A Piece of History: The Path Diverges

    There’s an odd quirk to humanity.
 
    In times of severe stress, when previously unencountered events threaten to destroy one’s perception of the world, humanity often turns to childhood comforts. A remembered song can soothe tears, a memory can ease an aching heart, and when questions regarding the way the world works refuse to leave a tormented mind alone, many people turn to their childhood faith.
 
    Faith is an interesting thing. We are raised in the shadow of our parents’ belief, and encouraged to follow along their path. Some individuals do, and live quite happily in such a manner. Others seek, search, hunt and endeavor to find their own manner of belief. It lingers, however, in our hearts and minds, and when the world we’ve built for our adult selves abruptly shatters…childhood faith becomes a form of shelter.
 
    It is perhaps for this reason that the doors to Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic Church opened late that Sunday night to admit a freshly showered, albeit no less dejected, Jonas Foster. He stood in the large, warm foyer, smelling the incense of his youth, feeling the heat from the candles, despite how far away the altar was, and looked blankly at the grandeur of the church’s interior. It was here that he had stumbled, after hours of choked attempts at weeping. It was only after he had forced himself beneath scalding water, vomited days’ worth of liquor and a bit of cigarette ash and nearly sliced his own throat shaving that he’d been able to set a shaky foot outside his own door.
    Once walking, the death mage had found himself unable to stop. The entire city traversed in one lengthy evening, finally ending on the angel-guarded steps of this sacred site. Something in his mind had pulled him here, perhaps. He didn’t know, and conscious, organized thought made him ache bodily. So he stumbled up the broad aisle, passing a handful of late-night worshippers (Sinners seeking penance, perhaps? Others facing the collapse of hope? Of dreams? Someone here…feeling his pain? Lacerated by the shards of a love so fragile the merest breath of reality destroyed it?) and paying them as much mind as he gave the elaborate carvings, the breathtaking stained glass windows, the rich mahogany of the pews. With dull, lifeless feet, Jonas moved himself to the front of the church and stood motionless before the altar. He could barely bring himself to look up, but when he did, there was a moment as comes to many of us in life. There he stood, with the crumbled remains of a love he’d never thought possible behind him, within him, still under his scrubbed fingernails (…clawing the ground, choking on her name, drawing blood from her still arms from the strength of his grip…) and before him was the image of a comfort from distant childhood years.

    The crossroads stood before him, and Jonas was, for the second time in his life, uncertain. There were always choices, weren’t there? Here was one: accept it. Accept what had been done, accept the brutal, senseless violence of the death of something fragile and beautiful and see the turning of the Wheel as he always had. The other? Rage against it. Protest the injustice of it, hate the atrocious manner in which she died, demand reparation in the form of blood for blood. As Jonas looked up at the peaceful face of the Christ, seeing the man’s sublime contentment with his lot, even through pain and death…he couldn’t help but seeing…(…her smile, so gentle…her eyes, looking up without a hint of the agony, the fear…only her acceptance…only lo-) His jaw clenched suddenly, as his fists cracked with stiff protest against their sudden tightening. Accept? Accept?!? Never! The rage that burned through him, healing rage, pushing away the fog of depression, lighting his eyes with something as unfamiliar as pain, as loss. The death mage had never felt righteous anger before, never tingled with the white-hot fury of witness to destruction of a precious dream. His hands tightened, whitening his knuckles, and Jonas fought back a howl of sheer pain.

    "Are you all right, my son?"

    The question nearly gave the inoffensive priest a black eye, or possibly a broken nose, as the death mage swung around, ready to do battle. It took Jonas a moment to come back to himself, a black frown appearing on his face.
    "Yeah, fine," he growled, stepping back from the altar with a glance upward, not bothering to hide the expression of unequivocal disgust. He had prayed, hadn’t he? At that moment, with a fervor he’d never had before, he had prayed. Begged. Pleaded silently with an uncaring God for her life. His answer had been to watch the light in her eyes fade. No…Jonas didn’t bother hiding his expression, nor did he try reassuring the priest who stood gazing at him with troubled eyes.
    "Have you come for confession, my son?" The priest motioned to the confessionals lining one wall, and took a step towards them. "I can hear your confession if you like."
    "Confess?" Jonas kept the snarl out of his voice with a bare effort. It was restraint he’d never bothered with before, and even now, the reason, the why of his actions eluded him. "I didn’t commit the crime."
    "Crime?" The priest’s face shifted, that lurking anxiety that Jonas imagined all priests must feel at the thought of hearing a legally touchy confession blooming under his careful calm. "Has something happened that…perhaps you should speak to someone about?"
    The death mage’s scowl deepened as he looked back up at the figure looming above them. "I spoke to the only person who was supposedto be able to do something about it. Nothing happened."
    "My son…God’s plan is difficult for us to understand. Sometimes, things have a purpose that we are too clouded by this world to see."
    The priest’s trite words, spoken in a tone designed to soothe, had the opposite effect. Jonas looked at him with hard, black eyes. "Oh? So you’re saying everything that happens is because God wanted it this way?"
    "Not everything, my son. But things that seem painful or confusing to us effect our lives in manners that lead to a greater understanding of the divine."
    "Oh, I understand, all right," Jonas snapped. "God gave me something I’d never known existed, and then took it away. Great. Nice of him."
    It was odd, the things one said that could hurt someone. The priest couldn’t hide the look of pain on his face when Jonas spoke, but he covered it well, swallowing and gesturing up to the image. "He suffered, more immensely than we could ever imagine, and yet, look at how serene he is. Christ knew that his suffering was only transitory, and that it furthered God’s plan for us."
    Jonas looked up when the priest motioned, and then restrained himself once more. He swallowed, and looked at the man, his jaw tense. "I saw someone suffer, worse than he did. And you know what? God didn’t have a damn thing to do with it."
    "We are often tested by Satan, my son. It is only mortal suffering which we endure here, to gain God’s heavenly grace."
    "So now it’s Satan’s fault?" Jonas threw his hands up, his sharp laughter drawing the attention of several people scattered in the pews. "So it’s either God’s plan or Satan fucking with me? You know what? I’d rather believe it’s the devil. At least I can understand why he’d be pissed. I can see why he would do it. I don’t know how you can stand there and tell me that God would fucking torture to death a woman who-" The death mage stopped short, and rubbed his stinging eyes roughly. The priest had backed away from him, an expression of horror dawning on his face, and all Jonas could do was laugh bitterly at him.
    "Father, unless you can look at me and tell me why God would kill a woman who had …never hurt anyone in her life, and do it so she died in horrible pain, then I don’t want to fucking hear it. And you know what? If God did this, then fuck him. If Satan did it, fuck him too. No one can fix it. I don’t even know why I came here." He bit the last syllables off crisply, and turned on his heel. With more energy than he’d shown in a week, the death mage walked to the heavy doors of the church. In his wake, the anger was nearly crackling in the air, and the sound of broken faith echoed louder than the slamming doors.

    At the altar, the priest, trembling and pale, turned to kneel before the image of his faith. He whispered prayers to himself and lit a candle with shaking hands, swallowing back the tears he wanted to weep on behalf of a hurting soul. The rustling of worshippers behind him was ignored, as was the whisper of a silk suit as a man rose without haste. With a flutter of his pearl grey overcoat, he walked to the church doors and slipped out as silently as Jonas had been loud.