Of all places to
start—a church.
Even he knew it was
absolutely ridiculous, having abandoned his religion years ago, and
even his parents had barely been clinging to the last strings of God
and the whole system, concentrating more on their family. But yet,
here he knelt in the rows of pews, hands clasped in front of him,
eyes down. He had counted the wood grains between his wrists, knew
every whorl and twist and imperfection. In the three hours he had
been there, he had imagined every prayer and desecration performed in
his spot, every confession, every man that had copped a feel of his
partner while the priests droned on, every child crawling from her
seat to inspect the dust beneath the benches, every old man falling
asleep only to be nudged awake again by his crone of a wife, and
every wide-eyed and loving sheep to God’s herd, soaking in every
word of heaven and hellfire.
He…had not
prayed.
To be honest, he
wasn’t sure that he remembered how. Oh, he could remember all the
verses and hymns, he could remember every psalm. The verses had
fascinated him as a child, poetic and forceful, but they were only
words, and words were of no use to him now.
Hazel eyes still
fixed on his hands, the knuckles white from the force of his desire. He didn’t notice right away that one of the priests came to sit
beside him. The older man said nothing, merely watching the newcomer and
the tension in his shoulders. The lost stranger was still a kid, probably just
out of his teens, his jacket discarded and folded neatly beside him,
droplets of water pooling on it still from where the snow had melted.
Already the moisture had dripped free of his red-gold hair, spotting
the fabric on his shoulders and back.
“What troubles
you so, my son?”
He couldn’t
answer that. Or, rather, he didn’t know the words to say it. The
empty, vacant words of love, hope, fire, and brimstone. His eyes were
dry, even as he finally tipped his forehead against his fingers, his
neck stiff. It was the first time he had really moved since he had
come into the cathedral. From his new angle, he could see out the
aisle, to the rosy hues cast by the sun through the high
stained-glass windows. It was growing late. No doubt they would want
to settle his woes before evening mass, lest he disturb the ceremony,
and bring something viral and unwanted to this place.
“I am…very
alone, Father,” he answered at last, closing his eyes. His
shoulders sagged, his body leaning against the old wood now like a
puppet with cut strings.
“You are never
alone. God is always with you, if you believe in Him.”
It was such a
simple answer. And it was not the right one, more words of God and
love and companionship and Hell. He heard a faint buzzing from his
jacket, and cocked his head just enough to see where his phone had
vibrated nearly from his pocket in quiet desperation. The screen had
a familiar number, the name Kamin above it. He must have heard
at last, coming out of work and searching for his friend, his
brother.
“I’m sorry,
Father. I have to go.” Was that his weak voice? Were those his
hands pushing himself away and taking up his things again, stepping
out of the small puddle of water he had dripped away? He stepped
through the colors cast by the sun, a faint warmth like the touch of
a hand on his shoulder.
The priest stood,
too, watching him go, watching him replace his coat and keep his
phone clutched in one hand, not answering it.
“You seem
troubled, Jacob.”
The man never
looked over as he was joined by another one of his brethren,
folding his hands into his sleeves and watching the wide door
swing closed again in the winter wind, snow swirling like angel’s
feathers. “Young people should never have to hurt so, and never
touch the one that can help them.”
No comments:
Post a Comment