DECEMBER JANE

James: She who waits by the pews

I am a product of absolute peculiarity.

I would know this part of myself best despite this being a practiced rumor amongst the church; it is unfortunately true.

My name is James. It's a simple name, meaning 'he who supplants'. My father was the one who named me. I did not have a mother. I don't remember anything before my life with the church and him, anyhow. Music, though, was one thing I remembered.

The first song I can recall to my consciousness from anything prior to the poor woman Delilah and her passing was a melody I later found out to be named Humoresque. I'm not sure where I heard it, but I distinctly smell the scent of fresh morning dew when I hear it. It sounds like birdsong, or the singing of an angel, or something of that sense. Every time I hear its tune, this acute sense of sorrow fills my chest.

I dedicated myself to piano in hopes that one day, if I played it enough, over and over, I would remember where it was I heard it. Now that I've played it for upwards of ten years, I've begun to lose that irrational hope. But one girl, whom I haven't learned the name of quite yet, stays. Every Sunday, with a rare few exceptions, she tends to linger a minute or so longer than the rest of the crowd. She didn't seem to be the simple type. Perhaps she had the same hope I did. Maybe not the exact same 'remembering things' motive, but maybe she wanted to remember something in a different sense. A feeling, rather, or perhaps something I would never consider.

Today when I walked out, I attempted to give some quick words. Either they would scare her off or encourage her to stay, but it didn't matter at the moment, because something was happening. Nausea began to consume me, along with a sickening pain in my back, under my skin. It crawled and it ripped. I could not stand in that room for much longer.

The moment I left the nave, the pain began to spread into my shoulders and down my legs. I crumpled against the wall, for a moment, but tried to collect myself. Something told me this feeling should not be informed. Not to the church; maybe not to myself, either.

Every step was a war, and every breath was a shot to the chest.

My father walked in from the back hall near the exit. I knew he was concerned.

My clothes gripped against me, shifting tighter and tighter until I couldn't take it. I begged to take it off. It was choking me, smothering the only air I had left. When my robe was on the floor, and I saw the stare of him, I knew that my assumption of the things we should not know was precise.

My father said for the first time in my life that it was occasionally reasonable to doubt God. To that, I say: who's to argue that this wasn't by Him at all?