It was a cold day already, at all of five A.M, the sun's awfully pale rays barely creeping up bast row after row of dilapidated buildings. The Nillies was a cold place in general, and it showed in every facet of one's life. Unlike most cities, or suburbs, where people would just be waking up on a beautiful morning, children running papers in rustic communities, or working men on their lawn, flipping through a tablet with a cup of coffee; here the thugs, pushers, and prostitutes were just now calling it a day, and heading to sleep. Hungry, shady, and destitute people all shuffled into their little houses, if they could even be called that, and slammed their doors, eager for the reprieve sleep brought.
From a small hill, a once grassy knoll, but now a lonely mound of dirt stationed right next to an abandoned mill, stood a man, simply watching. He took every minute detail in, that was his job after all.
You could tell he was young enough from up close, but from a distance he just looked haggard, and old. Dressed head to toe in a simple, flowing black garment, with a gleaming white collar, stood Father O'Connell, shaggy black hair a mess as always. He did this every morning, once the church was prepared for Early Mass. He'd set the tables, spark the incense, make sure each pew had a battered, torn up bible on it, and throw the once grand double-doors open.
They were large oak things, once intricately carved, and beautiful, now faded, indistinguishable hunks of wood on broken hinges.
He sighed as he watched what could've, should've, been his parish in their daily trudge home. He leaned back against one of the doors, his head hanging low. "Perhaps the view is why the morning is so chilling..", he mused to himself, a bad habit he'd gotten into. No one ever really came to speak to him anymore, so he spoke to the only person he knew would listen. Even if he felt absolutely alone.
God.
Of course, he was a sane man, and God never answered, but it still made him feel a little less lonely. At times like this, when things seemed bleak, he liked to mentally fill in the blanks where God might have responded. "I know, I know..", he exhaled in exasperation. "More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope", he snickered a little, "Roman's 5:3-4. I know. Endurance is a virtue, and probably why your clergy invented hair shirts, and these damn collars." He tugged at his without even realizing it.
"Just once, though. Just once.."
With those soft spoken, trailing words he pushed away from the door, it creaking, and cracking in response, and checked his watch. Somehow a half an hour had passed. Mass should be beginning. He shot a quick glance over to the church's sign, half hoping he'd forgotten to set it, but he as always, he hadn't. The old, and beaten sign stood tall on the hill, marred with graffiti, and neglect, but the words on it still legible.
"St. John of The Cross Refuge
We Welcome One And All In His Name.
Mass Hours:
Mon-Fri: 5am, 7am, 12pm, 5pm.
Sat: 5am, 7am, 12pm, 7pm, 9pm.
Sun: Midnight Mass available, otherwise Sat hours."
The plain truth was that no one was coming. With a bit of self pity he ambled into his church, a once proud accomplishment of Gothic stone work, now crumbling. He passed the first set of pews, half of them missing legs, he nodded to the bisected figured of The Blessed Mother, he closed his eyes as he passed a shattered stained glass window. It was his daily walk of shame, from the door to his battered pulpit. He stood behind it, hands running over the cut edges, memories of the drunken man who barged in, shouting and smashing things playing freshly in his mind.
He sighed and bent to reach for his vestments, and cross, just in case, but stopped short for the first time.
"Why?" He thought. "Why bother? What was the point?"
After all, he'd done this exact routine every day for five years, and people stopped showing up three years ago. It was ritual, it was duty, it was ingrained, but it was also pointless. Nobody would show, not even for free coffee, and fresh muffins. Nobody cared, not in this city. A wave of disgust crept over him, and he decided it was time for a change. He quickly helped himself to some coffee, which he proceeded to spike with cheap Whiskey, and retired to his office just behind the Sanctuary.
He threw himself down into his folding chair with a huff, taking a strong sip, and picking up yesterday's mail. All bills, all overdue. Any refuge his rebellion may have offered was quickly snuffed out. He moved some loose papers off the desk, and fished his laptop out from a desk drawer. The thing barely ran, and he struggled to turn it on. It'd been given to him when he was "assigned" to this church, and it was used then, but it would do. It had a calculator, and he could send messages asking for mercy from hounding debt collectors, and angry electric companies.
"Just a sign..", he called out, as the old piece of tech whirred, and hissed to life. "Just anything..Anyone..Give me a reason.."