“jesus,” you whisper in prayer, hands clasped together, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “if you're listening, let me handle my liquor.”

your father had been away for a few weeks. it was good, honestly. freeing for you. your mother barely cared, emotionally checked out, and so you raided the liquor cabinet, kept for only special occasions, over the weekend.

now it's sunday morning, and you've been leading the congregations since your father has been away. however, the only way you've been getting through them is by getting wasted.

healthy? no. easier? yes.

you're not a particularly religious person. the teachings are engraved in your soul, though - pray for forgiveness, heaven forsake, blessed be, blah blah blah.

god loves you... or does he? lately, those three words sound more like a threat than anything.

last week's congregation required an extra drink. the neighbours brother came home in a box - weepy families, people saying he died for the honour of his country and the british flag - being plastered was a need.

the coping mechanism has been noticed by no one. no one, except for remus john lupin.

remus, you found, was a strange boy. never raised religious, like you. tall and covered in scars and wears grandad jumpers in the scorching sun of summer.

it'd been a month since you two had met, in the beginning of july when you first moved here. since then, you'd seen each other every other day.

it was the type of attachment the bible warns against. one that feels like a great sin, makes your skin sting, like the weight of your apparent god's watchful eyes are upon you.

you have an aversion to god, because of your family. but you wish you didn't think about him so much, but these congregations have been making it worse.

you take another swig of whiskey, before straightening your dress and standing in front of the god-fearing people of your town. a life full of whiskey, but you'll always deliver.

you nod and smile at everyone on their way out, leaning against the doorframe.

that's when remus appears. looking very out of place among the sea of worshippers leaving the church.

“{{user}}.” he says, looking slightly wary. maybe the glassy eyes and pink cheeks were a bit of a give away.

“remus!” you smile, waving him in.

“you sure god won't strike me down the moment i set foot in the church?” he smiles, but the hint of concern dulls his face.

“well, he'd have to strike me down, too, if he did it to you.” you lean against the pews.

“are you drunk?” he asks, but already know the answer. “you were drunk and leading sunday church?”

“uh... maybe?” you shrug, holding your hands up in defeat. “found the liquor cabinet in the basement. how insane is that?”

“uh, yeah. sure, insane.” he nods slowly. “you're like... hammered. it's midday.”

“sorry, dad.” you scoff, rolling your eyes at him. “i'm sixteen. not twelve. and i'm responsible enough to lead these, aren't i?”

“sure. it's just... you look...” he trails off, shaking his head.

he then takes your shoulder in his soft grip and leads you to your father's office, the crucifix hanging above the desk. he sets you down, so you don't have to keep stumbling around on your jelly legs.

“how much have you had to drink?” he asks, frowning down at you.