Title: Full of Grace

Author: Arakhne

Disclaimer: I don't own Farfarello. I don't own Weiss Kreuz. I'm borrowing…

Full of Grace

-Arakhne-

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Hail Mary, Full of Grace

The lord is with thee,

Blessed art thou among women,

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners,

Now, and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

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I close my eyes and breathe in deep, inhaling the aroma of incense mixed with old books and mahogany. It's been how long since I've been here? Thirteen, fourteen years? I doubt anyone will recognize me by now. My childhood friends have probably moved away, went off to college or what have you. The other nuns and priests were on the verge of death before I left; they'd have to have a serious will to live if they've lasted this long.

I'm not sure why I'm here. Impulse brought me here and I suppose impulse will lead me to whatever I came to find. Old habits take control and I dip two fingers into the elegant cement basin of water situated in the middle of the huge archway, designed to make one feel dwarfed by the grandeur of the architecture. I've already crossed myself before I realize what I'm doing. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Looking down at the remaining 'holy water' on my hand, I'm surprised my skin isn't sizzling from the contact. Holy water. What a joke. Old men chanting old words over a bucket of plain water, no better than what comes from your tap when you wash the dishes. There's nothing consecrated about it. Mundane, just like everything else they claim to be divine.

The ceiling doesn't seem nearly as endlessly high as I remember it being. Memories stir, and I'm a little boy again, bustling into the cathedral with the rest of my Sunday school class, I look, following the oaken beams up to the high ceiling, typical of Catholic architecture seen in so many other churches littered across Europe. There is it. The breathtaking image of the Lord painted onto the timber so perfectly, His eyes looking down on His faithful servants as they file into the pews and kneel down to praise Him. I used to think that that painting was a window into Heaven and all I had to do was learn how to fly and I'd be up there. At one time in my life I would have felt blessed, special, to feel those eyes falling on me. Now I only feel disgusted and irritated, beginning to doubt my decision of ever returning here. Nevertheless, I continue on, passing by endless rows of pews, feeling like a criminal on death row growing ever closer to the end.

Church goers steal apprehensive glances at me before averting their eyes, not wanting to stare, seeing as it is impolite. I smirk. It's not like you can ignore someone who looks as I do. My appearance tends to be…striking.

Yes, these are knife wounds.

Yes, they are self-inflicted.

I chuckle at the memory of watching 'Fight Club' with Schuldig one late night while Nagi was upstairs studying and Crawford was locked away in his office.

'Yes, I'm comfortable with that.'

A child at the end of one of the pews leans over the seat and points at me while tugging on her mother's sleeve. I give the mother a grin, spreading my lips to flash her the fang-like teeth underneath. She gasps and covers her daughter's eyes and I can't help letting out a slow chuckle.

I take a seat in the fifth row; close enough that I can have a clear view of the goings on of Mass, but just far enough that I can hide myself behind another patron if the priest looks my way. Everyone rises as the organ strikes up and the choir belts out a tune that's stayed ingrained in my mind, even after the words have been long forgotten. The parade of alter servers paces down the aisle, surrounding an old, now bald man in a purple robe. Mass begins:

Stand. Sing. Chant. Sit. Kneel. Stand. Chant. Sing. Sit. Genuflect. Genuflect.

It isn't until half way through Mass - I still haven't found what I came here for - that I notice. That damned priest is still alive, the bastard. Father Callista. Every Sunday for 7 years, I listened to that man feed me lies of some great deity in the sky that would protect me as long as I worshipped him, that would love me as long as I got down on my knees and prayed. Where was that deity when my blood stained fingers reached out in the darkness, searching for a hand to guide me? Where was He when I tore open my flesh with cold, unforgiving steel? Where was He when I screamed out to Him, bathed in the blood of my supposed family? Where was He when the last of my sanity shattered? Where was He when my world collapsed?

