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✯ E V E L Y N ✯
"I'm sorry, God.
"I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up—no, I don't think I should be swearing in such a holy place. Well, I'm sorry for not being able to cope with everything that's happened, even if it's been years. A-and I know I shouldn't be . . . be depressed over it, but I can't help it. It's as if my brain has been hardwired to stay in a state where everything is blank, and meaningless, and either black or white.
"Th-there are times when I just feel like crying my eyes, and heart, out. Like now, for instance. I find it scary talking to you, even though, you know, I can't see you, but . . . I can feel you up there, watching and listening. And that's comforting. It's comforting to know that at least someone is listening to me. And so, because you are paying attention, I just want to say, Father:
"I feel like I have no control over myself. I feel like someone else is living, in my body, and they're making me do the things I do. And when I do feel like myself, I have these moments where the world melts away, and nothing exists. What happened two weeks ago, that was all me. I—I did it because I couldn't . . . I don't know how to say it— it was as if I was at war with my mind and my negative thoughts, and those thoughts—they won."
I break down, tears pooling and cascading down my cheeks as I bend over and hide my face in my hands. Silence presses onto my ears, the only sound the gasps escaping my numb lips as I rock myself to a less vulnerable state.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my bare knees burning as they scrape the floorboards. Grabbing a wad of tissues from my pocket, I wipe away my tears and blow my nose ungracefully. "Forgive me, my Lord."
I'm glad there is no one else to witness my breakdown except for Father Graham, who I'm assuming has better things to do than to watch me pathetically cry.
I shakily get up, rubbing my nose, and nervously brush my hands on my thighs as I walk down to the altar, where Father Graham is stationed at the porcelain bowl of holy water, praying in Latin under his breath.
I hover awkwardly adjacent to him, not wanting to interrupt him or scare him. "Um, good morning, Father," I say softly and watch as Father Graham says one last short prayer before he faces me, his face wearing a peaceful expression.
"Greetings, my child." A small smile forms laughter lines around his mouth. "What can I do for you?"
"Coul–could you bless me?" I stammer, clasping my clammy hands.
Father Graham nods gravely, his dark eyebrows furrowing the slightest bit as he looks somewhere beyond me. He never looks people in the eye; it's as if, when he's talking to you, he can see something hovering behind you, or see Him in the distance. "Of course. In Latin or mother tongue?"
