jesus would be in control. He’d weigh heavily on the judge’s subconscious, make him realize that the man who stood before him wasn’t a man at all. He was a boy. A kid.
Ask and you shall receive. His mother repeated it to him often, every time he wanted to get a little bit taller or faster. Just pray, she said. So he did. He asked. Then he begged.
And then he cried.
What had he done? Who was he? What happened to Ms. Marshall’s little boy?
The bailiff finally opened his cell door and instructed him to put his hands against the wall. In front of the judge, Xavien trusted in God. He believed. He had faith.
Until the world came crashing down. Fifteen years. He would belong to the Ohio Department of Corrections until he was 32.
His faith was gone.
“Ahem. Xavien, you do remember the sign of the cross?”
Xavien was jarred back to reality by Father Buckman’s voice. Of course he remembered the sign of the cross. Now, he remembered exactly why he hadn’t done it in so long. Jesus failed him. His prayers were unanswered. He was forced to grow up. One day a boy, the next a convict. His pleas fell on deaf ears.
Why am I here?
Then again, he only talked to God when he needed a favor.
Who would answer in that situation anyways?
With a sigh, Xavien moved his hand to his forehead.
“In the name of the Father,”
His hand traveled to his chest.
“And the son,”
Then to his left shoulder, over to his right mid-sentence.
“And the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
With hesitation, Xavien glanced across from him at Father Buckman, the man who prayed over his Mother at her worst. This was the closest he could be to the old Xavien Marshall.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Chapter 3
"So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God."
James 1:19-20
The clergyman began with a prayer.
"God, our loving Father, You sent Your Son into the world to save us from sin and lead us to a life of grace and holiness. As we stand here in Your presence, grant this your child the courage and humility to confess their sins sincerely. May the Holy Spirit enlighten his heart and mind, revealing the ways they need Your healing and forgiveness. Help him to understand Your infinite mercy and love, which never falters, no matter how far we stray. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen. What would you like to confess?"
With the velocity and reckless abandon of a second place driver on the last lap of the Daytona 500, a thousand thoughts flooded Xavien’s mind. Where should he even begin? Could he recap the entire last eight years of his life? What damn difference does it make?
Why am I here?
Xavien couldn’t shake the feeling of chasing something he could never catch. The past was gone. The anxiety that riddled his mind, the anger that controlled his temperament, all of them couldn’t be washed away now. It was his cross to bear, and his struggle to survive through.
What you’re doing isn’t working. Have faith.
He allowed his mind to rest. Have faith, he thought once more, a singular vehicle on what is usually the Autobahn. Now, where to start? Anger. Start with the anger.
“Father, I feel like my anger controls me.”
Why the hell is he talking like this again? He’s a former gang member. One of the most inexplicably violent wrestlers on the entire FWA roster, yet here he sits, talking like an old white dude… to an old white dude.
“Thank you for confessing this to me, Xavien. God’s grace can free us of our struggles with negative worldly emotions. Can you explain further, Xavien, how has this fury pushed you astray from our Lord? Allow me to steer you towards relief from the weight of this anger.”
Eight years ago, it wasn’t anger that propelled him at all. So, he thought, you’re mad all the time. What’s the best example of that? Was it imagining himself as a gruesome murderer decapitating all of his previous opponents, culminating in slicing Chris Peacock’s head off it’s shoulders with a wicked grin across his face?
Earlier in the day, he had thought about the F1 Climaxxx. Validation was his escape. The escape, however, was temporary. Being locked in the darkest dungeons of his own mind, even a few hours away was worth it. The other seven competitors, albeit indirectly, were trying to pry that from him. Winning validated him. He needed to win.
The prospect of defeating another opponent in a regular wrestling match was not enough. It’s just business, he kept telling himself, but it was a lie. It’s just business was a self-serving fallacy. An act of trying to lie to himself. It was personal. Every person who stepped inside the squared circle with Xavien Marshall had inadvertently made it personal. Because they were trying to steal his validation.
