This was written some time ago in my ‘writing journal’. It had a purpose at the time it was written – it was a scene for a novel, but I have now scrapped it. Small snippets like this one are all that remain.
The Church.
As he closed the door behind him, all the sounds of the busy village were abruptly shut out. All Adrian could hear now was birdsong filtering through a small open window somewhere to the rear of the church. Inside, all was quiet. Not a soul to be seen.
The pretty little church, parts of which dated back to the 12th Century, was open to visitors, and often tourists came to look around, but right now it was empty. Adrian was glad about that.
He made his way slowly to the front of the church, blinkered to its decoration, oblivious to its historical stained glass and elaborately carved memorial plaques.
He didn’t really know why he was there. He was not religious. His family were not religious. The only time he had set foot in a church was for a university friend’s wedding the year before he graduated. He just had the idea that this was the one place in the village he would not feel hated; where he could escape the horrors of his life and feel safe, if only for a short time.
He had no faith – he just didn’t know if he believed in God or not. He was of a scientific mind, having studied so much of it in his short life. His logical mind had no room for God. But sometimes he felt cheated, as if he was missing out – like everyone had been given something that he had not. What was it that he could not see? Was it his own doing, or had God decided he was not fit to receive the ‘gift of faith’, as he had often heard it called?
It didn’t feel fair. In times of crisis, those with faith in God, any god, had someone to lean on, someone to talk to, and the feeling that they were never alone. He felt very alone.
Was there a use in sitting there looking at the products of other people’s faith? Was there a point other than knowing he’d be safe?
He couldn’t pray. He wouldn’t know what to say. He would feel stupid, no matter how alone he was.
He could no more force faith on himself than he could force it on others.
He almost jumped out of his skin as someone lifted the latch and entered the church behind him. He dared not look round – not really knowing why – but stayed perfectly still, head bowed slightly, thinking the visitor would assume he was at prayer and not wish to disturb him. He heard the man – was it a man? It sounded like a man’s heavier footfalls – slowly move around to his left, and approach the front of the church, almost level with the row in which Adrian was sitting. Adrian dared not breathe; every nerve, every muscle, was taught so far he felt he would snap, as the man then moved in behind him again, before finally receeding once more towards the door. He heard the jingle of coins, as the visitor made a donation.
And then he was gone.
Adrian began to breathe again, and suddenly coughed, causing his injured ribs to protest. The clock on the church tower began to chime the hour, and Adrian shivered as his body tried to settle itself down. He didn’t feel safe here. Even here they could get to him. God wasn’t home.
He slowly looked around, checking he was still alone. Then he stood up, and with one last reproachful look at the carved figure of Jesus at the entrance to the chancel, he left.
There was nobody to help him but himself.
graveyardmuse 