The church had always been her safe place. With its hard wooden pulpits with their picked-at splinters that the bored churchgoer works at, and the common man agonizes over when they nick him. Colored light cascaded through the stained glass windows warming the pews to a comfortable temperature in the chilly early morning but was avoided by all but the chronically cold on the hotter days.
Something had changed in the past few months, however; the pews had more splinters that always seemed to find her legs no matter how she searched for them before sitting. The doors always hit her when she left and the candles never lit fast enough for the other patrons waiting in line. Their scowls followed her back down the aisle to her seat in the back, as she was now never early enough to get her usual seat up front. Yet her routine of being the last to leave the church remained, even as dusk broke across the blue sky. She moved to the front as everyone left, situating herself in the middle of the front. The preacher gave her a nod and disappeared into the back rooms.
A noticeable hush blanketed the sanctuary, thick and oppressive. Shaking herself and rubbing her arms to rid them of goosebumps, she bowed her head and intertwined her fingers. It was quiet around her, the only sound was the constant humming of the fans overhead. She tried to empty her mind, but loud thoughts kept trying to creep stealthily in. Her parents raised voices, the looks from the others in school, the sermons that felt pointed right at her.
The heavy air seemed to simmer, tasting of guilt and something twisted, like a heated hunk of metal after a wreck. It made her uncomfortable, she started shifting in her seat, shriveling underneath the gaze of the altar where a white marble carving of the Lord stood, right in the middle of a sea of candles. Her eyes were drawn to his face, the unseeing white orbs carved into hooded lids above a strong nose seemed trained on her. His gaze burned, searing the stale air. At last, the sun died on the horizon. She was left in the dim light shifting over the front pews from the few lit candles that weren’t burnt out. The fire light danced in the crevices of the statue, casting strange shadows across his form. He seemed to move with the light, turning and shaking the fabric of his carved robe, till she was sure he was about to step off the altar. The humming of the fans turned into sinister whispers echoing in the eaves of the building.
Out, she needed to get out.
A ghost choir of rumors and gossip, of threats and judgment swooped down upon her. She may have not been inclined to listen, but the Lord had ears. And a mouth.
“You are loved,”
It sounded grating, two rocks rubbing against each other, two pieces of bone shaving fragments off each other. The Lord slowly sheared itself off of the altar, stepping down onto the wooden floors. A terrifying veil of white and grey shadowed its face, obscuring the familiar features of a savior and leaving only traces of the divine. What was left, she could not say. All she knew was that it was in front of her, leaning down slowly to where she sat, frozen. It repeated itself:
“You are loved.”
Underneath the soft boom of the Lord’s words were the whispers. They were not repeating the phrase, no. They were mocking it.
“You aren’t welcome here.”
A strangled gasp escaped her mouth, she needed to breathe but couldn’t force the air out. The statue held its messianic head even with hers, allowing her to watch the mouth move wordlessly. No sound came from it, but still, she could hear the phrase ringing in her head over the cacophony of whispers that were steadily closing in, clawing closer and closer.
“Please,” She pleaded. “I’m sorry”
It was a mistake, a small terrible mistake. She didn’t mean to let them find out that way, it was just all wrong. Her edges grew out of their lines. But the Lord didn’t seem to care for her plea, raising itself from its bowed position before reaching down to her with a carved hand, outstretched, almost proffered. Like it wanted to help her, save her. Like she needed saving.
There was no running, the splinters in the pew had reached up and caught her skirt with supernatural strength, not that her legs would have obeyed her even if she were free to move. She moved and jerked her upper half, trying to free her legs from their hold, and when that failed, desperately looked for a means through which to defend herself against the stone Lord. Spotting the pen next to the blessing cards in the back of the pew in front of her, she sprung herself forward, grasping the pen just as she was scooped up into the hold of the Lord. Too shocked at first to struggle, she went almost limp as she was cradled by stone fingers underneath her and a thumb holding her in place. She was brought up to the Lord’s carved angelic face and found herself more disturbed by the fact that she did not encounter breath escaping his cavernous mouth than she was being held by a statue. The Lord spoke again and she watched its lips move and nose flail.
“You are loved.”