“I… I want to destroy people, Father. I want to beat them lifeless. I want to leave them in a pool of their own blood. Even when winning a sanctioned, organized wrestling match would be enough… it’s not. I picture myself beating the life out of them. This week, I face a man named Bryan Baxter, and I want to end his existence just for standing in my way.”
The Priest takes a long pause at the conclusion of Xavien’s statement, absorbing the vitriol laced onto every word.
Xavien had structured his thought to sound as tame as possible. Baxter, or Big Bryan Bastard, presented a mountainous challenge. He had the North American Championship. He had won six straight F1 Climaxxx pool matches.
It was time to make another statement. It was time to decapitate Big Bryan. Xavien’s train of thought tore recklessly through the tracks of his mind focused solely on his opponent before Father Buckman derailed it.
“Child of God, it's very important that you've brought these feelings into the light. It's crucial to address these issues for your spiritual and emotional well-being. First and foremost, remember that every person is made in the image of God, and every life is precious.
It's important to find the root of these feelings. Often, such intense anger can stem from unresolved issues or deep-seated hurt. I gather you are a professional wrestler, you must find the balance between competing for work and true evil and hatred. Focus on prayer and meditation in your time away from the ring.
God's mercy is infinite, Xavien. He loves you and wants to help you through this. You're not alone in this struggle, and with the right help and support, you can find a path to peace and self-control.”
The words float through Xavien’s left ear and back out the right. He continues to think about his history of violence. In five minutes, he had beaten Jay Kenny so viciously that the referee had to stop the match. It was a twofold action - firstly, it served to put the FWA on notice of what he was capable of. Secondly, he enjoyed demolishing someone unsuspecting, that he had lured to comfort before the attack.
Focus, he thinks, we’re trying to leave this shit behind.
The heat was suffocating. Within the stifling confines of Cuyahoga County Jail, the rule mandating t-shirts seemed superfluous at any time, but especially now. Soon enough, it was lifted. Inmates roamed the dorms in minimal attire, their aggravation evident in the sweltering air. The conditions were more than uncomfortable; they were dehumanizing. Xavien, just eighteen, was caged with thirty-six strangers, the walls of his cell seeming to close in on him as each day passed. His frustration simmered dangerously close to the surface. The weekly visitation rule only compounded his isolation, since his mother hadn’t been able to visit. The wait to be transferred to prison was excruciating. Six weeks had crawled by, though he was told it would only be two.
The identity of the man Xavien targeted in his memory was now blurred, unimportant. He was merely a stand-in, chosen for his unassuming nature. The man was big, easily over 300 pounds.
Just like Bryan Baxter.
The urge to release his pent-up aggression was overwhelming. Xavien found his opportunity.
As the randomly-chosen inmate ambled unsuspectingly into the bathroom, Xavien was there, waiting. The attack was swift and brutal. A single punch to the mouth sent the man staggering. As he fell, Xavien's instincts took over. He pounced, elbowing his victim fiercely, then relentlessly slamming his face against the metal sink. Each impact was delivered with a chilling disregard for the man's life.
Just like Bryan Baxter. It was so fun.
It would be so fun to do it again.
He shook his head violently, as if to remove the thought by force. He wanted to be freed from the very mentality he had just looked back on pleasantly. Yet, here he was. Envisioning a scenario that he should be trying to forget. The smile faded from his face, it was time to make a decision.
Do you want help? Or do you want to continue to lose control of your psyche?
He pulled his lips back into his mouth, feeling the remnants of the day-old-shave of his mustache prickling against his bottom lip. He tried to place himself back to where he was mentally when he had made the decision to travel here today. Find the old you, Xavien. He channeled the desire to be fixed.
The Priest’s words, the ones he initially felt that he had ignored entirely, came back to him, echoing in his head as if God himself had placed them on a loudspeaker.
God wants to heal you. God loves you. God wants to help you through this.
He merged back on to the path towards healing.
