Leila presses her palm against her own chest to feel her heartbeat. She takes off her pajama top and stretches across her bed like the crucified one the principal showed her. Her ribs protrude through her skin, her thin arms tighten as if in pain. She looks at herself and sees no difference between the body of Jesus and hers, except that hers is a girl’s body and she can still feel pain, while Jesus is long dead, his suffering transformed into bronze or copper on cheap crosses.

It’s Friday night. Leila puts on so much makeup that she doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror. The bruises still show. She avoids places where she could meet fellow devotees of the faith. She once tried it with a boy she liked from their community. At that time her body still belonged to her, it held value, so they stopped halfway because she was afraid it would hurt. Since then, her body has become worthless. Now she wants it to hurt.

She drinks fast to loosen up and picks up the first guy who will take her, even with the bruises on her face. It all happens at his place.

‘Hold me down,’ she says to the boy, whose name she can barely recall. Her words become slurred, her tongue is heavy from the vodka.

The boy’s pants land on the floor, the enormous belt buckle shaped like devil horns drops with a loud clank.

‘Hold me down like I’m Jesus,’ Leila says.

The boy laughs, but obeys. He pins her arms down above her head. Leila would like him to stretch them sideways, but the boy interprets her struggling as part of the game, so he only holds her tighter. He doesn’t ask for permission, his pene­tration is quick and efficient, unlike the boy she tried it with before.

Maybe this is just how it’s supposed to be, Leila thinks. I can’t get what I want, not ever. All of her fear and excitement vanishes at the thought that her body is nothing but a piece of meat. It isn’t the temple of anything at all. Still, she is surprised by her own pained groans, but these are not her groans, she thinks, just as this is not her life. She is only passing through it. Through this body, through this time.

She doesn’t quite remember how she gets home, she only remembers crying by the front door. Realizing that, she slaps herself because crying is a form of weakness.