Blighted Soul

I’d considered myself to be an atheist for quite some time. I was agnostic for a while at first, but the death of my parents had been a confirmation for me; a confirmation that there was no God, because no merciful God would strip a child of his parents that way. Therefore, sitting in a church on a Sunday morning was the last place I wanted to be.

I could be in bed sleeping the rest of this hangover off. I could be contacting my usual supplier and informing him that I needed more drugs. There were just plenty more constructive things that I could be doing with my day than listening to a man praise some imaginary being and tell violent tales.

The service couldn’t end soon enough. I almost wanted to criticize Scott for his choice in a “family bonding” activity. But when I opened my mouth to say something on the way back to our car, all I could think about was how bad of brother I’d been.

When had we grown so far apart as a family? When was the last time I’d even had a conversation with one of my brothers? I honestly couldn’t remember. And with the large dose of anti-depressants I’d taken that morning before leaving, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about.

This had become the story of my life.