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Chapter 2

Fingers in the Holy Water

The church reeked of long-standing forgotten candles, burnt to their wicks. The residual wax coated the base of the statue’s heavy solidness. Toes peeked out from underneath a material of stone cloaks, swathing the figure that was looking down. Always with one hand upon His bleeding heart and one out toward nothing. Stone carved into a face neither sad nor content; one that seemed, in that particular moment to Frankie to be one of judgment.

Tearing his eyes away from the face he had known as Jesus, the Savior, the leader of the church he had walked into every Sunday since childhood, Frankie Davis, big-shot Marketing Director for none other than Pike Industries, stood in the stained-glass splendor, demanding answers. Right now, all Frankie wanted was to curse Him – He had done this. It was His fault, not Frankie’s.

Changing his mind about screaming his animosity and drawing unwelcomed attention,

Frankie settled on lighting a candle at the foot of the statue. Hands shaking, fighting to get back in control of his emotions, he slowly drifted toward the last pew in the back row.

Frankie sat quietly, eyes closed, but as tears began to sting his eyes and wet his cheeks, he threw his head back, toward the decorated ceiling, and called her name between sobs.

Memories of long-ago images of the funerals she had sung for in this church came to him in waves of hurt and bitterness. The tears of loved ones looking for the same answer to the same question: Why? On any other day, the fact that the acoustics were so powerful would have impressed him, but today, it was different. It irritated him to hear himself cry, but to hear it being echoed with such depth and potency more than doubled the disturbing quality of the noise.

Taking a breath, Frankie commanding himself to get a grip. This had started months ago, but today was a bad day, one of the worst yet, and being in here was not helping. Again, he wanted to march up to the statue that stood with His hands forever in that same position, point his finger at Him, and tell Him what he really thought of this so-called life-plan He had for him.

Nodding his head in determination, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, Frankie pointed his finger in the statue’s direction, which could, if it were to tumble from its height, kill him, or at least break a few bones.

He glared up at the statue’s frozen expression, and yelled, “You had better come up with something worse than this to beat me. Lily would expect more!” Lily, the woman who was to be his lifelong companion, his one true love, the woman he would grow old with, would die with.

Frankie tried to deny those horrifying images – the terrible lurking memory of her almost dead body, lying motionless. He was in a horrible, morbid mood today – even the walls within the church appeared to closing in around him, screaming their disgust.

Frankie turned on his heel and stomped through the heavy wooden side door and out into the entrance area. Of course, he did not exit before splashing two fingers into the holy water font and blessing himself. To tell Jesus what he really thought was one thing, but to ignore the holy water font was another.

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