Thanks again to Detroit, and to Shlee Verde, Falcon Horus, Xelena, and NghtStlkr64 for reviewing! This is a rather long chapter, but I have a plan now. This is also a kind of confusing and angst chapter, sorry, but I promise it will get more interesting.


John looked up, and sighed. Of course, his wandering, wondering feet had led him here.

The leaves had piled up in huge drifts around the crumbling old stonework, and the rain had collected in wide, shallow pools where the ground had settled, forcing the breaking pavement to slope inwards. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, and used condoms littered the ground – this was a good, removed place for the young and restless.

John hoped they wouldn't be punished too badly for sinning on sacred ground. After all, if was hard to tell that the place had once been a church.

It was cold, bitterly cold in that sharp way that cut through clothing and skin alike and pierced the very soul. The wind was just strong enough to sharpen the chill, but still weak enough to let the sounds coming from the old church echo though the air.

He paused in front of the doorway to consider the spaces in the stonework framed in rusted iron. Once, there had been beautiful stained glass windows, the pride of any church. Now the twisted metal leered at all who dared to come close, letting only the coldest winds swirl into the abandoned hall.

He stepped over the rotting remains of the huge wooden doors. The growing pile of mulch was still held in place near the building by the cage-like frames of metal that had once adorned the huge doors with networks of delicate ironwork.

He followed the sounds inside. Soon he could make out two voices: one deep and furious, laced with alcohol, and the other high, filled with terror and punctuated with screams and sobs. One yelling, the other pleading, one accusing, the other begging for forgiveness that would not be given.

As he entered the church, he stopped. The cold, bare stone was dark and still, the only movement caused by the wind rustling through leaves and tattered remains of human life. Yet, his mind could not be still, and instead forced him to see movement where is was not now, but had been.

Memories found their way into his eyes and forced him to see what was no longer there.

The boy was scrabbling against the cold stone in the corner as if it would push aside and give him a way to escape the looming figure and the belt with one of those huge, senseless Western belt buckles. Blood had become the center of the color scheme, contrasting oddly with the grey stone.

There's a theory that every sound ever made still exists in the air, too soft to be heard. The sounds of the past had found their way back into John's ears. Voices mingled with sound effects arranged themselves in his brain to play alongside his memories.

Please stop, please, just stop, I'll be good, please, stop it . . .

You worthless, pathetic little moron . . . no wonder she didn't want to take you . . .

No, please, stop, I promise I'll be good, please, just stop . . .

He'd had a thousand questions to ask. What were they doing in the church? What had he done to promote the man's anger? Where had he lived? How had he lived before luck had brought John out for an exorcism and then sent him out to walk and think about life?

He paused. Luck . . .

This ain't none of you business, weirdo.

I'm making it my business. Get the fuck out of here.

He made his way to the corner, wisps of visions fading as reality brought the empty stone into view. Protected from the wind by the remains of the winding staircase, protected from the rain by the once-white stone alter, protected from the kids by the darkness and damp, time had not touched this small space.

He bit his lip. Was it only memory that stained the stones red? Or was there still a lingering touch of blood?

Can you walk, kid? Kid?

Thank you . . . thank you . . .

Don't pass out, I really don't want to carry you –

He'd made it to the door, he remembered. That had been the difficult part, getting out. The rest was just a quick jaunt to the churchthat had long replaced this one, where an old priest had patched him up and found an orphanage.

John sat down in one of the more sturdy pews, letting memories fade away. Chas stayed in the orphanage for a while, but it was clear no one was going to adopt him. Bright as he was, the older kids get, the less chance they'll be adopted.

Why he had been talked into taking the kid himself, he would never understand. Part of it was the number of people who were telling him he should. Part of it was guilt – the whole "the life you save is yours to care for" kept getting on his nerves. And part of it, of course, was that it counted as a good deed.

But, looking back, he wondered why he had bothered in the first place. What strange impulse had brought him here, to save someone he didn't know?

With a growing feeling of uncertainty, he got up and strode briskly out of the church. Time to find some answers.


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