The congregation is in uniform, a solemn hymn collectively ringing out softly through the cathedral.
Each note trembles with faith—harmonious, sacred.
The peace of St. Augustine Grove is unfathomable. The number of people who come here daily to seek restitution is evidence enough.
I saunter in further as the rhythm swells, weaving through the candlelight like smoke.
Clutching the dangling end of my scarf to my chest, my eyes latch onto a vacant space on the polished wooden bench. Only three people sit there—a family.
I wiggle my way through, whispering apologies as they make room for me.
Finally settling, I free my breath in a subtle exhale. The scent of incense is so potent. I made sure to wipe my face clean of any trace of distress that might dare to rear its ugly head.
I'm not the only one with soul-eating problems in this place—maybe.
The loud screech of the microphone being tested pierces through the veil of serenity, gathering everyone's attention to the altar.
"The Lord be with you," the calm greeting of the priest accompanies the cruel sound.
"And with your spirit," the congregation echoes.
I remain silent.
Then the Penitential Act begins. All heads bow as whispers shroud the church in a cacophony of prayers—
everyone acknowledging their sinful deeds that stripped them of favor in the Almighty's eyes.
But I remain still, glaring at the statue with hands outstretched, palms splayed open.
If Aunt Maya were here, she'd give me a dull pinch on my waist to bring me back to earth and then deliver a warning with those sharp, cutting eyes.
But she's not. So I glare.
Wondering what I have ever done to deserve this tragic series of events constantly thrown my way.
Is this some sort of test?
I ask the image that represents the God we serve.
I'm exhausted, worn out, and I need answers—a way out.
One way or another.
A new hymn begins, more sacred than the last—Gloria.
But it all fades into the background; I'm too zoned out to pay attention.
Not until I see a certain figure, clad in white vestments that appear fitting—no, not in a priestly kind of way.
He makes his way forward toward the presider's seat beside the holy altar.
Despite the thrumming atmosphere and the choir's melodic hymn, it seems as though the church falls silent, my eyes glued to the man.
Specs glisten along gold rims that catch the bright chandelier's light.
Same eyes.
And suddenly, I can smell that strange mix of incense and whiskey once more.
A flash of yesterday's incident spills from my memory, flaring unwillingly.
And just as if my stare were a tangible caress, grey eyes cut to mine.
Had I been standing, I would have staggered on my feet.
My heart lurches. I blink.
However, he doesn't hold my gaze for long. It doesn't even last two seconds before he looks away, lowering himself onto the left side of the three-in-one seat the priests occupy.
My chest thrums slightly. I breathe.
My thoughts spiral again.
I wouldn't have guessed it, no matter how hard I tried.
"He's a holy priest."
Unaware of when the words slip past my lips, I mutter, my brows furrowed absentmindedly.
But I'm quick to gather my wits.
I reckon it's the first time I've seen him at Mass—
well, I couldn't say for sure since I only attend night Mass.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."
The Father's voice against the microphone snaps me from my rolling thoughts.
Wow. Exactly what I needed.
"That's what Psalm 46:1 says," he goes on.
"No matter what you face—it may be trouble, it may be fear, it may be confusion—"
His pristine white vestments trail along the marbled floor as he strays from the ambo, his gruff voice filled with reverence.
"God never leaves."
Well, tell that to my situation.
He picks up from where he left off. "His help may not always come how or when we expect, but know this—" he pauses.
The halt works its effect on the congregation.
"It always comes on time."
Then when is my time the right time?
I'm starting to doubt if running here was the right decision at all.
But my gaze flickers to the youngest priest in their midst.
I can't help but notice the lifelessness those grey orbs harbor.
The void in his expression—it's sealed shut, betraying nothing.
And my throat tightens with the realization that I'm staring again.
Just a glance, and I'm lost.
I fling my attention away, refocusing on the sermon that mirrors my turmoil.
"Sometimes God doesn't remove the struggle—He gives strength to endure it."
My fingers fold into fists.
"God's power shines brightest when we admit we need Him."
The sermon closes with that as the choir breaks into a melodious song, the sound echoing beautifully in symphony with the instruments that rumble powerfully beneath my chest.
My heartbeat quickens as I replay every word the priest preached.
It gives me hope.
But the shrill cries of Aunt Maya, begging me to do something, echo in my head, making it pound.
The cruel reminder that I'm running out of time snatches that tiny ball of hope brimming in my chest.
Everything suddenly becomes too loud. Too much.
My breathing quickens, my ribcage swelling and retracting.
Hope… I need that hope back. No matter how small.
I can feel my brain clawing for a solution—a way out of this.
I don't have much time, and that makes my heart shrink as if in a painful grasp.
Suddenly, it clicks.
Downtown… I have a friend downtown who can bail me out of this mess.
He's capable enough.
Nonetheless, the fluttering in my stomach comes to a dull cease when the thought crosses my mind.
I'll have to sacrifice something.
But am I willing to lose what's left of me?