It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 68: Chapter XI

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The wold was not right, of this, Alan Carr, slowly regaining sane awareness, was sure. By the taste of the gravely pavement in his mouth, he knew he was home. Indeed, when he opened his eyes, blurred that they were, he saw the loathsome church, hovering off of its foundations, a foreboding castle of malcontent forever domineering over his life.

Hovering?

Perhaps awareness was not yet that sane. Whatever the man in the bathroom had given him had yet to run its full course.

But it doesn't matter. I made it home. Everything is fine.

And from that moment on, his return to St. Gregory's, a black hole of events never to be explained, nor fully recollected, became a source of great inspiration to the man, seemingly encompassing all the good he thought of himself. No matter the debilitations, he would never be held down for long. No matter what life threw at him, Alan Carr would always survive—No! Thrive!

He turned over on the ground, staring up at the polluted sky and still hovering worship house, and tried, as best he could, given the circumstance, to gather and order his thoughts. Visions of Bud's adventures pranced about in his eye, but they were as distant to him as a long-forgotten dream.

Somewhere deep within, in the place of immortal pain, Alan could still feel the silly boy's sorrow, and he knew that that sorrow of memory would never be fully expelled. Nor would he try to be rid of it. He wouldn't be like Bud. He wouldn't deny the traces and scars that lingered. He didn't need to deny.

Let the child wail, thought Alan, for he will never rise again.

The boy had stolen tastes of freedom and memory, had believed himself immune from the consequences of such delicacies, and for his hubris now suffered—would continue to suffer endlessly!—for all time.

'And serves him right!' Alan barked to the stars, and yet, saying it, there was a twinge of emptiness felt in the man. It had been a pyrrhic victory after all, and there was a sadness to be had in the final defeat of Bud, in this new, solitary existence. It might well have been the lingering effects of whatever bitter thing he'd ingested in the bathroom, but in all that struggle, near eight years worth of compromises and conditions, a little of the sentimental child had permanently infused itself into the character of Alan Carr.

Another scar.

If only Their differences could have been reconciled...if only...what They could have been?

But, he mused, what can I do about it now?

His body was growing restless on the ground, and Alan began to try to will some feeling back into his limbs.

'Should haves' and 'would haves', 'could haves' and 'what ifs' will only drive you mad! One must not dwell too long on assumed possibilities. To rule oneself with impunity, it is paramount that one moves on from the uncomfortable and delicate propositions of alternate futures, futures more wanted than the reality ever achieved.

'Move on,' he cried to the night, 'and quickly!' With those definite words, Alan Carr gave a yelp of effort and forced himself to sit up.

'Quickly' might not have been the right word to be urged on by, for there was nothing that his head needed less than quickness. The world around him, assuredly not sober, spun and lurched, tilting like a listing ship with every movement, bold or imperceptible. Bile rose in his mouth, but Alan managed to keep it down. He would not be like the rest of that parish, his people! They, who so regularly debased themselves with lacking control. His people—Ha! Fickle, all of them. Poor in body and mind, constantly stimulated, but ever as animals who are aroused by only necessity.