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Description
Hell found me.
Many of us spend our lives contemplating the transition from life to death. Some go about it the silent way, only allowing their minds to linger on the subject in the dead of the night. Others pretend to take it lightly, conquering the matter aloud; jesting. The one thing that we all have in common, however, is uncertainty.
"Heaven," I hear the eldery women speak from my position in the back of the pews on Easter Sunday. "Will I get there?" She looks to the priest as if he has all the answers, her tones hopeful. The man places his smooth hand over her wrinkled one in an act of comfort. "Why don't you tell me?" He responds, doe-like eyes fixed on her balding head. "I've done good," she answers, words drawn out apprehensively. "I've done good.." The priest patted her hand, lips turning up in a sympathetic smile. "Then you already knew the answer." I roll my eyes shamelessly. I want to tell her that there isn't a kingdom in the sky. Think about it. Sadly she doesn't receive my mental telepathy, nor catch my scoff. But I'd suspect that back here. I wonder if I should be ashamed that I only come to these 'holy grounds' on Easter Sunday to please my mother. I don't join in on their hymns or listen to their bible verses. I day-dream, with my legs strewn across the pews in front of me.
Rude? Perhaps, but why should it phase me? I owe the Church nothing. When bad things happened, I clasped my hands together as my mother instructed and I prayed to whatever's up there. Nothing got better. Now, at eighteen years of age, I'm a young man who's gotten nowhere. In a way I blame the Church for giving me false ideas of hope. After everyone's seated on those worn, wooden benches, the pastor begins the service. His words drift in and out of my ears as my thoughts seek tonight's entertainment. The collection dish lands on my lap with a clatter, dragging me back to reality as I decide I'll go out for a midnight stroll. A mound of bills and coins are barely balancing on the rusty plate. I amuse myself with a question -- 'If they've got so much money, why don't they bother replacing the goddamn plate?' With that, I pass the plate to the pew adjacent to me, consequently vacant. I won't waste my time moving it.
Two hours later, I'm on my way home. The night's far from pleasant, over-cast and dreary to ironically fit my mood. I run my fingers through my tousled, greasy hair, quickly forgetting where I came from.

(TO BE CONTINUED!( ..Hopefully.

Description
Hell found me.
Many of us spend our lives contemplating the transition from life to death. Some go about it the silent way, only allowing their minds to linger on the subject in the dead of the night. Others pretend to take it lightly, conquering the matter aloud; jesting. The one thing that we all have in common, however, is uncertainty.
"Heaven," I hear the eldery women speak from my position in the back of the pews on Easter Sunday. "Will I get there?" She looks to the priest as if he has all the answers, her tones hopeful. The man places his smooth hand over her wrinkled one in an act of comfort. "Why don't you tell me?" He responds, doe-like eyes fixed on her balding head. "I've done good," she answers, words drawn out apprehensively. "I've done good.." The priest patted her hand, lips turning up in a sympathetic smile. "Then you already knew the answer." I roll my eyes shamelessly. I want to tell her that there isn't a kingdom in the sky. Think about it. Sadly she doesn't receive my mental telepathy, nor catch my scoff. But I'd suspect that back here. I wonder if I should be ashamed that I only come to these 'holy grounds' on Easter Sunday to please my mother. I don't join in on their hymns or listen to their bible verses. I day-dream, with my legs strewn across the pews in front of me.
Rude? Perhaps, but why should it phase me? I owe the Church nothing. When bad things happened, I clasped my hands together as my mother instructed and I prayed to whatever's up there. Nothing got better. Now, at eighteen years of age, I'm a young man who's gotten nowhere. In a way I blame the Church for giving me false ideas of hope. After everyone's seated on those worn, wooden benches, the pastor begins the service. His words drift in and out of my ears as my thoughts seek tonight's entertainment. The collection dish lands on my lap with a clatter, dragging me back to reality as I decide I'll go out for a midnight stroll. A mound of bills and coins are barely balancing on the rusty plate. I amuse myself with a question -- 'If they've got so much money, why don't they bother replacing the goddamn plate?' With that, I pass the plate to the pew adjacent to me, consequently vacant. I won't waste my time moving it.
Two hours later, I'm on my way home. The night's far from pleasant, over-cast and dreary to ironically fit my mood. I run my fingers through my tousled, greasy hair, quickly forgetting where I came from.

(TO BE CONTINUED!( ..Hopefully.