We Have Sinned

When she walks into the church she halts at the stoup and dips two fingers into the holy water, tracing the cross onto her forehead, covered in rosacea and sweat. The choir stalls are crowded with people wearing satin choral gowns, holding hands and chanting silently to their savior before mass begins and the faithful Catholics are reading over the church directories and calming their newborns. She has a seat beside an old man with ripples in his dark skin and a fedora on top of his bald head, she smiles and fixes her skirt.

The church shakes a little and God's holy voice is muffled by the sound of hymns being sung all around her, the air is stale and smells like vinegar and voices bounce off of the stained glass windows. Mary and Jesus and Joseph stare with concrete eyes while she continues to writhe uncomfortably on the pew. The old man's voice is soothing but occasionally cracks and the girl covers her ears but can still hear everything, "God, take me as I am." She's pleading for the voices to stop but they only get louder.

The scent of incense withering away inside lead pipes fills her nostrils and she can see the sun shining through the windows in columns. Homeless dogs outside scream and howl and rip the moss from trees to eat because the neighbors have already rid of their garbage for the week. Everything is unseen and promised in blood and rosaries and Jesus Christ because who else is there to trust?

Bread and wine are passed around and the girl sees herself in the drink, her image crinkling like plastic wrap in the pool of red. The priest urges her to drink and to eat and to thank Jesus Christ for the sacrifices he had made, "You should be greatful that your mother and I have kept you," he whispers. "Drink and rejoice." So she eats and drinks and curses the name of her father and savior.