Chapter 4
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
Philippians 4:6-7
“Father, I’m also dealing with paranoia. And anxiety.”
Xavien wasn’t sure he’d ever admitted that out loud. Paranoia had become part of his life before he had gotten arrested, but the feelings had amplified greatly since then. Resentment crept in that his usual paranoid feeling hadn’t dissuaded him from going with Lucky Jay that night.
His outer shell remained perpetually stoic, but he froze at the sound of sirens. It was embarrassing. It was the hardest thing for him to admit in the world. He had a weakness, he was not untouchable.
Xavien Marshall has fears.
Every night, the sound of sirens would blast through the thin space between his window and its frame. Instantaneously, his heart began to pulsate. Fast. He could watch it visibly pulsate on his chest. Then, he became paralyzed. Unable to speak or move, he would sit by the window and watch to see whatever emergency vehicle that had sparked the fear blaze by. Once it passed, he could return to his daily life.
The problem was, it became hard to live his normal life after falling under the distress of anxiety that could be triggered by a solitary sound. The next day, he would return right to the very activities that created the fear of the police stopping at his house to begin with. When you’re paranoid about everything, you push through anything. It all feels like you’re making a mistake.
In fact, it was in large part the reason he hadn’t walked out of this cathedral before Father Buckman ever arrived. Xavien was well versed in the art of ignoring your inhibitions that were crafted by anxiety. Do it and you’ll be fine, he told himself. He had the same thought before he went with Jay that night.
Fuck that motherfucker, he thought.
Is he allowed to think curse words while in confession? He’d confess it later.
“Do you believe these things are a result of sin, or have you sinned because of them?”
These are the questions he was hoping the Priest could answer for him. The recent self-reflective journey hadn’t enlightened him on this part fully.
“I would say that, uh, I’m not sure, but I’d lean towards just saying that I don’t want to feel them anymore.”
Xavien hated who he was at that moment. He wanted to find a way to quell the negative thoughts and emotions inside his head. He wanted to be more like who he was when he was just a child. Instead, he felt like a dumb child, confessing stupid things because he was supposed to, because saying them to some man would simply send a word to God and fix it all.
Have faith, Xavien.
He had nothing to lose at this point. At worst, nothing would happen and he could learn to live with his mental issues. At best, he would feel happiness again.
“Xavien, I do hope you understand that experiencing paranoia and anxiety is not in itself a sin. These feelings can be a part of the human experience, often intensified by our experiences and struggles. However, it's how we respond to these feelings that can lead us towards or away from sin. It's commendable that you're seeking to understand and address these emotions.
Remember, God is with us in our struggles, including our mental and emotional battles. Seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness. I encourage you to consider speaking with a mental health professional about these experiences.
In addition to prayer, practices like meditation, reading Scripture, and participating in community support can be beneficial. It's natural for our minds to wander, even to thoughts of frustration or anger. What matters is not so much the thoughts themselves but how we handle them.
Remember, Xavien, hope is always present, even in our darkest moments”
The advice resonated this time. Although, admittedly, Xavien could’ve settled for the cliff notes versions of the word salads that Father Buckman repeatedly served him. He allowed himself to absorb the words slowly.
Seeking help is a strength, not a weakness.
Hesitation was natural when he was invited to the F1 Climaxxx. Xavien carried himself in a way that didn’t reflect his feelings. He had learned a long time ago to carry himself how he wants to be perceived, not who he is.
He wanted to be perceived as bulletproof. A steady, confident force who would go to any lengths to succeed. The latter part was correct. Self-doubt crept in before every match. Xavien knew only one way to eliminate it. Carry himself how he wants to be perceived, not who he is.
At the same time, he could not muster up a singular focus on as much as a Confession.
Once he made his way to the ring, the self-doubt was drowned out by the sound of the crowd booing him. It was the spark that ignited his best fuel. Hatred. Once lit, the flames of fury engulfed him. Then, he would win, and enjoy his validation.
Until the anger came back. At his life. At his circumstance.