My scarred lips peel back into a snarl and a low growl emits from the bottom of my throat, startling a few of the worshippers around me. This man, robed in royal purple, preaching to the masses as if the words that fell from his mouth held any kind of truth, is the embodiment of everything I have come to loath and detest. This man gave me false hope. He filled my head with dreams and aspirations that could never be reached, only crushed and eroded away in the wake of harsh reality. This man wove a web of deceit in the mind of an innocent child, fabricated an illusion; built a religion based on myth, fable, forgery, fraudulence, falsity, fiction, deception, complete distortion of the truth.

Sin incarnate.

By now, my vision is beginning to blur. I'm seeing in red. Communion. The parishioners file out of the pews like the mindless automatons they are, drowning in the false sense of security that the lie provides, too afraid to face the pain the truth brings. For now, I follow the oblivious sheep, dieing to wrap my hands around that frail ancient neck and give it a sharp twist.

Body of Christ. Amen. Body of Christ. Amen. Body of Christ. Amen. I bounce on the balls of my feet, adrenaline now pumping through my body, blood rushing to my head. Finally, I'm next. The woman in front of me mumbles an 'Amen', crosses herself and moves to receive the Blood of Christ. I step forward, head lowered.

"Body of Christ." Father raises the Blessed Eucharist to me, not really looking at who he is offering it to. I raise my head, revealing the aged, scarred, distorted face of a little boy he once knew.

Shock! Surprise! Alarm! As dear Father's eyes bulge from their sockets, a twisted, maniacal grin spreads across my marred features, the same one that can be seen just before I rip open the chest of some forsaken soul that has had the misfortunate of being marked as a target. While Father is still reeling with the realization that the child of years passed has grown up to be a mutilated freak with the looks of a psychopath and is now eyeing him as a hyena would a sickly antelope, I raise my head, never breaking eye contact, and hold out my cupped hands.

"Amen." I say, more mocking than sincere. Shaky, decrepit hands drop the crisp round of bread into my waiting hands and as I slide it into my mouth:

"…Jei…" Slips from the old man's lips. Play-time is over. My grin vanishes, falling into a sneer as the corner of my mouth twitches. I lean in so that my cheek brushes against Father's and my lips are positioned mere centimeters from his ear.

"Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned." A raspy whisper, and then I'm gone. Brushing passed the alter server holding the Blood of Christ and vanishing into the shadows in the back of the cathedral. I wait out the last of the service and watch the sheep file back out of the church, heading back to their mundane lives, and their mundane families and their mundane jobs and their mundane houses to say their 'Hail Marys' and their 'Our Fathers' so that the lie can live on. Routine has been known to drive men to insanity.

After the House of God has been emptied, Father returns to his alter, staring up at the statue of the Christ on his crucifix, watching over his huddled masses. He mumbles whispers of glorification to the lie he spun and I allow him his final prayer while I reacquaint myself with the Saints. I pass by the high stain-glass windows, each depicting their own Saint. Saint Francis de Sales; Patron Saint of authors, journalists, teachers, writers, confessors, the deaf, and so on. Of course, Saint Patrick: Patron Saint of Ireland, snake-phobia and Lucky Charms. Saint Mary, The Blessed Virgin: 'Pray for us Sinners now and at the hour of our death.' Ah, and Saint Francis of Assisi.

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace." I whisper solemnly.

Father crosses himself under the crucifix hanging high above the alter. How pathetic. Worshipping a couple of wooden beams strapped together in the form of a cross. I rap my knuckles on one of the pews, and Father's head snaps up.

An honest smile paints the old priest's wrinkled features as he opens his arms and approaches me in a welcoming manner.

"Jei! You've finally returned! I'm so glad that I lived to see this day!"

I am reminded of my encounter with a certain nun in a Tokyo church. I make no move to reciprocate the priest's sentiments and instead pull a knife from the inside of my shirt and begin carving a picture into the wood of the pew. Father glances down at the knife, his smile falters for a moment but he isn't discouraged.

