Eyeteeth

The CHURCH OF PAULUS AURELIANUS is quiet for once, as it is once most of the town has gone home and nestled together on their couches to watch the game.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what game; I haven’t quite gotten into New Tomb’s swing yet, considering I just moved here.

It’s the only church I know that’s open 24 hours out of the day and seven days out of the week. That being said, I sincerely doubt many people here know about that. But even if they did, they’d have no reason to utilise this 24/7 service because if there’s anything New Tomb is known for, it’s the god-fearing people. But since most of them are Presbyterian, they won’t come to a Catholic church.

It’s a surprise it’s managed to stay open this long accordingly.

As a succubus — well, only a half — a place like this built in the aspirations of hefty religious-men would — and should — probably be the last place I’d find comforting. Ultimately, there’s something about the dim lighting and the elevated ceiling and the sharply positioned wooden pews... I find it almost soothing really.

Although I don’t think there’s anything more creepy than the three stained windows at the far end of the nave, behind the podium. A tribute to the Last Supper, with a giant Jesus standing in the background, palms stuck together and thumbs pressed to the chest of his baby blue robes.

Kind of spine-chilling, the way he stares as if he were some sort of psychopath who wanted to die. Or perhaps driven mad by the knowledge that his death was near...

At ten at night, I’m the only person sitting in the pews — and not because I’m looking for answers, or I’m hoping God will forgive me for my sins simply because I choose to sit in one of His houses.

“It’s a bit late for confessionals.”

I whirl around in the pew. In the other column, a few rows back, a man in black clothing and a rosary is now sitting in the nave with me — and trust me, he wasn’t there before — without bothering to spare me a glance. Layered golden brown hair that brushes the tops of his shoulders with translucent skin that might suggest a mild case of anaemia. Though they don’t bulge out from underneath his skin, his veins are prevalent throughout his face. If I didn’t know any better, and in light of his motionlessness, I’d think he was a propped up corpse.

I also would’ve thought he hadn’t said anything at all, although he does seem indifferent. Maybe if he weren’t the only other person in, I might think I’d imagined it.

My eyebrows raise. “I’m sorry?”

“Confessionals. It’s 10 PM. Most people would be asleep by now. Or at least getting ready to.”

“Most people, yeah,” I say under my breath, glancing toward the two doors at either end of the crossing, and then the entrance. How had I not heard him come in, let alone seen him? “You’re still awake.”

“Someone has to be here during the night.”

“Why? It’s not like anybody’s stupid enough to vandalise a church. Even if it is Catholic.”

Finally, from his peripheral, he glances at me, piercing my soul with a pair of slate blue eyes. He chuckles, a light but warm one. “Father Harrell and I believe that the night brings even the most lost souls searching for guidance or a place to stay.”

I note that he uses the word ‘searching’ instead of ‘looking’. Seems like a nuance only a man serving god would do. I state, “So you call this a sanctuary at night, then.”

“Yes. I suppose you could say that.”

“Hm.” I drape my elbows over the back edge, looking around for emphasis on my next statement. “I don’t see anyone else here though...?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. A church is a cold and lonely place to stay, no matter the warmth of our Father’s light. The last thing people need is to be alone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, no. I run a safe house with an unconventional lot, but our intention is all the same.”

“I take it that when you say ‘unconventional’ you mean ‘non-religious’?”

“Sort of. None of them are particularly religious — I mean that they are from all sorts of backgrounds. Not people you’d expect to be involved in non-profit work.”

“Huh. Interesting.” And it is.

I glance up at the large white rafters, thinking about his initial remark. I’ve never confessed anything in a church before; had hardly ever been to church growing up, for obvious reasons. Although amongst other things, it wasn’t my place, and I never felt I had anything worth confessing. I was very open about my thoughts and feelings, when there was a time and place for it that is, and never considered any of them to be any more sinful than me going about my day.

Genuinely, I think about it. I do consider his offer, but... “No, I didn’t come here to confess. I just wanted some silence, is all.”

His face is pulled straight, very straight. Not sternly like you’d expect from an uptight god-fearing gentleman of the church who lived and breathed every word of the bible. Nor is it disappointment from my refusal to apologise for my actions. Nor relieved that he’d have to listen to some kid’s more or less trivial problems. Just...very straight. Almost as if...well, almost like being blissfully unaware.

Or perhaps just non-judgemental.