Then the paranoia or the anxiety, as if the two played roshambo to decide which one would torment Xavien each day.
There was no peace. There hadn’t been in a long time.
Xavien steps into the ring confidently, his long fur jacket over his torso and extending to his knees. He relishes in the jeers of the crowd, taking them all in. There is no fire. The anxiety persists. Is he good enough to be in this ring? Is he going to fuck this up? He always does. He fucked up football. He fucked up his teenage years. He fucked up his family. He fucked up his Mom’s life. He fucks everything up. Why would FWA be any different?
The bell sounds and he engages in a collar and elbow tie-up with Bryan Baxter. Baxter uses his weight advantage instantly, tossing him to the ground, eliciting an audible “Oooh!” from the crowd. Xavien bolts to his feet instantly. Now, feeling angry, he runs and attempts a shoulder block. He is flattened by the bigger Baxter.
Xavien tries to ignite the fire. There’s no match. There’s no fuse. There’s no gasoline. He runs towards Baxter and fires a kick, missing completely and crashing onto the mat.
Baxter lifts him from the mat and launches him into the corner like a small child. He quiets the crowd and delivers an open hand chop, the sound of his meaty hand slapping across Xavien’s chest creating an echo throughout the arena. He does it twice more, then runs across the ring and connects on a full force splash before Xavien falls to the canvas.
Trying to roll out of the ring, Baxter grabs his dreadlocks and pulls him back in. His smile is wide and mere inches from Xavien’s face. It infuriates Xavien. He attempts to chop Baxter’s hands off of his hair, but doesn’t have the strength. Instead, Bryan lifts him over his shoulders and applies the torture rack.
Xavien screams in pain, powerless to break the hold. He wants to tap. He wants to submit and end this embarrassment.
Submitting is not a word that Xavien has found in his vocabulary. He holds on as Bryan Baxter increases the force, bending and twisting his spine over his broad shoulders. Baxter drops him onto the mat, hits the ropes without hesitation, and delivers a senton. Xavien gasps for breath, finding himself unable to move.
Baxter picks Xavien from the ground and connects a Baxter Driver.
One.
Two.
Three.
The reality of this possibility disconcerts Xavien. Would this be how he reacted without anger? A common jobber? Xavien Marshall is a competitor, he says to himself. A winner. If a life of hatred was the only way to continue to win the FWA, then perhaps it was a sacrifice worth making.
You can have both, damn it.
Have faith.
Suddenly, he found himself rewinding the tapes in the depths of his memory banks. For with God, Nothing Shall Be Impossible. If he wants to have both, he must do it with God. Through God. With God.
Like a tag team.
These were the very words he was raised on. Nothing is possible without God.
“Is there anything more you’d like to confess?”
Father Buckman’s words sliced through the steady stream of thought in Xavien’s mind. There was so much more. He thought about everything he had done in prison. Most of those tales were lodged in the back of his mind - a self-reminder of what he is capable of, but better not to be told in the light of day.
Deception was a part of his daily life, too. His closest friend in prison was whoever had money. He would look out for them. As long as Xavien was around, they had nothing to fear, for the low cost of whatever they could bestow upon him. And if their money was evident and they weren’t helping Xavien, they were in danger. He and his friends, usually fellow gang members, would circle. Like sharks smelling blood, they would give anyone an ultimatum. Either pay your dues, or get ready for a hospital trip.
Xavien had plenty of examples of each side of that non-negotiable demand.
And if honesty was of the essence at this moment, Xavien’s intentions with Jay Kenny were to deceive him. He wanted to put him in a dangerous situation in Cleveland that night. Sink or swim. Jay swam. Jay Kenny showed he was someone could trust. So, he did. He trusted Jay. Maybe not fully, but he realized they could accomplish a lot together.
There was the matter of greed - spinning into deception, he had done whatever it took for money. Theft was an option, too. He had robbed more people than he cared to admit. Old women who turned away from their purse were inviting him to explore the inner-working of their wallets. It wasn’t the proudest part of his teenage years, but he had done it. The peace of mind he wanted was the same peace he had stolen from so many before him.
