SAINT

PROLOGUE

Damon Alaister

I stood watching the crowd fill the pews with odd groups of people and individuals. The ones with smiles who are happy for Sunday prayers, the ones who were forced by their husband and wives in order to teach the kids. Then you have the loud, weeping, screaming, laughing, quiet, nosepickers, and unsociable kids. I let the hollow sleeves of my liturgical vestments hang over my hands to hide the inky scars left of my past.

A smile curls my lips as I push back a strand of curly lock away from my face. A smile was once foreign to me 9 years ago, it was the reason of my escape into the world of peace and God. God, who watched over me and placed a graceful hand over a creation burned as a mistake.

The sun over Jesus's head who is crucified by the symbol of cross holding his lovable hands. Punishment, for nothing. However, those who deserve the punishment, look under the light of God, covering their sins. Only those who let guilt eat away at them. John King, the head of the church who was around 57 years old, had told me to cover the old life and place my hands into the one who created me.

Follow the path of faith and happiness.

9 years ago, I bent down to the savior that was once known as drugs was now replaced by sacrificial man. The cold wax candle, warming against my palms as the hot wax drips to the shiny white floors. Kings don't bow to men, but I did.

The wax solidified against the tile as I whisper the words, '' Father, forgive your son.''

The moment I opened my eyes, the contract the sealed me to this very church was written in stone. I look back at the stairs that my knee had the pleasure touching, even after the dirt accumulated on my skin.

9 years ago, faded like the dopamine and endorphins that cocaine brings us. The pleasure of feeling free from the smell of tobacco and smiles of those hopeless now filled with anew meaning, was utterly comforting. It is more comforting knowing the dear one, who I hold so close in my arms and heart, is safe from the storms I created.

My breath hitches every time, as the eyes wonder mine with amusement, hope and direct boredom. I watch as Kingsley gives me a sly smile, this man has no boundaries even after becoming a priest. A lonely blonde girl whose curves heavily defined by the white cotton dress stretching over every inch.

Kingsley's eyes bobbled out his eye sockets like a magnet pointed to magnetic North, known as her behind. I had lost that feeling of lust and attraction to woman and the idea of sex in general. My mind, body and soul had been claimed by the second chance, that the holy spirit had given me after all the sins, I have washed of me with holy water.

I let out a long, deep breath of relief as the chapel fills every single inch of space breached in between.

Except one pew.

That one pew.

The one that was always empty.

The one that never saw the bright colored glass reflection over the face to amazed by the gifts blessed to us.

That one that resembled the darkness.

A girl sat there. A girl, with a long black dress curving her short body.

A black dress.

Mourning, which is not uncommon for funerals. That girl sitting there with a musk drawn with a drastic skeleton design over it. The mask sent chills down by back like electricity. Darkness wavering its hand at me with a girl who just watched me.

Watching me every day.

Every day without fail, she just watched me, and tempting me to rip that bloody mask off to see the innocent face of that in black.

''My brothers and sisters, today we gather under the eye of God,'' I carry on speaking in my preacher voice that captivated everyone. Ever since, I joined St. Patrick Church in a small town near New Jersey, the church popularity increased. It was either from the words of wisdom I passed down or the girls, who fawned over my looks. The reason was not of concern as long as somewhere in someone hope had been restored.

My eyes roam the chapel as I preach the word of God to them, as they listened or praised the words in the Bible.

However, my eyes landed on her and that stupid mask. A mask that represents death and hate. Her face slightly titled as interested in what I am saying or maybe she was surprised. She just stares and sometimes I wonder if she is real or the devil.

I close my eyes tightly letting the prayer of God fill my soul with its beauty. The choir hummed the tune of his poetic words with their angelic sent talent. My lips part in peace but in these two weeks my eyes want to open and see if she has changed her dress or that damn mask is ripped off her face.

But I don't.

I knew the moment this hymn ends and my eyes open, my eternal darkness is gone. My eyes never opened, and my hands clutch in a fist then releases.

''In the holy name of Jesus Christ. Amen,'' I say into the mic as the crowd shouts amen in admiration to him who saves us all.

I open my eyes as the light shine but not on the pew that's empty again.

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What you'll think?

No degradation of God and there shall be none. She will learn to heal and see the light. I hope you'll enjoy it.

May you'll stay blessed.

I love you'll

Choose twisted fate or saint to stay.

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