The Hanging Words

The Living and the Dead

Some part of me knows I should be freezing. Some part of me is aware that it has to be in the mid-thirties outside. Beneath the glow of the streetlamps, rain shoots down toward the concrete like shooting stars. But I no longer have the capacity to care. Every part of my mind and body is screaming at me, working at 120 percent of normal, and all I can feel is pain and embarrassment and anger. I hate myself. I hate whatever it is that's making me feel these things. That's stopping me from holding on to any sort of joy. I'm tired of it. All of it. I just want everything to dissolve away.

I'm not even sure where I'm going until I slow to a stop at the foot of Saint Anthony's Catholic Church. The stoic brick building rises out of the ground like a stern guardian: always available, but with a firm hand. Wiping my wet hair out of my eyes, I mount the steps to the entrance. This late at night, Father Griffin will have locked up, but I search my coat pockets and withdraw the key.

Evora has always forced me to help her clean the church, to help keep our community from dirt and disrepair. She would frown upon me using it now to break in, but it's time the church did something to help me instead.

Father Griffin will understand. I have nowhere else to go.

Shivering. Soaked. Anguished. I take one last look around before slipping inside.

The interior of the church is dark and cold—though slightly less cold than outside. The sound of the pounding rain is amplified by the tall stained-glass windows whose depictions are nonexistent without light behind them.

Hurrying to the left, I feel around for a bit before finding the matches. I strike one, the tiny orange flame springing to life. Then I begin lighting the prayer candles, muttering things even I don't understand. Vague prayers. Promises. Desires to change. I don't know what any of it means anymore. I need light and warmth, and that's all I have the mental capacity to focus on.

When all of them are lit, the church glows with an austere beauty. I look around, unused to being here at night and all alone. Everything looks so different: the empty pews, the darkened lanterns, the empty altar. Even the suspended Jesus on the cross. Light from the candles doesn't quite reach his face, shrouding his somber expression in shadows. The brown hair which cascades down from his head takes on the appearance of a dark hood. I feel the fear I used to feel as a boy, staring up at the ominous, floating figure.

Dripping rainwater everywhere, I stumble over to my usual seat and sink down onto the pew. I bow my head before him.

How ironic that despite my unrelenting inner turmoil, this place brings me an odd, reluctant comfort. It's the comfort of familiarity—of normalcy. I have spent so many Sundays here listening to readings about God's love and the path to it. Singing melodies about forgiveness and compassion. Words about how to be a better person. And I can't fit any of them.

I just want to be happy. But it seems that time and again I will be denied that.

I will deny myself that.

Maybe it's because I'm not meant to be happy. Do I not deserve happiness? I am so utterly lost and confused because maybe Aunt Evora is right. Maybe my parents are right and that's why it's all crashing down on me. I am the one in the wrong.

Hot, desperate tears stream down my face. I collapse onto my knees, not bothering to lower the kneelers. I don't deserve the relief of cushions. I need to feel the pain of the hard tiles against my kneecaps. I wince, but remain where I am, shutting my eyes and raising my clasped hands to my forehead.

The crucified Jesus, who died for my sins, hovers before me to judge the living and the dead. Arms outstretched in either love or condemnation.

Please, God, please.