Like a good little catholic Elliot took a moment before rising from bed to say a pray for those near to him and for himself too. When he had the kids over he sat back and watched them read their bibles learning parables and apply the good word to their lives. It was a good sense of structure in a chaotic and fucked up the world. Images of death, blood flowing from the mouths of babes, innocent ripped away he saw it all. At crime scenes, in photos, in his memories and dreams. It haunts him every moment, he hides it. Ignores it, denies it to himself, a good Catholic won't hold judgment in his soul for another; that wasn't his job. With his kids he could pretend God is always good, always fair, always looking out for the stronger man of faith; his reality tells him that's a lie. It's a joke. Elliot only steps into the church once a year, for Christmas mass saying the prayers, lighting the candles watching the wax drip and make patterns on the wood. At times the guilt knocks at him, being a hypotric with his faith, going through the motions pretending to be one of faith he taught was worse than not having a faith in God at all. But how can one have faith in a joke? How can one let go of their past past teachings and abandoned it all? Of the two evils he rather lie, cushion his soul and for a moment pretend it all as a purpose in the end.