Page 77 of The Senator: Raphael

I just needed to disappear. To go back to the anonymous life I had until almost five months ago. Before I screwed up everything. I followed my gut, but my gut seemed to stop leading me when I got here.

It’s like the farther I am from Raphael, the more lost I feel. And I hate being lost. I can’t control my life when I don’t know where I’m going, and not knowing is more terrifying than the thought of those men following me.

“It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” A male voice startles me.

I turn around and find a priest standing behind me, one hand on the back of a bench and the other gripping a walking cane. He’s old, in his late seventies maybe, with white hair, a face wrinkled with age, and dressed all in black. The only colored part of his clothing is the white collar peeking out in the center of his neck.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me come in.” He raises the cane a bit in explanation.

“No. I’m sorry. I was lost in thought and didn’t notice you come in.” My voice is hoarse from crying.

“May I?” he asks, pointing to the space next to me on the bench.

“Sure.”

He sits down next to me and rests both of his crinkled hands on the cane in front of him. We stay like this for a while. I don’t know if he expects me to say something, but I don’t even know where to start if I have to confess my sins.

“Rough day?” he asks, without wavering his gaze from the small altar in front of us.

“Yes. Rough day,” I confirm.

“Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes talking about the problems that pester us helps us to slay the demons behind that problem.”

I turn toward him more curios than before. “Are you allowed to talk about demons in a church?”

“Where should we talk about demons if not in a place where God can protect us?” He finally turns around and smiles kindly at me. The first warm human contact I’ve had all day.

“Fair enough,” I murmur.

I turn toward the altar and consider saying something. I don’t know if he recognizes me or not—he is a man of God—but he probably watches TV, and my face is all over the political news these days.

“Is it possible that God would punish you for something you don’t even know you did?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath and seems to contemplate my question. “God is not one to take revenge. He doesn’t point fingers and punish you. When your life comes to an end, your good and bad actions will be put on a scale and that will decide where you spend the afterlife.”

“So, if someone kills another person but does a lot of good things to balance it out, he’ll end up in heaven?” The idea is terrifying.

He smiles at me and shakes his head. “There are mortal sins that can’t be atoned. When you cross that line, nothing can save your soul.”

At least I don’t have to deal with The Hangman in the afterlife. Unless I go to hell and meet him there.

“Good.” I nod.

“Sometimes our conscience punishes us more than God does,” he continues after a long silence.

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why is that? I did the right thing. I helped people. I decided to sacrifice my life to bring justice to someone who couldn’t get it for themself. I gave a mother the justice she deserved after losing her son. And I’m paying for it. Every single day I’m paying for that decision.” I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I need to get it off my chest.

“Some would say this is God’s way of testing your faith, but I think that sometimes life is just cruel and unfair. You shouldn’t carry the weight of something you didn’t do.”

I look down at my hands fidgeting with the hem of my t-shirt. The problem is, I can’t drop that weight because my decision ruined my family’s future. I can live with not having a happy ending for me, but I can’t endure the idea that they’ll never have one either. Sometimes I feel selfish because I chose what my conscience told me to do, but I didn’t consider other people’s lives.

“I’ll leave you for a few more minutes before I come back to close everything up,” he tells me after a while.

I snap my head toward his angelic face. “I thought churches were always open for people who need shelter,” I blurt out, not sure what to do if he kicks me out.

He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s searching my soul to see if I deserve to sit here or not. The thought of what I did in the tub with Raphael yesterday makes me want to stand up and bolt out of here.

“A long time ago churches were always open. These days, we need to keep them safe from thieves and people who don’t respect the sanctity of these places.”

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