#84 Short Story
I have kept the faith—
but why am I still being punished?
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The alabaster walls, murals, stained glass, and the angels glowed in hues distinct to the moonlight carved many millennia ago, meant for eyes that still witness.
The humming machinations of both light and wind echoed throughout the pews, pedestals, scattered confessionals, and the silent choir—empty of souls at that very hour.
A man had taken special permission to stay among the pews at the back corner, so close to an entrance long since locked. The only other souls that remained were either elsewhere inside the church or outside. Here and there, a soul would pass, but they were concerned with other, more trivial matters of grave consequence.
Another man approached him—a quiet man of cloth. He smelled of nicotine and ashes. A blend of holy and sin. But he was not concerned. Long ago, he had decided that the ashes of the church would mix well with his favorite brand of cigar. That was not always the case. It was his cloth and standing that made people let it slide. He was, nevertheless, beloved by many. A single flaw or two would not make much of a difference.
“Good evening,” the man of cloth greeted.
The man with permission was startled. He sat upright from his moment of distant thought.
“Oh, Father Oscar,” the man stood, bowed, and took the priest’s hand, letting his forehead touch the back of it with utmost care.
Father Oscar let the tradition be. It was the proper gesture. The right response. A culture long etched into both the soul of the land and its people. A momentary routine. A brief respite for believers. An embodiment of a higher being, personified in flesh—
But that is the least concern of this story. I, as the author, apologize.
“How have you—” the priest paused, noticing the bags beneath the man’s eyes. “What happened to you?”
“I’m sorry,” the man with permission forced a chuckle. He looked the priest in the eyes. “I sort of lost my ability to sleep.”
The priest sat beside him, agile and jovial in movement. A friend from long ago had once more returned.
“Have you and your mother fought again—oh! Wait, let me rephrase that. Were you scolded again?” the priest asked, his tone full of vigor, touched with humor.
“You’re always right on the mark, Father Oscar,” the man with permission averted his gaze. He stared at the reflection cast on the smooth, shining alabaster floor. The ceiling was unclear, but he knew the murals were there.
“Oh! Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten what I said?” The priest wrapped an arm around his shoulder, tugging him closer. “We’re dear friends, for heaven’s sake!”
The man with permission suddenly looked at the priest, eyes wide.
Did the priest just curse?
“I shouldn’t have said that,” the priest laughed—natural, unbridled, genuine. “But whatever. How have you been?”
The man with permission forced a smile and returned to gazing at the murals through their reflection on the alabaster floor.
There was a moment of pause.
The priest waited.
The man sighed.
“I… we’re doing great, actually. Thank Our Lord—we’re blessed all throughout the year.”
The smile stayed. Whether it convinced the priest, he did not care.
The priest noticed.
“Business is well, I assume. But how about you? How are you, Jacob?”
Jacob sighed. And in that breath, he gave his answer.
“Tired.”
The priest crossed his arms.
“It’s serious this time, huh?”
Jacob averted his gaze again. His eyes settled on the kneeler’s soft cushion—green, stained with dirt, grime, and comfort.
He sighed, then met the priest’s eyes.
“My… she… Mother… she’s hurting me… with her words.”
The priest wanted to reassure him—that there are mothers like that. Mothers who, without belt, whip, stick, or anything their hands could reach, could inflict excruciating and lasting pain. It was not uncommon. In fact, it was more common than people would admit—especially among children who had grown, especially among those who loved their parents dearly.
But the priest did not interrupt.
“She… I just wanted to help, but… she lashed out at me. And so… I disobeyed her. I know… I know what I did was not wrong. But… I don’t know.”
The priest leaned back against the pew, listening intently. His gaze drifted toward the altar, dimly lit except for the light that shone upon the face of Christ nailed to the cross. There was both discomfort and comfort in looking at sculpted beings—forever quiet, perhaps forever in pain, left so by their own maker.
“Maybe—” the priest tried to speak, but went unheard.
Jacob continued.
“All I wanted was to help a beggar asking for alms. I had a few extra coins in my pocket. She… Mother told me not to. But I did anyway.
“I noticed the smile on the beggar’s face as she went on her way. But was it a smile… or a smirk? A grin toward me—and what was to come?
“Soon after, my mother lashed out at me. She ranted on and on—that I was helping the woman’s vice, not the woman herself. That all I did was feed my own ego. That I wanted to be self-righteous… that I wasn’t truly helping.
“But what hurt most… was not when she stopped midway from slapping me.
“I would have caught it.”
The priest, his usual dull and nonchalant gaze sharpened, looked toward Jacob. He wanted to speak—but this was not his moment. So he stayed silent.
“I… I didn’t like what she said after,” Jacob continued. “In her bitterness, she said: When I die, you will cry. And no matter what you do, you won’t find me. You will search for me. And you will understand.”
The priest thought it all too common. In households of fractured peace, trauma, and unspoken wounds—such words were not rare. Bitter. Cliché. And yet still capable of cutting deep, especially when spoken to a child—no matter how old that child had become.
Still, he remained silent.
“It… it hurts so bad just thinking about it,” Jacob said. “Her sharp words, her piercing gaze… how condescending she was toward me. It just… it hurts so much. Growing up, I was taught to be kind… but should kindness be… selective? Restricted? Impure? I hate it when she’s just so—”
He stopped himself.
He would not speak ill of his mother. Not like this. Not here. Despite everything, she was still his mother. And despite everything—he still loved her.
“You are a very, very precious child,” the priest whispered, a small smirk on his lips.
Jacob glanced at him, expression blank—but filled with something unspoken.
The priest noticed and realized he was smiling.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like an insult. It’s just that… I’m amazed by you. Truly, truly amazed. You were raised right—if the reason you came here is to bring all your bottled-up frustration to Our Lord… and still have the courage to go back.”
He paused, then asked softly:
“You’re still going back, right?”
Jacob smiled.
“I am, Father. Who would take care of our business in the evening if I just up and left?”
For a moment, his face brightened. His eyes glistened—but no tears fell.
“Even so,” the priest continued, “what your mother said… those are words never meant for one’s own child. Just my opinion—but I believe it goes without saying. And the way you’re taking it… it’s proof that you love her dearly.”
He pointed to his chest, then to Jacob’s.
“It hurts here, right?”
“Yes… yes, it does, Father,” Jacob’s voice broke—but he held on.
The priest instinctively raised his fingers as if holding a cigar, about to take a drag. Then he paused, remembering where he was. He smiled faintly at himself—at the habits he never quite manages to control.
“You’re a strong man, Jacob,” he said, leaning back, eyes drifting toward the murals above—the young Christ in Mary’s arms. It was strange. The child seemed to be smiling, looking at his mother with joy. The priest felt a chill.
“I’m not… really,” Jacob murmured.
He stood, smiled at the priest, and gestured as if smoking a cigar—an invitation.
The priest smiled and obliged. As if the cloth would ever stop him.
Which lost soul would refuse a free drag?
There was a soft shuffle as the kneeler was set for the next mass. The two made their way out. A faint laughter—of two long-time friends—echoed within and beyond the church. Their voices lingered among the pews, the kneelers, the stained glass, the sculptures, and the cross.
The two friends, reunited after so long, left the church.
Their shadows lingered a moment longer—
before vanishing along with them.