[FEATURED] on Wattpad's #featured list.
"We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it."
Cuba. 1955. A time of darkness and strife. The dictator, Batista, is holding onto power with a vice grip. Viole...
September 1956 Miami, Florida, United States of America
Dario opened the large wooden doors and stepped into the chapel. He walked down the red-carpeted aisle, smiling at the old priest that stood by the side of the altar. The warm flickering light of the altar's candles reflected off the priest's white robes. Coloured light shone through the tinted glass windows, shining onto the glossy wooden cross hanging on the altar's stone-cut walls.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Dario." The priest's wizened eyes formed a thin smile. He placed a spotted hand on Dario's shoulder. "Do you wish to make a confession?"
Dario fingered the wooden cross underneath his white shirt. "Not today, Father Michael. I wish to be alone with my thoughts. And the Lord."
"As you wish, my child." Father Michael gave a gracious smile, before shuffling away.
Dario let the warmth of the candles touch his cheeks, as he carefully inclined his head to remove the wooden cross, his only keepsake of his parents. The air was getting a little hot near the candles, and yet it did not come anywhere close to the boiling emotions in his heart.
Clutching the necklace, he lifted his head, gazing upon the Saviour. He studied its wooden features, the frail body, and its expression. It looked different from the one back home in Centro Havana.
Mama used to tell him that crucifixion was painful, and that the Lord had gone through all that pain in order to set them free. The carving of the Saviour back home had closed eyes with a somber and resigned expression, as if the pain was beyond excruciating, beyond feeling. This one here in the chapel of St. Jude's had eyes beaming upwards and a mouth that seemed to be in the midst uttering a prayer. It had a queer, sanctified expression, as if the pain did not affect it at all.
Dario exhaled softly, and kissed the wooden cross in his palm, as scalding tears started to flow down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he allowed images of his parents to flood into the darkness of his mind.
The humid Miami air brushed through Dario's cropped hair as he stepped out of the chapel. He adjusted his khaki pants, which had become crumpled from kneeling.
"You okay?" A low voice came from his side.
"Yes, I'm fine, Camilo." Dario rubbed his red eyes, making sure it was dry.
Camilo sighed. Pushing his back off the wall he had been leaning on, he walked over to put an arm around Dario's shoulder. "I know you still blame yourself for that day. But you really shouldn't, alright? Don't be too hard on yourself."
"It's difficult," Dario mumbled, brushing off his friend's arm. Images started resurfacing in his mind again. He stood there... while his parents...
