Silence | Book 2

2-10: Silent Night [M-T]

The church wasn't so much a church, as a converted store in a densely packed, low-income neighbourhood on the other side of the city. The street was lined with all sorts of shops that didn't look like they would do well on a good day; sketchy electronics stores, restaurants of which he had only seen half ever been opened, and several places that proudly advertised age-restricted massages. On the door of the church itself, a few old and faded programs had been stapled, written both in English and Polish.

The interior was a bit better, but not by much. At one point the building had been converted into a hall for prayer and worship, and the store floor had been emptied out. One could still see the general structure of a shop, but the windows had been partially blacked out, partially given colourful stickers that allowed the street lamps from outside to give a dimly coloured glow – like fake stained glass. Within the room there was a shrine in the back, atop a raise in the floor like a podium, with lit candles flickering around a large wooden cross, while the rest of the floor was empty beside thin cushions to kneel on in prayer.

A few people had already gathered; some younger, some older, and some just as lost as their mother, but all had joined in kneeling. Their whispers of nearly frantic prayers of praise and salvation hung in the air, most of them not from the bible, but just a long stream of both enthralled worship and desperate self-depreciation.

Tristan felt a knot tighten in his stomach, and the very air became difficult to breathe from how thick it was with hopelessness. It made him nauseous, as the few words he picked up dug into his head with conviction: that the world was wicked, they were worthless, and salvation was nothing but a wayward dream.

His mother quickly pulled them in, and made them kneel on the pillows in the very front. Immediately Tristan felt his anxiety rise, not wanting to be so close to all these other people. Yet he made sure that Anya was put between him and Pyotr, which meant that he had to kneel beside an old, rather frail looking woman who was grovelling with her face down on the floor. He knew her, and although she would never do anything, her nearly manic prayers unnerved him.

Beside him he felt Anya give a quick squeeze in his wrist, as his mother bowed down in her own prayer. The uneasiness was written on her face, so he quickly gave her hand a squeeze and smiled as warmly as he could – even though his own discomfort nested deep in his being. He had to remember that he was here to help her through, and none of his fright mattered. If he showed his fear, he'd fail her.

Despite his mother's worry of being late, they came in quite early. Many others filled up the room after them, some of them with family, but none younger than Anya. The Christmas service was a requirement, and to not do it would be met with either anger, or ostracisation. It was also a requirement to bow down before the service, and before the priest would come in – but he had long suspected that was a way to make you feel devalued and obedient rather than a theological requirement.

Still it worked, even when he knew why, and when he tried his best to tell himself that he had worth, it was hard to do so when he was face down on the floor. The frantic whispers continued beside him, as the most devout continuously repeated their woes.

... I am undeserving of your attention...

... filth of the earth, sinners...

... unworthy to know your love...

... shelter me from eternal fire...

... we are in the shadow of your greatness...

Although he could ignore one individually, the constant stream made it hard to think. If he tried to focus elsewhere, another voice would fill its stead. Sometimes it was his own mother's. But it wasn't the words, it was their certainty that made him doubt.