Pride. It was another sin. One of the seven deadly ones. Guilty as charged. Being unwilling to submit to God.
Xavien reflected on the story of Lucifer. The angel who wanted to be an equal to God. In a lot of ways, Xavien felt he himself was equal to God. Judge, Jury, and Executioner. That’s how Xavien saw himself. If he decided it was time for you to go, he’d take your life. It was empowering.
He then considered envy. Man, was he envious. He was envious of the other kids on his football team who got to continue their dream. He was envious of everyone who still had their mother. He was envious of people who were happy. He was envious of Tommy Bedlam having the X Championship and anyone else who had a Championship that he did not. He was envious of those with faith. He was envious of people who got to chase their childhood dream. Hell, he was envious of those who got to finish out their childhood.
He was also envious of Bryan Baxter.
Bryan Baxter had the one thing he did not. Friendship. The friendship between Jeremy Best and Bryan Baxter was a rocky one. But the two came back together. That’s how friendship works, Xavien thought. It isn’t always going to be great, but you always find your way to persist through the bad times.
Lucky Jay was once Xavien’s best friend. Lucky Jay was once the most prominent part of Xavien’s life besides his Mom. They had fought once. It was an intense basketball game at the park and Xavien fouled Jay as hard as he could. Before he knew it, his best friend punched him in the mouth. They battled all over the park, Xavien trying his best to knock him out but not kill him.
They made up shortly thereafter. Xavien, in retrospect, could never shake the feeling that Jay had ulterior motives. Maybe this was an idea he’d created to make the fracture of the friendship easier to process. But, he had reasons to ask questions. Xavien was his bodyguard. It was evident to anyone around them that Lucky Jay was a little more bold with Xavien around.
Then, he ratted him out to save himself. Xavien missed his high school graduation and his senior year of football. He had missed getting to tell his Momma goodbye, and he had missed eight years of life.
Fuck that motherfucker, he thought once more, there was no repairing that.
He was envious of Bryan Baxter.
Chapter 5
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
Hebrews 11:1
Awkward silence hung between Father Buckman and Xavien. From the Priest’s point of view, he was careful to not interrupt a prayer, while Xavien had not allowed a single perspective besides his own to pass through his mind.
“Father, I have… I lost my faith. I felt like God let me down.”
Xavien couldn’t imagine uttering those words to his Mom. He was sure the Priest would talk him through it, but his Mom would’ve had her belt removed before he could think. He wanted to have faith. He wanted to believe in God’s plan. Life had taken that from him, but as he sat, he was trying to get it back.
Father Buckman leaned forward and spoke with a soft tone.
“Does this relate to your… legal mishaps?”
The question annoyed Xavien. What does it matter what it relates to? He confessed it. Pray. Do whatever it is that you do. Help me.
“It relates to my life, in general. I don’t have as much faith as I used to.”
The Priest gazed into Xavien’s eyes. He saw hurt. Life had been hard on this young man. Many of the youth of Cleveland were raised in this very church. And many of them had gotten lost in the streets, being sent to jail or prison and never came back. This was pivotal. The right words might bring Xavien’s soul to salvation, the wrong words could send him on a downward spiral.
"Foremost, I will apologize for the length of the response you are about to receive, but I encourage you to listen closely. Doubt and loss of faith are not enemies, but rather a part of the human journey towards understanding. Remember, even Mother Teresa experienced what she called 'the dark night of the soul.' It's in these moments of doubt that our faith can actually deepen."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing.
"You feel God has let you down, and it's okay to feel this way. It's a testament to your relationship with Him – a relationship where you can express your deepest doubts and fears. Faith isn't about a constant state of certainty; it's a voyage, often through stormy seas, leading to a deeper and more profound understanding of the divine."
Father Buckman leaned back, his gaze still fixed on Xavien.
