A slice of Life

Isaac

As he sat within the holy halls, with God breathing through every wall, and prayers long past desperate lips seeping into the atmosphere like a whore's perfume, Isaac Reid felt well and truly out of place.

He wasn't a man of faith. Never had been and he doubted he ever would be; to admit to a higher, all-powerful being boxed him into a corner where he would be forced to accept a crippling ultimatum.

If he were to dare to consider, even for a moment, then either God existed and every fucking thing he did was pointless, because why in the shit-bucket would somebody that powerful care about the singular actions of one pissant? Or God existed and he just didn't fucking like him.

Neither of those options were especially comforting.

Then again, he doubted there was anything he'd consider comforting right now.

The pew beneath him was hard and rigid, solid to the core, but as he bowed his head, hands bracing on the backrest of the seating in front, everything felt painfully unstable. Like the world was turning to confetti around him. Like the ground was a vast ocean of quicksand trying to pull him under.

He closed his eyes. They were heavy and sore, and as he took a shaky breath, he was reminded how tired he was. Lord, he was so fucking tired.

"Yo, J.C," Isaac murmured, cracking a lid and glancing around. It was late. Candlelight simmered in depressing flickers, touching down on the thin passageways, and the emptiness sighed melodies that were not made for the ears of mankind. "Got any advice?"

Dead silence.

Guess not.

Isaac's head fell back, his gaze turning upwards. The ceiling felt . . . wrong — too cold, too sterile. The white, sanitary slabs that sloped up in a mocking arch was a slap in the face, reminding him exactly where he was.

"Look." His throat was raw and coarse, thick with emotion that was weaving a noose around his fucking neck and flooding his insides simultaneously. "I ain't good. I don't think I ever have been."

If his sins were scars, his flesh would be tallies. Isaac had committed more wrongs than rights, hurt more than he'd ever aided, and no amount of 'forgive me, fathers,' would ever wash that taint away. But fuck, he was trying to be better. That had to account for something, right?

"I ain't good," he repeated, blinking hard, hand massaging the lump that lay heavy against his breastbone. "But he is, alright. He's the best man I know. If you want to punish anybody, punish me. But please . . . please don't do this to him. It'd kill him."

The last time he'd prayed, he'd been a pre-teen, pressing his face deep into his pillow to soak up his tears, silently pleading for the shouting that rocked the early hours of the morning to stop. He'd begged the faceless man, this mighty deity whom his grandmother had repeatedly insisted loved him, to open his parent's eyes to the love they'd once had for one another. To stop the war that fractured the foundations of his home.

He'd pleaded all night. But daddy dearest still ended up packing his life away in a suitcase and upgrading to a younger, perkier bride. Mommy smiled through the tears that never seemed to dry, and stitched her pain into the long seconds of voidness that seemed to bodysnatch her.

Isaac never prayed again.

But this was bigger than him. It was bigger than the silly bickering of a stagnated marriage. If there was even the slightest chance it could work, even on a miniscule level, then he had to take it.

So he got with the program. Closed his eyes. Pressed his hands together. The whole nine-fucking yards.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there after the last of his words left him, staring across at the woeful hues of the stained glass, feeling as brittle as the cracks that webbed the brickwork. Time, he supposed, held less meaning when time was all there was left. He sat, so painfully still, afraid to even breathe too loudly, afraid to dare take the risk of undoing whatever bullshit promises he'd manifested.