Resurrect The Sun (A BVB Wretched and Divine fanfiction)

Chapter 2

Sat on the hard surface of the wooden pew, I tried not to fidget too much, but it was difficult. Church always made me uneasy, but even more so today; I couldn't stop thinking about the man on the poster. The Mystic. Even the name alone sounded intriguing.

Just who was he? And what was he doing?

If he was a rebel, he wasn't caught, so he couldn't have been acting alone. Maybe there are more. I felt a strange mixture of excitement and disquiet at this thought. Yes, I knew wanted things to change, but it had been this way my whole life. I was used to the dull monotony of my daily routine. It comforted me, in some ways, that I knew what each day would bring. Did I really want everything to be torn apart?

I brought to mind the image of the almost permanent terror on Oliver's face. The misery in my mother's sea green eyes and despair etched into the deep, weary lines of her face. I thought about how everyone was forced to look the same, with our sludge coloured clothes and black hair – it had always puzzled me why we all looked the same, and then a rumour had gotten out that we were genetically modified to look similar. Whether this was true or not I was unsure.

I thought of the small, starving child I had seen a few weeks ago getting viciously beaten by one of the minions – all because she stole a scrap of food.

Yes. I did want things to be torn apart.

At that point, I felt a jab to my upper arm, and looked to see that the minion at the end of the pew had poked me with the tip of his staff. The places where his eyes should be in the mask stared straight through me, hollow and soulless.

"Concentrate. Daydreaming is not tolerated in church."

I nodded meekly, turning my face to the front, bitterness lancing through me. You're not allowed to daydream anywhere here.

Sighing quietly to myself, I scanned the pews around me, pretty sure that everyone was either sleeping or only pretending to listen. Nobody was truly devout, not anymore. If this misery was really God's will, then why would anyone want to believe?

The priest's low, murmuring voice echoed off the high stone ceilings, accompanied by strange, echoing piano notes. The church was the usual crucifix layout, with long, dark benches in rows on either side of the aisle that cut through the middle. It ran up to the podium where the priest stood as he recited from a large, leather-bound book. The church was a dim building of stone and was lit mostly by the tall, narrow windows. Candles were dotted around on large black candelabras embossed with the symbol of F.E.A.R. – the same symbol that was inlaid in gold on the wall over the priest's head, and carved into the doors and pews.

As we all obligingly bent our heads to pray – or pretend to, in my case – I knew that this was the only part people really took seriously. They didn't pray to be 'better citizens' like F.E.A.R. expected us to, they prayed for freedom. Happiness. Hope.

I didn't believe in praying anymore.

My mother clasped her rosary that she wore around her neck tightly between her hands, and bowed her head, mumbling ever so softly to herself. To my left, Oliver was sat with his hands together and his head down, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. His lips moved slowly, silently.

If there is a God, I mused, then where the hell is he?

"What are you praying for, Ollie?" I whispered to my brother, curious. His brown eyes opened and peeked up at me from under his hair.

"Us."

I frowned a little, "What do you mean?"

"Well," He explained solemnly, "Everyone is so sad. Mommy shakes and cries so much, Daddy is in work all the time and doesn't give me bedtime stories like he used to. And you never smile anymore. I'm praying for God to make people happy again."