"God's plan is often a mystery to us. In times of struggle, it's hard to see any plan at all. But sometimes, our trials are not punishments, but lessons, or even open doors to new paths we could never have imagined. Your journey back to faith might not be easy or quick, but it will be your own unique path. And remember, this church, God, and I, we are all here for you on this journey. You're not alone, Xavien."
God’s plan wasn’t just a Drake song. He had believed it in his heart at one time. Father Buckman was right, too, that he knew trials and tribulations were part of his journey. God never promised that it would be an easy journey. In fact, Xavien’s own actions were what derailed the plans He had made for Xavien. Hearing those words created clarity. The greatest source of anger in his life was the resentment he held for everyone who failed him.
Yet, he held no disdain for the man who had failed him the most.
Himself.
Xavien perched on a round metal stool, its base firmly anchored to the table to prevent its misuse as a weapon. He sat before an elongated table that spanned the length of the room. His hand reached for a plate in front of him, lifting a slice of pizza and bringing it closer to his lips with a grin.
Twice annually, the prison allowed inmates' families to bring “outside food” meals and dine together during visits. When his mother inquired about his preference, Xavien, not wanting to disappoint her, hesitated. He feared he would hurt her feelings by asking for pizza from Shay’s Diner, his favorite post-church spot since he was only a little boy.
To his relief, his mother wasn't the least bit upset. 'Anything for my baby,' was her motto. She procured two large pizzas and journeyed to Columbus, her car filled with the scents of pepperoni and sausage. His mom was his Superhero. Only she would walk inside a prison with two pizzas that had traveled three hours and demand them be heated up.
And not many people could entice the staff to oblige.
During their four-hour visit, Xavien devoured an entire pizza. He had fasted for 18 hours to fully relish each bite. His mother sat by him, content with only two slices, her eyes alight with joy as she watched him eat.
Visits were bittersweet. Returning to his cell meant a thorough search for Xavien, and his mother underwent the same upon entry. Their goodbyes were tearful, filled with dreams of a future reunion, yet they cherished the moments of togetherness.
They spoke every other day on the phone; more frequent calls were a luxury beyond their means. Conversation topics thinned by the end of their four-hour visits, but the joy of being together in person was enough.
His mother was a devout believer in miracles, but Xavien was unable to match her conviction. If miracles were real, why was he here? But his Mom had unwavering faith in God's plan, preaching patience, resilience, and faith. "Don't count the days, count the months," she would say, marking each month as a step closer to his return home.
Whenever Xavien felt down, she reminded him of his responsibility for his actions, careful to enforce accountability without beating her son while he was down.
The parole board had rejected Xavien's release, postponing another chance at freedom for three more years. His mother was heartbroken but maintained her faith, hopeful for a reassessment, as some inmates were being released due to COVID. She clung to myriad possibilities, all anchored by a singular belief: God would find a way.
The correctional officer waltzed into the room with a smile on his face seemingly elated with the chance to separate families. He announced that only ten minutes remained of visiting time.
Xavien’s mom closed this visit the way she always did. With prayer.
He didn’t partake, but he allowed her to. She begged God, pleading to let her son come home before three years were up. She asked God to allow him a second chance at life. She had faith.
And as she finished her prayer, trying her best to hide it from her son, a tear ran down her face.
With the same slyness, a tear ran down Xavien’s too.
She hugged him as time expired and reminded him of one thing.
God will bring us together soon.
It was the last time he ever saw her.
The last words that his Mother had ever said to him ran through his mind, echoing from each chamber of his brain and glaring in his ears.
God will bring us together soon.
Except, God did not. A few months later, she hadn’t answered his calls. Then, she missed her first Saturday visit in five years. Before he knew it, he was being called to the Captain’s office. His mom was dead. He cried then, and he cried now. He missed her more than he could explain.
Why am I here?
To try to reignite the faith inside him that had burned inside his mother.
And what good did it do for her?
