This Still Happens

Chapter Eighteen - Absolution: Lena

The lych gate bangs shut behind me as I run up the path to the Church of St Andrew Corsini, and gravel skitters under my feet as I scramble and skid and slip, tripping on the stone steps up to the door.

Why didn't I hold my phone tighter? Why didn't I just kick Chris in the shin, or lock my phone as he grabbed at it, or shove it back in my pocket, sharpish? Fuck. I really am focussing on the wrong bit, aren't I? Fuck. Of course I am.

I stumble into the church and genuflect by the pew my family always sits in. The flagstone is cold against my knees, and my fingers tremble as I grip the wood of the seat. I suck in deep breath after deep breath after deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut for a long moment before opening them up again, and staring at the patches of coloured light on the ground. Stained glass rainbows on cold, cold grey. Shaking, I press my head against the side of the pew, and sagger to my feet, side-stepping into the row and bending my head as I sit, whispering prayers for forgiveness.

But I know I can't have it. How could I have been so stupid? So cocky, so arrogant as to think... as to let Sophie think... that what the Bible says about... people like us... is anything other than a condemnation of what we do?

The storm roils overhead, and in my stomach, too, as I curl in on myself, pressing my palm over my mouth to stifle the wail that escapes.

No.

Not a wail.

A scream. A quiet scream, broken by visceral sobs as rain lashes the windows, and clouds block the sun. The light from the stained glass fades, all colour shrinking out of the church so that it looks like a desaturated photo. Horror-film cinematography. Because I am horrifying.

I dig my fingernails hard into the palms of my hands until bright pink crescents form in my skin. It's not enough. I shouldn't have cut my nails, shouldn't have cut them short, shouldn't have... God doesn't want me to cut my nails. Staring at my wrists, I picture nails--steel nails--pinning my wrists to the arms of a wooden cross as drops of blood slither down towards my elbows. I see my head bowed, eyes closed, lips twisted against a scream of agony. It's what I deserve, it's what I deserve, it's what I deserve, and I brought all of this on myself. I pull my hair and hunch forward until my forehead presses hard against the ridge of the pew in front of mine.

Thin whimpers strain from my throat, and I keep trembling, legs jumping with an electric kind of panic, shoe-soles drumming against the floor. I hug my knees, and press my mouth hard against my folded hands in an attempt to stop the shrieks.

"Lena?"

I whip around, jerking my head up to see Father Matthew standing at the entrance to my pew, staring at me with large, drooping eyes.

"You're meant to be in school? What's going on?" He raises his eyebrows a little, and gestures to the seat, indicating he'd like to sit down, and, when I nod, he does. "Are you all right?" he asks, pulling a packet of tissues from the pocket of his black cassock, and handing one to me. "Dry your eyes, my dear, and tell me what's wrong."

The words stick in my throat, choking me until I think i'll be sick. But I force them out, gasping for breath. "I need to confess," I splutter, "I've... I've made a big mistake. Lots of big mistakes."

"Well, there's no-one else in the church," Father Matthew says, "So you can tell me right here, if you want. If that would make you feel better." He looks at my legs, and frowns. "Where did you get that nasty scrape? Hold on while I get the First Aid kit."

What nasty scrape? As he hurries up the aisle to the vestry, I shift in the pew and stretch out my legs. Oh. That nasty scrape. I guess my shin lost its argument with the steps outside. Stone's eloquent, apparently.