Page 7 of Devil's Advocate
He looked at me like he wanted to believe that.Then he stepped down from the stage and melted into the crowd, swallowed by a dozen kind faces waiting to clap him on the shoulder.
The ceremony began to breathe on its own, with one confession feeding another, and each voice removing a bit more of the darkness they were taught to keep.
Between each of them, I gave a touch—shoulder, palm to palm—a small human proof there was nothing supernatural here and somehow that made it more holy.
“Call and response,” I said after a time, letting the room gather again.“If you want to add your voice, do.If you only want to listen, that’s okay too.”
I spoke first: “To compassion joined to reason.”
The crowd answered, stronger now: “To compassion and reason.”
“To justice over any law that harms.”
“Justice over harm.”
“To the body as inviolate.”
“My body is my own.”
“To truth tested, not traditions unexamined.”
“Truth tested.”
I let it crest.“And to the right to become fully ourselves.”
Silence for a heartbeat, then: “To becoming.”
It landed.I could feel it—like a spine straightening.
A cool draft hit the back of my neck.The AC unit kicked on, rattling, and a spiral of candle smoke curled toward the old disco ball, which tossed a handful of light across the rafters like coins.Spooky enough to make the newbies shiver, pretty enough to make them stay.
That’s when I saw him.
Near the back, halfway hidden, a man stood too straight for comfort.Brown hair you’d call warm if you touched it in the sun, green eyes that flashed even from the distance.Button-down shirt—blue, starched to behave—dark jeans, clean lines.No jewelry.No ink.He looked like a good decision dressed up as a bad idea.And he was taut with something—fear, perhaps?
Something in me tightened — instinct, recognition, maybe both.He looked like salvation wearing doubt for armor.The man didn’t speak the responses.He watched the people who did, like he was trying to learn the language fast enough not to be caught speaking it.
A knot in my chest slipped.I kept my face open and my cadence steady.You don’t spook the deer you want to feed from your hand.
We moved into the last part.“If you’re the kind who needs a symbol,” I said lightly, “we’ve got one.”I gestured to the shallow bronze bowl at the head of the catwalk.“There’s water here for those who want it.Not holy.Just real.Touch it, and you can mark your wrist or your brow—make or break any small vow you choose: I release what hurt me.I claim what frees me.”
They came forward again, and the sound changed—soft exhalations, little laughs, a few sobs like quiet thunder.
After they were done, I let the room breathe until the clock kissed the hour.Then I drew it back in.
“You’ve done enough for one night,” I said, smiling.“Go downstairs.The bar’s open.Eat.Dance.Touch someone nice—with permission.Remember, you’re not alone.Tonight we made a rebellion against fear, and it looks amazing on you all.”
Applause.Not the frantic kind; the relieved kind.A hundred hands letting go.
“Last thing,” I said, because we always end the same way.“For courage you give yourself, and freedom no one gives you.”I lifted my hand.
“Hail Satan,” the room answered, and this time almost everyone said it.
The lights rose to house-level.People flowed down the stairs in a river of black boots, denim, and thrift-store lace.I stepped off the stage and was immediately surrounded : a young guy with a septum ring asking about volunteer shifts; a woman from Charlottesville telling me the drive was worth it; two men—one shy, one not—trying out their best lines on me with charming, doomed bravery.I passed out smiles and answers, redirecting the bolder hands with a tilt of my head.
But my eyes kept finding the quiet one.
He hovered by the back column as if it might decide to move without him.When someone laughed too loudly behind him, he flinched.When I glanced his way, he pretended to study a poster like it had ancient wisdom written on it.