Silently, Xavien raised himself from the chair in which he rested and pushed open the door. Father Buckman watched curiously, electing not to speak. Quickly, Xavien moved towards the door. The paranoia he often felt was gone. Instead, he was enraged.
Xavien Marshall failed Xavien Marshall
But God failed his Mother.
Xavien punched the door as he exited it. The light of the day felt amplified now, nearly blinding him despite the cloudy sky. He was furious. He turned to his left and moved towards his brother’s car. Yanking the door open, he threw himself inside and punched the steering wheel now. Over and over. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to release them. His emotions were on a roller coaster, and he was in the midst of the biggest loop yet.
Throwing the keys into the ignition, he turned so hard that it nearly broke. He pressed the brake pedal down and slapped the engine into reverse. With no regard for the cars around him, he shot backwards, then he hit the brakes and floored the gas, tearing onto Euclid Avenue with a screech of the tires.
Father Buckman stood in the door frame of the Church, observing as the Camry tore through a right turn and zipped down the street. He blew it, he thought, Xavien would never come back. But he couldn’t decide what he had said that had lit the fuse. So, Father Buckman did what he believed, in his heart, that he should do.
Pressing the front door of the Cathedral back together, he walked towards the altar purposefully. He dropped to his knees, and quietly began to pray.
All he could do now is pray for Xavien Marshall.
Chapter 6
The GPS on his iPhone was set to no particular destination and the Camry cruised to wherever Xavien would take it. His eyes were deceived by his mind, everything in front of him carried a tint of red. Xavien’s paranoia had been overtaken by his anger. He spun the tires on to Shaw Avenue, not bothering to look for police cars, and hurried down the quiet street. Then, he tore back to his left on St. Clair Avenue.
His mind had picked a location. This one was consistent with where his mind had wandered all day. His speed never decreased for 3 miles, then he saw the sign for East 72nd Street. This road was familiar. Xavien whipped the car around the turn, sliding without giving a passing thought to the possibility of driving right through the Angela’s Diner front door. He lined the car out and accelerated forward, flying under the Detroit Shoreway overpass until he saw a sign.
The Cleveland Metroparks Lakefront Reservation was one of the frequent spots for residents of the city to absorb its natural beauty. Out of respect for the families around, he slowed the car as he entered. He turned slowly into a parking spot and leapt from the car.
Walking towards the water, Xavien’s mind slowed as his movement did. He ambled slowly, taking his time to not alarm anyone by sprinting. This area was a place that his mom traveled to often. It was her getaway. It was her escape from the harsh realities of a single mother.
Now, Xavien desired to feel close to her. The Priest had not done so. Father Buckman, instead, made him feel that his Mother was treated unfairly. He crossed the asphalt strip between rocks and stepped onto the pier overlooking Lake Erie.
The sky was clear and the wind was light. It was a warm day for Cleveland winters, one that still required a light jacket but did not send residents outside of the house dressed like Randy in “A Christmas Story.” These winter days were few and far between, and everyone knew to cherish them while they were around.
Clouds lightly whitened patterns into the blue sky as the Lake Erie water danced beneath him. The scene was peaceful. It was the exact type of scene that his mother used to visit this place to see. Her own slice of peace.
Xavien took the scene in, and continued to do the one thing he had done consistently all week.
He thought.
The one prevailing thought that he could not escape seemed to reverberate in his head like thunder.
God failed my Mom.
Zander and Xavien sat intently with fishing poles in their hands. Neither of them enjoyed fishing, but their mother didn’t expect her small children to sit quietly here without something to occupy their minds. The boys laughed as ducks passed behind them, reflecting on the time a few ducks had chased Zander. Xavien taunted him over it often. The sound of her kids having fun, mixed with the quiet sound of the distance from the city was enough to serve as a nirvana for Ms. Marshall.
She had worked 13 hours that day, tirelessly punching holes into thick sheets of metal. Her hands physically ached, her back falling in line behind them. Listening to her kids, she remembered why she did it. Xavien and Zander were all she had, and she promised herself during each of their births that they’d live a better life than she did.
