forgiveness (book one)

holy grail

vii.

holy grail

I went to church one cloudy Sunday afternoon.

It had been some sort of sick joke on my part, really. I wasn't religious, or at least I hadn't been since after I was baptized. My family stopped going to church when I was born. I didn't care, because religion had never been my cup of tea – so to speak.

But when your life is unraveling into shreds, when everyone else around you seems to despise your very being, one tends to turn towards a higher power. When everything else is hopeless, why not reach out for the very thing that seems impossible?

I sat in the next to last pew. There were only about fifteen people seated in the worn, wooden benches, and it seemed most people attended the earlier services rather than the later one in the afternoon. Outside, the sky was murky and grey with clouds; this lack of natural light wasn't doing the stained glass windows any favors. The interior of the church was dull and the air felt dank, the only real source of light coming from the rows of candles lining the pews and assembled around the altar.

My vision was foggy and unfocused as I tilted my head back to look at the pastor, the hangover from the previous night still in full effect. I had taken painkillers and half a cup of black coffee to ease the headache, but the drugs and caffeine only lasted so long. As the pastor's low words echoed against the concrete church walls, I felt the edge of an ache already pressing just behind my temple. He raised a silver chalice above his head, the people around me murmured a repetition of some prayer, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the beginning of another headache.

I tried to pay attention to what he was saying, I really did. But as I sat there with the hard seat of the pew pressing into my tailbone and lower back, the dull, sleepy light filtering through the ugly stained windows, all I felt was regret. Regret for choosing to come here, and regret for so, so much more.

"It's all a bit of bullshit, don't you think?"

The whispered voice didn't quite register for a long moment. It had come from the pew behind me, just to the left of my shoulder. I twisted to look, bloodshot eyes straining to see who could possibly be sitting even further back from the altar than I was.

It was an older man. He was stooped forward in the seat, with his shoulders hunched over as though it was too much energy to hold them upright. He was wearing a dark green, cable-knit sweater with an ugly pattern of brown checkers across the chest. The few white strands of hair that frizzed out over the top of his head were a stark contrast to the tan coloring of his face, wrinkled and creased in every possible spot. The man's eyes were a liquid blue, staring at me expectantly with a stupid grin playing at one corner of his thin mouth.

Even more quietly, I asked, "Excuse me?"

"I said, it's all bullshit," he repeated, his voice much louder than mine had been. "Innit?"

His words were lifted, bumped up by some sort of European accent that my mind was too cloudy to make out – British? Irish? I winced at how loudly he'd spoken and glanced at the others in front of us, but no one had moved to see who was talking. The headache was really starting to pound against my left temple, so my tone had turned into one of annoyance as I demanded under my breath, "Do I know you?"

The old man laughed, a rusty sort of chuckle that sounded as though he'd just been smoking. "Don't you? Mate, you don't strike me as someone who goes to church."

My left temple ached, as though someone was pressing a heavy stone against the inside of my skull. I shifted back to face towards the altar, hissing over my shoulder, "Mind your own business."

But the pastor's voice was even more of a dull drone than before, and I couldn't focus my attention in that direction for more than half a second. The old man had leaned closer behind me, anyway, his voice crackled and ragged. "Never been one to keep my head down. Is that what they call it? Maybe it's 'nose down', yeah, that sounds righ'..."

I twisted in my seat for the second time, the usual anger bubbling up in the back of my throat. But the man was at the edge of the seat now, his wooden cane tucked under one arm as though he was just about to leave. He winked and told me, "You're hungover as all hell, aren't you? Let's you and me have a chat outside. You look like you could do with someone who listens."

He stood and hobbled for the exit. I gaped as I watched him leave through the giant double doors, seeing the way he left one partially open. The pastor's voice was still echoing blandly around me, and none of the other people seated in the pews had moved an inch. Everything around me was hazy, and I couldn't remember what had possessed me to come here in the first place.

What had I been expecting to get out of a church service, anyway? I had sinned more than my share. I didn't belong here any more than I belonged in my own home.

I stood from the dusted pew and followed the old man out.