Who Art In Heaven?
He awoke in total darkness, something cold in his hand,
something heavy across his face, something sharp at his throat. Unable to move,
he simply waited for enough of the feeling to return, aware only of the soft
drip, drip, drip of the rain at the window and the howling of the wind through
the bell tower’s open windows. Somewhere, a clock struck midnight.
Midnight. It had been no later than eight when he had
relented, had conceded the sermon unwritable and reached all-too-eagerly for
the bottle that now weighed his hand to the floor, and whose contents rendered
him unable to think. The sin, so small, had been so easy.
Slowly, in time measured only by the raindrops, he regained
feeling through his body and was able to reach up and paw desperately at the
thing that lay across his face. His free hand reached it, clawed at it, felt
the leather cover and instantly muttering a prayer for forgiveness,
irreverently shoving the Bible’s dry pages from his face before his tears could
wet them.
His hand then went down, seemingly of its own accord, and
seized at the cold, sharp metal on his throat. The four limbs of the crucifix
all seemed to spear him, each a reminder of a vice too distant to recall. He
had wronged, and this was all he knew.
Climbing slowly to his feet, leaning to the oak desk for
support, he allowed the chilled midnight air to blow through him, awakening,
energising, bracing. All the while, prayers flew from his lips, prayers of
forgiveness and protection and confession. Words uttered silently and carried
away on that same wind that blasted through the church.
After he had recovered enough to walk, or rather stumble, he
found himself drawn to the wooden door that opened to the tower, and then on
and on up the narrow winding stairs that looped upwards for what seemed like
for ever. He stumbled on the seventy-fifth step as he remembered doing before,
steadying himself on the stone wall for a minute before going on.
The steps slowly became steeper and eventually spilled him
out onto the belfry, into the full force of the midnight storm. Through a break
in the clouds a narrow band of stars peered through, but it was a pebble
against the tide, and all-too-soon swallowed up. Below him, the town lights
were a sparkling vista; the soft yellows of muffled houselights, the orange
glow of streetlamps, even the blue flash of a siren tearing the night apart was
strangely captivating.
He looked out over this view, and only after an age did it
become apparent why he stood there, soaked to the bone, storm-tossed and
unthinking. This was what he had
dedicated his life to. His eyes traced the path of the siren, as it chased down
one street and through the next, before coming to halt at the scene of an
unseen but ear-shatteringly loud altercation.
Closer still, he could see two late-night partygoers,
staggering back home, faces beneath hoods illuminated and fading in the
cigarette glow. A car swerved dangerously towards them, the icy road taking
control, and a withering fusillade of abuse was returned. The driver merely
dimmed his lights and continued, but not before countering with a curse of his
own. He recognised the voice from the Sunday congregation, he would sit on the
front left of the hall, his lips barely parted in song.
These people, who could stand before him and say their
prayers and beg forgiveness leniently granted, were godless. Every time he
looked deeper, he became more convinced. The two walkers passed a man begging
change on the street corner, and only a still-burning butt was casually thrown
his way. The voices near the siren raised, and again he knew them, their words
transplanted into hymns in the back of his mind.
And if they were so lost, what purpose did he serve? To
grant them the true forgiveness they would squander daily? No, that was The
Lord’s role. To provide a channel for them to be heard? No, their voices
raised, whether in prayer or blasphemy, would accomplish that. To turn a blind
eye that their sins might be forgotten? No, for God saw all.
All he could do was give them what they begged and wasted,
for there was no other way. He had no choice but to forgive them that they
might one day repent; he had no choice but to hear their lies, pretend they
were sincere, and bless them in the name of a God that would surely not. He
turned his face up at the storm, and began to call out, louder than the wind
and rain, that he would be heard above it.
“Oh Father, have I not been your faithful servant? Have I
not loved as you taught, and taught to love as you did?” He paused for breath,
the wind snatching the air from him, and resumed. “Oh Father, have I not
forgiven those who ask it, though they repeat their sins? Have I not prayed
forgiveness myself that my sins may be absolved? Am I not your true servant?”
There was no answer, only the wind rushing through the
belfry that threatened to take him, hurl him from the edge and down and down to
the ground so far below. Rain became tears that fell in droves, and without
thinking, his hand reached for the crucifix, the points digging deep into his
palm and drawing blood. A second later he had torn it away and flung it from
the edge, out into oblivion.
The silence, he concluded, was answer enough, and in that
second, the terrible truth became apparent. It was him, not them, that had
chosen the wrong path, and if God would not answer now, everything he taught
and had been taught was a lie. And after that, there was no point to any of it.
No God, no Heaven, no Hell.
For some reason, the thought was comforting. Because it
meant what he was about to do was no sin, what he had done was not either, and
that the only certainty was annihilation and an eternity of nothingness. With
that thought etched into his mind like the Commandments on the tablets, he
placed first one foot then the other on the edge, and waited that long wait for
the whistling wind to whisk him away…
***
Author's notes:
- The first thing to be said about this piece, that also applies to everything I write, is that there is no agenda to it beyond telling a compelling story. I do not mean to criticise the concept of religion nor argue against it, simply to capture this scene in writing.
- The brief with this one was to create a character who is without love, despite being loving themselves. While at first glance this appears to be the priest, I suppose it could also refer to God depending on which way you take the ending. Quite a lot of this piece, including the title, is deliberately ambiguous, so I will avoid explaining it too much; I'd rather you draw your own conclusions.
As always, thanks for reading.and feel free to leave a comment.
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