The sun started to move down, seemingly plunging into the Lake, and casting refractions of colors in each and every direction. It was a picture that she needed. It served to remind her that there was always peace and beauty in the world, she just had to seek it. It wouldn’t be hard forever, she thought. God would bless her and her boys.
She moved towards her children and told them to begin gathering their fishing poles, an order they did not object to, and talked to them.
“Times are hard, babies. Sometimes Momma has to come down here and refocus. You’re going to find out as you grow, it’s very hard to keep perspective on your bad days. That’s why I come here sometimes. God shows me a beautiful scene to calm me. I get to listen to my boys have fun together. It brings me right out of the dumps.”
She weaved words that her kids did not yet understand, but they listened intently.
“One day, you two boys are going to be successful. I’m going to give you every chance. You will have food to eat and all the help you need in school. I don’t know what path God will take you on, but if I can help it, you will be successful.”
Maybe she was right.
God failed my Mom.
It drifted once more through the inner workings of his mind. Perspective, he mused. Gazing out over the water, he watched birds soar and observed the clouds' reflections shimmering on the surface.
I failed my mom.
Casting blame to the Higher Power was misguided. It was time for Xavien to take accountability. It was not a responsibility he was thrilled to take, but it was time to direct his anger in the right place. He had let her down. She would never have had to wait for him to get home if he had never left to begin with.
He tried to gather the anger, letting it build in his heart. With no explanation, he reached his hand out towards the sky, and spoke to the air.
“I love you, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
A tear trickled down his cheek, followed by one on the opposite side. He meditated on his Mother’s words once more.
You will be successful.
He wouldn’t fail her twice.
Chapter 7
Father Buckman had developed a sense for hearing a car arrive at the old Church. He could not explain how rubber on pavement outside could be heard inside a building of this magnitude, but he considered that it may be a gift. He drifted towards the window, finding a square of the stained glass to peek out of, and was surprised to see the same Toyota Camry who had left not long ago.
A moment later, Xavien Marshall once again entered the church. He pressed the door open softly and walked calmly down the aisle.
Thank you, Father. Buckman thought as he saw Xavien arrive once again so soon.
Now, however, Xavien was dressed in a black suit - pitch black from his jacket to his shoes. Under the coat, a white dress top appeared to be tailored to Xavien’s exact dimensions. Peacefully, he moved towards the altar.
Father Buckman followed him, careful to not misgauge Xavien’s intentions. He had been a hot head since he was a child, and he had left with his temperament on full display.
“I apologize for how I left. I’m ready to talk a little more.”
“Do you wish to return to the confession booth?”
Xavien glanced around. No one was present but himself and the Priest.
“Nah, we’re good right here. I’d like to say my Hail Mary’s.”
The Priest looked at him, still unsure of Xavien’s mental state. He opted to play it safe.
“Three should do, Xavien.”
Once more, Xavien crossed himself. Then, he glanced up, not at the roof of the church, but to the Heavens far past it.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
John Buckman nodded, a grin on his face not daring to transform into a full smile.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
Xavien nodded back, now, and displayed his own smirk.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of his death. Amen."
Following his final Amen, Xavien moved right back towards the door. Father Buckman noted the change in words and elected to elicit more information.
“Uh, Xavien, where are you headed now?”
Xavien stopped in his tracks. He turned back towards Father Buckman and glimpsed down to his suit, inviting The Priest to observe it as well.
“A funeral, Father.”
The Priest was curious.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Xavien. Do you mind if I ask who has passed away?”
Xavien allowed his smile to grow from ear-to-ear, displaying his imperfect teeth widely for anyone to see.
“No one, yet, Father, but I got a promise to keep to my mom. I do need one more favor.”
The Priest leaned his head forward, welcoming Xavien’s request.
“Let God know that when Bryan Baxter gets there, I’m the one who sent him. I’ll see you in a week.”
