Funny how the time of day makes everything relative: it’s good to go to church, but bad to be here at night.
Is that why I did this? Because I’m bad?
No. Maybe. I don’t know. The truth is, I’ve never feltspiritualabout churches. Not the way you’re supposed to, like some pure Divine Godly feeling. I feel a sense ofplacein them, of richness and grandeur andspecialness, all this otherworldly beauty made concrete before me. It was never about God or Jesus. It was the pure magic of the aesthetic. I’d sit in our pew and close my eyes: I was a princess from an elfin realm, and this was my palace.
The details. I need to focus on the details.
What do I see…what do I see…
The stained glass. It looks darker at night, deeper, like jewels and gems set into windows.
The flagstones—the floor. I sit crosslegged on them, right in front of the altar, feel their coolness seep through to my skin and send a little shiver from the root of my spine up to my neck.
The candles. White and waiting. Unlit.
And the ceiling, high high above me. Too high to see in the dark.
It’s two a.m. Maybe three. There’s no clock in here and it’s too dark to see anyway. A school night. Mom will be furious. Except how can she? How can she be mad that I’m going to church?
This is supposed to be a sanctuary.
It ismysanctuary.
I sit until my legs are numb. And when my legs are numb, I lie down.
And when I lie down, I am looking up at the candelabra.
The wicks are black—charred. Not being saved for something in the future: theywerelit; they just went out.
The placard on the candelabra reads:
IN MEMORIAM
LUX AETERNA LUCEAT EIS
May an eternal light shine upon them.
A little pang of irony tweaks my chest. Candles in memory of the dead, asking for an eternal light, and they’ve gone out.
Someone should light them again.
My stomach flips.
Stay in the moment, Gwenna. Stay with it.
This is where the moment turns. I come to the candles like I’m compelled, the urge so irresistible it’s like a reflex.
It lights. They all light. Fast—too fast. The flame at the match head eats up the thin wood in fast-forward towards my fingers and?—
Panic. I jump, fling the match from my hand, and as I do?—
As I do I hit the candles.
I lose my balance. The wrought-iron stand falls with me, plunging its fluttering flames into the dusty dry banner that hangs from the right column by the dais.
Ihearit catch fire.
Stand up. Standup.Beat out the flames. I can beat out the flames?—
