Page 22 of Damian & Jun, Episodes 9-12
Thoughts he hadn’t let himself have all weekend when he was surrounded by responsibilities and children boiled over.
Who had signed off on the false birth certificate? Why had their community allowed this travesty to continue?
The back of the pew fell, separating from the bench.
Where did she get off putting herself above him, above Armada, above all the rest? How dumb could she have been?
The bench was in splinters. He swung at the solid supports underneath.
Why hadn’t anyone else seen what he’d seen? Why hadn’t anyone done anything when he’d begged them from inside a cell?
The solid backs and bench pieces made satisfying cracks when they broke off, nails standing up in gnarled points. He hammered them flat, pulping the wood around them. Bits of the marble floor fissured.
Why wasn’t the law better?
There were more sections to the pew. He followed the boards down, slamming the sledgehammer as he went. The pieces were too large. He turned around, going back over them. No one would ever sit in this cursed place again.
Why couldn’t this world fucking protect kids? Kids like Jun? Kids like Armada? Kids like him?
It was his church. He owned it. He swung at the floor. Satisfying cracks spread out in a circle. His arms trembled with exhaustion. His lungs heaved. He fell to one knee, holding himself up with the shaft of the sledgehammer.
Sweat and tears poured down his face. He grabbed a red hymnal from the floor where it had spilled. The pages were still mostly white. They smelled of mildew. He opened it.
* * *
What a Friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
* * *
Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
* * *
We should never be discouraged,
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
* * *
Can we find a friend so faithful
Who will all our sorrows share?
* * *
Damian screamed. He tore the spine of the hymnal in half, throwing the pieces across the sanctuary.
Is there trouble anywhere?
There had been trouble here.
This ruin, this broken place, this was more peaceful, more honest, more safe than the days when Thaddeus Hayden Kramer and Pastor Doyle had lorded their fatherhood over the rest of the women and children under this roof. This cold silence was more pure than the self-aggrandizing speeches and songs that had once risen here.
Ruin was better.