I wouldn’t go so far as to insult him — can’t say I know him well enough to do that — by calling him naive or oblivious. But he seems so... Blissfully content. Yes. Content. Like he could never be mad at anyone, not even if they made the mistake of betraying his trust. Or even if they did something far more heinous and maniacal than that.

He seems like the type of man who remains calm in a hell storm and would make the excuse that a dying loved one is ‘going home to God’.

What a ridiculous thing to say, but I could imagine those words coming straight from the horse’s mouth.

Even with the content expression, I can tell he’s a rather pensive person. Doesn’t necessarily go out of his way to have any type of fun. Sequesters himself to his philosophical studies. Doesn’t have very many friends, let alone close friends and doesn’t spend much personal time with family — if he has any, that is. He probably doesn’t talk to them, and the only time he does is when they call him.

He envelops himself in humanitarian work and sees his being as nothing more than a vessel.

However...

There is a murky gloom skulking behind those bright, hopeful eyes. He has secrets, no doubt, though I don’t necessarily think they’re any more or less corrupt than anyone else’s. No more than mine.

All I know is that they’re...poles apart. Nothing to compare them to. There’s something strange about him, where I know he struggles with something far more distinct than anything I’ve ever come across. Not the mundane issues humans so often possess; all tending to the same problems of independent velocities and yet still refusing to talk about them with each other.

With a somber nod, he rises from the pew and says, “Of course. If you need anything, just call for me. I’ll be in the oratory.”

There’s an oratory inside the church? I thought an oratory was just something you’d have at home. Talk about devotion!

“I’ve seen you with Father Harrell before,” I blurt, although I don’t know what makes me say anything at all. But it is true; I have seen him before, once or twice. I’d never thought much of him, hardly even noticed him. He didn’t give off much, if any, energy the way most people do — although some people are just boring like that, and open, thus having nothing to hide; so initially, I’d just thought he was of that lot — and he’d disappeared for most of the night. “You were at the Nightingale Fundraiser, right?”

He nods passively, perhaps only to be respectable. “Yes. Father Harrell wanted to do a community fundraiser. Nightingales was the suggested one.”

The town was raising money for prodigal children to further their education in the realms of the arts; music, a lot of music, and painting. Apparently, the local choirs and bands couldn’t even afford their own robes — although that’s mostly because all the funding goes into sports like soccer and hockey.

How Americans glorify their sports.

I smile. “Oh, there’s no need to be so humble. He told me it was your idea. He said, ‘Oh, it was his brilliant idea. Can you believe it? What a profound notion!’”

“Oh.” He laughs again, in surprise, but still that same genuine, light laughter from before. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Yes. Well, perhaps a little. But he did tell me, and he was...is very star-struck by your compassion and your thoughtfulness. Your whole plan was quite impressive, and you deserve more credit than you’re willing to accept.”

“Ah.” He laces his fingers together in front of him. “No, I... It was just a fundraiser. It’s not about claim. It’s my responsibility to help give back to the community and connect with the people of New Tomb.”

It’s not that he talks slowly, but rather, he speaks with an unbelievable measure of languidness and chill that you’d almost think he was high. But since he’s a priest, and I know better, it simply isn’t the case. His words and his voice don’t resonate the same urgency that mine often do; he gives off the notion that he’s got all the time in the world. Although I suppose if I believed I’d be rejuvenated after the physical death of my body and brought to a paradise I could but only imagine, I might speak with such languidness too.

“Yes. I suppose I see what you mean.” I lower my eyes to his forearms. Peaking just under the folded hem of his sleeve is a little black diamond, the edges bevelled inside. “Well…if you want to pray, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’ll…call for you if I change my mind about the confession thing, yeah?”

“Please, do… Good night.” He bows.

I watch him as he walks away, as languid and chill as his speech. I could be wrong — although I seldom ever am — but I doubt that man has any misplaced grievances. His faith is as secure as a springlock, far more potent than even Father Harrell’s belief, and I always thought that man was a saint crafted and sent personally from heaven.

The silence returns, but my mind is running now. I’m unable to look through the door he just passed through because I know he’s in there. But even if I didn’t know he was still here, it wouldn’t ease the marathon occurring behind my eyes.

Everybody struggles with something. Surely, he does too. Even if he’s better at hiding it than anybody else in the rest of this ‘family-friendly’ town.

No quantity of churches and church-goings could rid these people of the filth they think about every day.

But still...

I wonder what a priest would taste like.