Bathing in Moonlight

DNF: The Drip...Finally Stops

TRIGGER WARNING: please read story description for full list of trigger warnings and content warnings 

THIS CHAPTER IS RATED 'T+' FOR TEENS AND UP (for implications of death/dying, strong language/swearing, thoughts of violence upon others, mentions of religion/God, suicidal themes/ideation)

THIS CHAPTER IS VERY HEAVY EMOTIONALLY. PLEASE BE CAREFUL AND TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

please vote for this chapter and comment if you enjoy this genre of oneshots/stories, it's a new genre to write for me, so i'd appreciate your feedback.

I jogged out of a pew and paced up and down the halls of the old, musty church. There was no way I could stay inside that cramped room for even a second more. Although, it wasn't actually cramped: tall, vaulted ceilings added much needed height to the space, that must have stood at least twenty or thirty feet high. But it felt cramped to me. So suffocatingly and relentlessly crowded. Not with humans, but with emotions, breaths, symbols, cries, delusions.

People walked by, both young and old, who had just attended Sunday service. Those people probably preach about how great God is, how he will always give you want you want, he'll give you something better than what you want, or he'll send a valuable and necessary life lesson your way...

The followers of his faith say things like 'If you put in the hard work, God will always reward you' or 'God never promised a life without pain, he guaranteed strength and resilience during hard times'.

I wanted to knock those people straight out with a single toss of my fist, watching as they fell to the ground and gripped at their fresh wounds in agony.

Yet, as a little boy not even five in a light grey suit and his grandmother in a flowy floral dress walked past, I simply stood still and stared.

Fuck God. What has he ever done for me? I mean, I guess maybe once when I was seven and needed an A on my spelling test to advance to second grade, God was there then. Or when I was fourteen and that absolute dumbass Trent Vevero gave me laced weed to smoke and I convinced myself I couldn't breathe, God was probably there then too. And maybe when I was nineteen and my boss at Barnes and Noble was one bad day away from firing me from me showing up late too many times, I suppose God helped me out there too.

But all of those times, it didn't even matter. I could have been held back in school, I could have gotten really sick from laced weed, I could have gotten fired from my job: WHO THE HELL CARES ABOUT THAT SHIT!?

Nothing will be worse than this. Nothing is worse than the pain I feel right now.

The pain eats at my stomach each morning when I wake up, gnaws at my insides like a ravenous wolf on the hunt for its first meal in days.

The pain paralyzes my bones, my limbs going weak with every step that I walk, as if I singlehandedly held the entire weight of the world on my back.

The pain uses up every ounce of sorrow in my eyes as I sob day and night, eventually running out of tears, almost like my body never made any in the first place.