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Summary
“Our Father who art in heaven,” he starts in his head, and that’s as far as he remembers but he calls out with every fibre of his being, “please hear my prayer. Please hear me. Please help me.”
There’s a warmth at his front. Not quite touching, but it scalds all the same.
“John.”
“He’s not right. He’s not right, and I’m afraid.”
Two fingers stroke along the skin of his cheek. They catch on days old stubble, until their path is smoothed by a slick trail of blood.
John didn't mean to wander into the church. He didn't mean for any of this to happen.