MARIEL

22~ His Office ~

Fr. Jerome opened the door to Mariel's room and peered inside. He saw the young man on his stomach, tangled in the sheets, his face opposite of the door. His black hair was tousled about his head, and a soft snore emerged from his mouth.

It was Sunday, 7am. The strong smell of brewing coffee comforted Fr. Jerome's nostrils, and the priest pulled his sweater around his shoulders as he shivered in Mariel's doorway. In all honesty, he did not know why he stood paused outside of his son's doorway. Something kept him there, and he felt an ache in his heart.

Mariel hadn't spoken much since the drunken incident on Thursday night. After their explosive argument, Fr. Jerome had felt it best give him a little space, but he realized that it was for his own sanity as well.

He couldn't lie to himself anymore... Mariel was different in ways he couldn't explain. When Mariel had returned, he assumed that his son would be more stable, more guided. Stronger. It was true that the young man seemed more confident and decided, but only in a manner that decisively barred Fr. Jerome from any information Mariel didn't want him to know. He hadn't mentioned any further detail from his drunken comments regarding 'the first death'.

And that concerned Fr. Jerome.

If Mariel had to kill someone, who would it be? He simply couldn't see God asking Mariel to commit murder. When Fr. Jerome had asked his son about the comment, Mariel hadn't responded. In fact, he had simply stared at him, gathered his things, and then had left the house. Again.

Furthermore, a strange event had occurred after the fight. After retrieving Mariel from the streets, they'd both gone to bed, leaving the items in the sink until the next morning. When Fr. Jerome awoke and had begun the process to remove the evidence of their fight, he'd noticed something bizarre.

The laptop was broken. But, his journal, the one that Mariel had torn and thrown into the sink, looked as though nothing had destroyed it. Its pages, which had originally been wet and torn into pieces, were untouched, unstained from the water.

Why, of all things, had his journal been saved?

Despite the oddity, it was the least of his concerns. Fr. Jerome supposed he'd been conditioned to look past strange things, especially in his household. However, the old priest had still been thankful that his writings had been conserved.

Fr. Jerome stepped back into the hallway as Mariel stirred in his sleep. Harlow rubbed against his ankle and his eyesight blurred with tears. He missed his son. He missed Mariel as he was before the suicide. He missed seeing him at church, missed hearing his voice as he sang Byzantine chant in the quiet, morning services, missed seeing his excitement and drive to complete his goals as a forensic student, missed seeing the happiness in his eyes when he was with his best friends. Mariel was here, in his home, in his room, but he was still... gone.

As Fr. Jerome prepared for church, he felt a dark cloud looming inside of his mind. A small part of him looked forward to seeing Fr. Paul. Perhaps, he needed the guidance. Maybe God would speak through Fr. Paul and provide more answers. However, his sense of pride had been reduced and, though he considered humility a good thing, he felt absolutely deflated.

"Remain humble," he said to himself, closing the car door and buckling his seat belt.

Fr. Jerome was usually the first to arrive. Today, another car was parked in the back lot. As his throat went dry, the priest exited his vehicle and approached the back door to the church. He jingled the keys in his hands and his skin grew clammy. It had to be Fr. Paul, and they'd probably given him a key to the church as well.

He stepped into the main hallway, which was only lit from the overcast daylight. "Hello?"

"In your office!" A man's loud voice echoed from the hallway.