Excuse Zaedah's little deviation from the existing in-progress Angel stories. I hope this does justice to the character.
Wicked Sacraments
The steps aren't terribly comfortable. Rain-dampened blocks of stone were hardly therapeutic for a back repeatedly struck the night before. Dreschet demons were particularly fond of forceful spinal readjustments usually involving abrupt contact with walls. In a flying sprawl, generally. But for all their lack of chiropractic assistance, the broad stairs don't really bother Alan Francis Doyle. Nor the occasional rain spurts and odd looks from passersby. It's the building atop the rough-hewn steps that gives him pause.
A church.
Of the Roman Catholic variety, the old church lay on a spiritual foundation of saints set firm against the profane winds of the devil's devices. Structures like this, imposing in size and purpose, always makes the small man feel minuscule and irredeemable. A blasphemous peon in the presence of righteous giants. Inferiority complexes aren't helped by buildings like this; a study in masculinity expressed through architecture. Still, he struggles to walk past such places and not stop to take in the old-world details that reminds him of home. But he never enters. Not anymore. A house of worship is sacred, a safe place for the pious to flee because, as his mother always told him;
Demons can never tread on holy ground.
As a child, his mother had made a point of distinguishing the pure from the wicked. Reminders of sin and vice were constant as potatoes in their home. Every meal was commenced only after rousing prayers begging forgiveness for the slightest imperfection of thought. Deeds were daily examined for fault. Motives were questioned for the simplest things. Doyle could remember his toddler eyes watching her descend into a most holy passion with curiosity. As a teen, it became rather embarrassing; the sobbing and pleading for cleansing not ideal viewing for potential girlfriends. Not that mother and child didn't speak of things unrelated to damnation and salvation and all the other 'ations' she'd driven into his skull. The fits, brought on by moments of unworthiness, took hold of the woman weekly, coursing through her like a panic attack. At one time, he recalled her making the spiritual quest a game, making him check under the bed or in the closet for evil spirits. When none were found, she'd tap on his little chest and ask if any resided inside. No, he'd smile confidently to her great satisfaction. He was no abomination and of that he'd been proud. The lesson was that demonic forces can lurk anywhere, but no place was as important to guard as his soul.
It wasn't until little Alan had reached 14 that the spiritual tirades shifted in his direction. Before then, it had always been about her. Apparently his mother had reached a state of forgiveness for crimes she never confessed. But his perceived sins, whatever she imagined them to be, became the focus of every conversation. Don't be the devil's demon, she'd tell him. Turn aside from what's inside you, she'd order. It was an affront to his esteem that she believed wickedness lived so readily in him. Hadn't he maintained his grades, worked part time to bring in money and gone to church like a good son?
It was natural for a Catholic child to fear Satan, the father of lies. The fallen angel, at once beautiful and cursed, was cited by the black-robed priests as the glaring example of what happens when good children turn from the path. Beholding a future of banishment from God's sight to perish in hellfire, any sensitive child would vow before the crucifix to resist the imitation of devils. Not that life was without temptations, but how could occasional joyriding earn damnation? He'd always said the requisite contrition prayers assigned post-confession by the somber fathers. And the holy water never burned. Despite his mother's certainty that Alan was destined for Hell, he felt secure in his place in God's grand creation.
But the mirror doesn't lie. And neither did his mother when faced with a son's panicked description of the nightmare he'd woken to that morning. A wife left sleeping beside him, Doyle had driven recklessly into the village in a perilous state of shock. The wedding ring on his shaking finger burned his skin as he listened to his mother's account of falling short of God's glory and the price she'd paid since. That night, her weak flesh conceived a child born of a demon, a tempter meant to steal her purity. And with the mistake came a living reminder of all that is vile in this forsaken world. But killing any child was as great as sin and she had no wish to compound error upon error. And so he was, like Satan himself, a glaring example of what happens when good women turn from the path. All that he was taught to revile is all he turned out to be. An abomination. So much for confession being good for the soul. Her admittance damned him in the instant the truth was uttered; salvation was never his to receive. Demons have no place in God's grand creation.
The stairs leading to the massive double doors of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in LA grow increasingly painful under him and Doyle finally rises to leave. When he stands, he can just make out the soothing tones of organ-fueled hymns vibrating through the thick walls. The peace of the parishioners as they come and go is coveted more than money or drink. It occurs to him that he was just as much a demon when he served as altar boy, joked with the monsignors and participated in the sacraments. If it were such a sin to enter, why hadn't he been immediately rebuked by God in some way while performing duties in His service? He didn't ask for this and surely cannot be found at fault for his genetic flaws.
Still, every time he decides that he should be just as welcome as the next partially human man, he recalls his mother's words, halting his wretched flesh from achieving his destination. From a continent away, her beliefs still haunt him. And there is unforgiveness in his heart for the woman who purposely raised him to despise what she knew him to be. The guilt of harboring that loathing added to his inability to cross the threshold.
One day, he always vows, he'll make it right with God. But yet again, it's not today.