The Last Penance

The Last Penance
High vaulted ceilings stretched towards the heavens, as if hands raised in solitary prayer. Dust danced hypnotically through the air to silent hymns trapped in time. The air, heavy with incense and the lingering scent of snuffed candles, hung its head in shame. This was no longer a place of safety, no longer a refuge.

It had been many long years since Sarah had stepped foot into this house of God. Echoes of solemn congregations and sermons of apocalyptic hellfire caressed the edges of her memory; biting back tears, she shook them away. The click of her heels on cold marble broke the still silence as she made her way warily down the aisle. The last time she had walked this path, her father had been at her side. Steadfast, resolute, her rock. The memory mingled with the overwhelming pain in her chest; grief threatening to drown her. Where had she been during his final hours, when she should have been holding his hand tightly, uttering those words he had said to her so many, many times before? It’ll all be O.K. sweetheart.

Only it hadn’t. A text had broken the news. Not even a call. They hadn’t even permitted her to attend his funeral. To say goodbye to her creator. She’d pleaded to their better nature, begged whilst guilty tears streamed down her face. They hadn’t relented. They hadn’t cared. What sort of God allowed that to happen? If this was truly His house, then it was clear he’d abandoned it long ago, turning his back on Humanity. The effigy of Christ above the altar, paint flaked and peeling, stared down scathingly from its cross. He agreed.

Hymnals lay discarded, praise to a god unable to help and long forgotten. A chalice lay on the altar as if cast aside. Sarah wondered how many mouths had kissed its lip… mouths that had promised false loyalty to an invisible saviour in desperate times. The scent of musty carpets assaulting her nostrils brought her back to the job in hand. As she walked towards the solitary confessional, the dying remnants of evening sun shone through the stained-glass. She walked on, daggers of red and blue light cut through the stagnant air.

Tentatively, Sarah removed a single glove, trailed her hand gently over a smooth mahogany pew and revelled in the welcoming warmth of its curves. She vaguely wondered how many contrite hands had gripped here in pointless prayer. Wearily, she raised her dark tear-stained eyes to the confessional. She felt a child again. Tendrils of fear snaked through her as she remembered the sombre tones of the bent-backed priest; preaching conditional love through fear. Without permission, her ungloved hand stretched out and touched the open door, the grain of its intricate carvings holding onto years of half-truths, medieval morality and sin. With a final glance into the empty world behind her, Sarah stepped into its open mouth.

In the near dark, the quiet was no longer an imposition, a reminder of her isolation. It seeped through her every pore and she drank deeply. It calmed her. Sarah’s breathing lulled itself into a gentle rhythm that echoed her heartbeat. That evening had decided her course. After months of tuning into the news like an addict desperate for their fix, the statement had come. A shaken voice… food supplies running out… death count six billion and rising… no longer searching for a cure…

Sarah slowly exhaled and felt the weight slide from her once heavy shoulders. It was time. She reached up, removed the mask. She touched her face.