He’s brought a sculpture of an angel home and left it on the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Something the church on 5th Street was giving out.”
“Do you know why?”
“Said it was their anniversary or something.”
Later that evening, she leaves under the pretense of buying coffee and bagels for tomorrow’s breakfast. The wind is blowing hard as she stumbles over the cobblestones. She’s warm, though. She’s wearing a shirt with a high neckline and long sleeves under the coat, to hide the marks he left on her.
The building is tall and contains what seems to her to be a thousand stained glass windows. The people inside are sitting in the pews, praying. That doesn’t seem right to her. If they were really praying for forgiveness, they should be on their knees in an image of subservience. Just like last night.
She slides into the pew closest to her right, and stares at the image of Christ all strung up on the heavy wooden cross in the center of the building.
“Can I help you?” asks the priest.
She turns to him. “Yeah, can you tell me why I’m still here?”
“Here, as in life?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just give me an answer.”
“Because it’s all part of God’s plan. Be joyous about the role you are given in this world.”
Joy. “What joy is there in pain?” she whispers. The priest doesn’t hear her, though. He’s gone off to most likely save another poor soul in danger of damnation.
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