The hand moved her closer, till she could reach out and touch the smooth marble. Trace the swirls and quirks of the stone with her eyes, till the path led into its eyes. Cold, rounded eyes. Stabbable eyes. She reared her arm back as much as possible and forced the pen into a chip she spotted in the stone. Unmoved, the Lord slowly opened its mouth into an O, large and dark with no light. In a panic, the girl dug, stabbed, and twisted the pen into the small hole she had created. Pieces of stone flaked and fell, enabling her to maneuver the weapon deep enough for her to shove hard into it with all of her weight. A crack formed. The Lord reared back in a silent scream, the arches of the ceiling shook and the stained light shivered.
It snapped its head back down with its still gaping maw parelled to her. The hand was moving again, higher, closer, tighter. Her ribs creaked and groaned, she screamed as the first one popped, now free-floating in her flesh. She shook and sobbed heavy tears, pain consumed her. But the Lord did not relent. Its face formed an angry grimace, the pen still in its eye.
“How dare you!” the whispers shivered and hissed. “How dare…”
Icy tendrils stretched down her throat, reaching deeper, curling around her heart and squeezing. Moving past, down her veins and organs, writhing forcefully against the walls. Nausea rose as bile gurgled in her depths.
The whispered words reached a crescendo around the eaves of the empty church.
Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.
Fingers tightened once again, constricting her even more. She felt her ribcage begin to concave within her, coughing spatters of red onto pristine white.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
The Lord smiled and opened its mouth as if to sing with the choir’s song that bounced off the platforms below. Its head tilted back simultaneously and raised the fist containing her directly above the black hole that was its mouth.
“No,” she cried painfully. “Please!”
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
The whispers finished gleefully as stone digits released quickly, dropping a screaming figure into the abyss. A visual gulp and an echoed boom as its lips smacked together. Then silence. The church was still. The Lord upon its altar, dim sunset-colored light dancing across the marble carved clothes. No sign of a living presence graced the pews with life, only a slumped figure remained, hands crossed in their lap with palms facing upwards, in final praise.
I have to say, your story beautifully weaves together themes of faith, guilt, sexuality, and alienation into a chilling narrative. The way you’ve personified the church and its elements to reflect the speaker’s inner turmoil and societal judgment is both haunting and poignant. The use of the church as a setting—a place generally associated with being a sanctuary and a community—contrasted with the speaker’s experience of judgment and isolation, adds a painfully relatable layer of irony and tragedy. Chef’s kiss.
The climactic encounter with the statue, symbolizing both divine love and judgment, is just such a powerful narrative choice. It really captures the speaker’s struggle with their own perceived sins and the crushing weight of external condemnation. Your story is such a compelling exploration of the complexities of faith and the harrowing feeling of being unwelcome in a place that should offer comfort and acceptance.
I really liked it a lot.
Trauma, from the Greek, τραύμα, meaning wound is the ultimate crime of the soul. Is it an act of evil, the opportunistic act of deranged beings, or just another manifestation of the plethora of foul acts of humans on this planet?. Following an assault, like an insidious virus, the trauma takes over the Sufferer, – I said Sufferer intentionally, not “Victim”-. So where would redemption, or salvation, come from?. The Sufferer, once out of tears of loss or self-torment, venture out to counseling, support groups or all official outlets of superstitions, in search of respite. Trauma and guilt often travel together.
My read of this beautifully weaved story, is that at some level may reflect the Sufferer’s quest for absolution or salvation. The pew and its splinters, quite a delightful image! . The splinters in my interpretation of the story, offered the immobile Sufferer two choices: Salvation or further imprisonment. The Pew may spare you further suffering, alleviating your guilt, or further imprison you in mind-numbing rituals aiming to anesthetize your pain.
In any case, but for the first paragraph, I found it to be a well-crafter story in the Magical Realism tradition. Well done!.
I grew up going to catholic school and generally in the church and this really hit close to home for me. Wow. Just wow.
Beautifully written. The emphasis on the prayers, the haunting eerie feeling that comes with the shame, down to the splinters on the pew. I absolutely love how you depicted the overwhelming thoughts and feelings that come with the internal conflict of accepting both the way of life in religion and the person you are made to be.