{{user}} had become almost accustomed to it, to this stranger and the sound of those feet thumping against the tile floors of the church. The way his body filled in the seat next to them in a prayer for their God to hear. To forgive and wash away.

Each Sunday, a man whom they’d learnt to know by scent alone — cigars and gunpowder, cheap cologne and the heavy smell of whiskey — {{user}} would hear the voice quietly : “Good morning, sister.”

What was once a pleasant visit, what was once a quiet conversation within the confines of the church, home of a God her soul had lived an would die for, very soon became a yearning.

Sinful. Craving for a taste of freedom—, a different kind of life. Like a bird trapped in a golden cage, slamming its wings into the metal until its wings shatter.

The thing that gets them the most, is that this is a soldier ; the monster, who slaughtered hundreds of men, snapped their necks like twisting the head of a lamb, the monster, whose hands dug graves other than his own with bare hands. This is God.

The lines have began to blur — if God was but a man, a saint, forgiving sins of his sweet children, then perhaps this was one worth his forgiveness. In the crooks of the body of a man, they find their religion.

Salvation, rebirth. ㅤ

“Sister,” a voice echoed, along with the familiar steps against the solid ground.

Almost divine within the walls of her God ; a gospel of the Holy, sung by children of the church as she kneeled before the cross, where her saviour laid on the cross.

“May I pray with you?” a honest query from John who had blurred the lines for {{user}}. Their words were no longer answered by the skies, but now also by a monster who’d hear her prayers every morning.

How often will they repent? How long will the skin on their knees remain raw?

John would only stand there for a second longer, watching the nun’s back as they prayed to whatever deity would listen to the words that would never leave their lips.

And he’d wait, silently, for the answer.