Otherwordly Desires

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 - - 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸

The Day I Stopped Believing

"Let us pray to the Lord," the priest announces, holding up the goblet, wielding and brandishing it as a sign of our saviour, Jesus Christ.

Deep crimson wine, having been contained in this golden goblet, shines in the dim lighting of the cathedral, a spotlight only on the grand, wide altar, and the priest - merely the clown of the tale.

My mother, with her cat-like vision, spots me looking to the side of the cathedral, where wooden carvings of Jesus' route to Hell (which would soon become heaven, according to the Children's Bible that Mamma had gifted me just a couple of months ago ... I read it once and memorised everything, unfortunately) are displayed, glorifying a man who was born to nothing but a virgin and a carpenter.

I wondered then how much a person would have to do to get to such a status. However, my mother was not impressed in the slightest. She nudges me, harshly.

"Elysia, listen. This is a very important section of Mass - hear those bells?" Her face brightens up at the sound of tinkling bells.

I, on the other hand, frown, unable to pinpoint the exact spot the cacophony hails from, until my eyes zoom in on a person to the side of the altar, dressed in complete white (as he should be, serving in the Church) and solemnly looking down, appreciating the true gravity of the situation.

"But, Mamma, this is all in the past. Why should we still pretend to mourn over such things?" My question was as innocent as a ten-year-old could get it - me, as a ten-year-old, was blatantly innocent.

"After all, if Christ really wanted to spread his Word, he really should have just used all that power he had to kill everyone who wanted to kill him in return, and continued to preach along with his Disiples."

"Elysia..."

I watch my mother's face convulse peculiarly, from anger to confusion to mere sadness, and finally, neutrality. I had always known that, despite the praise from my schoolteachers and the awards I achieved, there were always certain parts of me that she could not stand.

"But, Mamma, it doesn't make sense!"

"It does. You just cannot see it." She nods in disapproval.

For example, my shallow understanding of religion. Mamma hated it. If the information I took from other books was the deep blue ocean, then the information I took from scriptures was the duck pond in the park we walked past to school every day.

"Estelle was always better at this than you, Elysia. It is crucial for one to have a view of their crestfallen mannerisms, so I advise you to note this."

"Mamma, I know what those words mean, but I ..."

Mamma could not help but let out a huff of utter disappointment, as was her routine every Sunday when she took the dreaded responsibility of letting me sit with her on a pew, and Papa with Estelle just a couple more pews behind us.

Her hopes were that one day, I might finally get to understand what was going on in the Church, despite my current depiction of Jesus' life and death.

Estelle was my older sister, and was the 'religion genius' of my family. Though both my papa and mamma would obviously prefer me, as were their guidelines of how to raise a child so that they are 'academically proven to be a genius intellectual but can't do anything else in life', she was lovely.