As I listened to the echoing of Christmas prayers, my heart would not embrace the chants of blessings and gratefulness. The heavy, warm, honeyed incense clawed at my lungs like a cheetah attacking its prey. Shifting on the unforgiving pew, my body bumped my husband Peter again. His concerned gaze swept over me, his face a silent question.
I quietly averted my eyes to stare down at my lap. As “We Three Kings” reverberated in the old church, the lyrics sounded as fake as my presence here.
Father Ignatius closed the Christmas ceremony with a lighthearted story, and goodwill wishes to all. As the parishioners stood, the organ bellowed out "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing". I could feel Peter’s gloved hand gently pull me up to leave the crowded pew.
As I followed Peter out, it didn’t matter that I kept my eyes cast down; I could feel the churchgoers’ eyes piercing me. The unspoken words surrounded me like the ghost of Christmas past, ‘Surprised they came.’ ‘wasn’t it last Christmas Eve that it happened?’ ‘That poor couple, I don’t know how they keep going’.
Peter led me to the shadowed alcove decorated with evergreen garlands. There, we both stood before candles, casting a warm glow. I watched Peter remove his gloves; he picked up a candle to light another one. His expression was pensive, devoid of holiday cheer.
After a moment, he turned and handed me the lit candle. “Take this and find something to be grateful for. Please.” My hand clutched the wax weapon as a drop of molten wax fell onto my hand. The scorching pain felt like a balm to my hollow soul.
As I slowly moved to light a candle, I felt Peter’s hopeful gaze probing through me. He thinks I can be saved. A smirk curved at the corner of my lips. A vision crystallized in my mind as if a fog had lifted. Yes, I have one grateful thought. When I find the man who murdered my little boy, I will enjoy watching him suffer as I plunge a knife into his evil heart.
About the Creator
Almost
Jazna tells Isaac she’s leaving on a Tuesday morning, while the kitchen is still dim and soft with early light. She waits until the kettle finishes boiling, because she doesn’t want her voice to compete with the noise. Or maybe because she needs those last few seconds to steady herself. “I’m going today,” she says.
By Sara Wilson10 minutes ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
Well, she found something to be grateful for!
Sometimes that all we get a flicker of gratitude for whatever. Great story.
That's the thing, we have empathy for her. Hard to have faith and holiday cheer if in her shoes!
I'm rooting for her! I hope she finds him!