It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 87: Chapter X

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The moon hung high and cast long shadows off the turrets and towers of the artificially gothic House of God.

St. Gregory's Church, humorless at the best of times, stood solemnly on the peak of its hill, a looming deity always in sight of the poor and corrupted parish, never far from anyone's thought. It ruled over all with its mere presence, and at its sight, even the blasphemous Alan Carr scraped himself off the ground to a more respectfully vertical posture, paying homage in his own way to the stern visage. In the light of the night, where the trees rustled in the cold and creaking wind, there could be no mistaking that God did live there. Some sort of God anyways. A hulking and taciturn monster held to the shadows, eyes ceaselessly prowling across time and space, all-knowing, all-judging, terrified of Its own creations, hating each and every one of them.

But Alan Carr would not look away in shame or fear. He stood upon that empty crosswalk, head throbbing with the night's intake, staring up at the colorless, blackened windows in defiance, daring what watched him to come forth from its sanctuary and swallow him whole.

'I'm right here,' he whispered to the church. 'What are You waitin' for?'

And silence was the response, for, as Alan had learned through trial and error, God never answers direct questions and beseechments, even when the likes of greatness demands an answer. In the world of belief, silence is the only acceptable response, for in the silence you are challenged to hear your own voice, your own reason.

But Alan Carr would not stand for these games any longer! He had no desire to be left to his own devices, no yearning to hear his own counsel, no energy to pretend it was God speaking to him.

It's all bullshit!

All of it!

If there is a God, and He is watching, then He could have the common fucking courtesy to get off His high fucking horse and cope with the mess He, and He alone, has created!

Give Us an answer!

Give me a fight!

Listen to Us!

Hear me!

He spread his arms as wide as they would go, but when he opened his mouth to speak, a more organic thing came out of him.

It started in the tomb of his soul, where all day and night the spirit of Bud still wrestled for freedom, and then it rose, spreading to every inch and atom of his body, welling from his toes, up to his lips, where it tore itself free of confinement and upon the silent night.

A scream!

Guttural and cracking it came. A scream that asked for nothing and called for no help, but rent the air and existed just to be heard. It bounced off the darkened streets and ran along the icy pavement, burning like a Finneran Fire through all that dared to stay quiet and immovable in the Center of the Center of the World.

Alan Carr screamed and screamed, and it seemed that his scream would never have its fill. It would never be quieted until all the world was screaming with it. With him.

Let Him wake! Let Him see me! Hear me! Wake, You Fucker! Come and get me. Here I am! Not silent, not afraid! Come for me. I have sinned. Willingly! Happily! Crucify me! Hate me! Reject me! Scorn me! Blame me! I don't care! Just acknowledge me! I need to be heard—

'AHHHH!' A high and distraught voice joined in on the screaming, and Alan turned suddenly, surprised to find he was not alone.

And there she sat, under the awning of the bus stop, in robes of dirty white, her face veiled, abandoned by her entourage. And when he met her cold and unforgiving eyes, a feeling repentance overcame him. The tomb of Bud rattled fell quiet, and high, high above, he could hear the cawing of—