A man, with his head, hung low silently trudges to his father with a firm grip on the thick leather bible. Everyone in the pews sat in silence as they waited for Father to speak. Slowly, the priest raises his hands to signal us to stand. He releases a sigh as he quickly skims over the words printed on the worn yellowing paper.
"I would like to go off script this morning. Instead of reading from the Bible, I would like for us all to join hands and listen to the prayer coming from my heart." The projection of his voice echoes off the glossy colorless marble pillars as we all arose from the deep maroon chairs. Without looking at my sides, I grip the hand of my eldest brother Nickolai and my mother who is staring at the priest in utter amazement.
Father Styles' eyes survey us all before bringing his attention back to his son who is anxiously rocking on his feet out of annoyance. Father closes the Bible in his hand and whispers in his ear before his son takes a seat at the piano located on the farther side of the altar.
The only sound that I hear is the jittery children behind me struggling to keep their mouths closed during this moment of silence. Soon he begins. His meticulous fingers danced across the piano elegantly, effortlessly, enchantingly—Father Styles begins.
"Dear Heavenly Father, I come to you with a hollow heart And a barren soul. I feel so empty inside Father. I release all I have day and night, Leaving myself fruitless and drained. I ask you, to make me full of you instead Of this feeling of absence inside of me. I feel almost...inhumane Dear Lord. Fill the vacancy in my heart and soul With an overflow of your love. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"Amen." We all end in unison before Father Styles' son forcefully stands from the piano and returns to his seat.
He looks off into the crowd blankly. As if we were all fragmented sentences needing to be fixed by a man who could not be bothered. After attending this Church for nearly all of my life, every day here has become repetitive. His face always looks the same. He is never drawn into his father's the teachings like my mother and I. He is never hypnotized by his sweet tune when he joins the choir or plays the piano. He merely sits there with bore eyes and thin lips.
Like—absent, from his mind, body, and soul. He is much different from a psychopath. For he cannot act. Almost as if his face is marble stone. A luscious combination of sage green earthy eyes, baby pink lips, glossed together on a fine porcelain canvas. A beaut he is. Yet empty.
I recall gardening outside of my home. Tending to my rose bushes, I notice him walk up to my bed of flowers. Rather than greeting me, he plucks one of my snowy white roses with his fingertips. From where I stood I saw his skin being pierced by the thorns. Yet, he did not wince in pain. Instead, he inspected his blood, almost as if it was foreign to him. He does what I did not expect, he taints my innocent rose petals with the tip of his scarlet finger. Placing streaks of his blood on the precious white.
I could not scold him. I could not find my voice. It was definitely odd. But that drew me in. I was curious on what would drive him to do such action. As soon as I found my voice that was missing moments ago, he nods at me and continues his journey down the sidewalk. Glowing a holy yellow as he pierced through the sun rays.
I knew to myself realistically, that I would not be able to comprehend what happened in those moments. So I resorted to fiction in order to make sense of reality.
So, I created Absence, a man with the biggest evil of all, a man who could not love.
In stories, we create a deflection of reality, to make it a reflection. Rather, a selection that can only be shown in the mirror. A mirror due to its bounds, due to its power deflects the flaws and hide the truth from seeing its cruel self.
I am here to tell you the story, in the eyes of a victim who succumbed to the so-called hole in his chest we call a heart. My story may seem far-fetched, but these moments are incidentally embedded in my heart. I know to myself all of these moments are true.
I, Catalina-Rose yearned for the thing he claimed he figuratively did not have. I wanted what I thought I couldn't get, his heart.
The heart of the priest's son who is glaring at me from the altar this very moment.
I was a victim, a victim of love and longing from a man who claimed he could not give.
But he promised to try, and try he did.
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This story will contain mature content, possibly graphic scenes. You do not have to be "religious" to read or fully understand this story.
This story will contain: - Sexual content ✦ - Religious references - Violence - Age gap (nothing "large")
This story is not intended to offend or ridicule anyone's culture or beliefs.
Hopefully if many people are interested in this story, I will definitely continue it sooner than later!
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Cover made by me! Interested in a new cover I will gladly help you out.