"We were so worried about you after you disappeared. Sister Ruth went looking for you, but I haven't heard back from her in nearly a year." Father stops about ten feet from me, making sure to allow me my personal space.

"She found me." I say absently, not averting my attention from the picture I'm carving into the wood," Unfortunately, she passed away shortly after."

The priests smile began to fade. What's wrong, Father? Have you never been in the presence of a sinner before?

"Ah, I see." He says, glancing down at the floor. "She is with God now." That damned smile has found its way back onto his face and I feel as if I could peel the flesh from that overly caring face of his. Stop lying, Father! This is the end, there is nothing left and you know it! Stop lying!

I wrench my knife from the wood and raise my face to Father. He jumps back, startled at the sudden movement.

"Father, I come to confess." I proclaim, like the good Christian boy I am. Father seems a bit baffled, but his annoying smile persists. He nods and motions to the confessional booth.

"Of course, of course—"

"I have killed, Father." No, I'd like to confess right here, thank you Father. I begin taking lazy steps toward him, flicking my knife around casually. He shuffles backwards, fear evident in his large, forgiving eyes. I don't want your forgiveness, old man, nor do I need it. That nasty smile stays plastered to his face. I'd like to burn it off for him.

"My son, The Lord—"

"I have ripped apart men's bodies with my bare hands and licked the blood off my fingertips, Father." The Lord is no longer watching you, Father. The Lord no longer cares for his people, can't you see that? The Lord can't save you from me, Father! Your words of praise echo through empty air. No one is listening! A demented giggle escapes my lips and my twisted grin cracks across my face once more as I bring my knife up to my lips and run my tongue along the cold metal blade.

"Jei, please listen! You weren't like this before! What happened to the boy—" For every step I take forward, Father takes one back.

"Jei is dead! God killed him! God is a murderer!" I scream as my words meld into maniacal cackling. That damned smile is finally gone. Well, Father, since we're being honest now…

"Heretic…" I whisper, narrowing my eyes and snapping out my knife, pointing it at the priest accusingly.

I once looked up 'Sinner' in the Thesaurus…

"Jei—"

"Non-believer…"

"Please, Jei! Listen—"

"Evildoer."

"Jei, this isn't you—"

"Liar!"

"JEI!—"

"Criminal!"

"Our Father who art in Heaven—"

"HYPOCRITE!"

"Hallow be thy name—"

"BLASPHEMER!" With my last shriek, I lung at the old man and knock him onto the steps leading up to the alter. He clutches his rosary in his twitching hands and, with eyes tightly closed, he mumbles his prayer in a hysterical voice.

"Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us, Oh Lord—" I grab at the priest's hands and rip the rosary from his feeble grip before throwing it across the cathedral.

"You're not listening to me, Father!" I scream into his face, my voice teetering between a barbaric yell and a crazed shriek as I tap Father's forehead with my knife, making sure he's paying attention. Can't have him dozing off in the middle of my lesson. "Pay attention, Father! I'm trying to show you the truth!"

The priest reaches up a trembling hand, placing it on my cheek. The contact shocks me, and for a moment, I've lost myself. Then he mumbles something I don't hear and I snarl, slapping the hand away.

"God is not listening to you, Father!" I scream, my voice beginning to go hoarse," God does not hear your pathetic whimpering because God does not care! He's abandoned us! He murdered us and abandoned us! So that makes God a Sinner as well, doesn't it? Tell me, Father, Who does God confess to once he's become a Liar, a Murderer and a Blasphemer just like the rest of us?" Father doesn't provide me with an answer, so I continue with my lecture. "Stop lying to yourself! Stop praying to an empty sky! Open you eyes and see that there is no God there to protect you! There is no God! Stop lying!"

A fit of laughter rips itself from throat and I throw my head back, cackling like a mad man. I'm not the insane one here. Everyone is just blind, and I've managed to gain my sight. I'm not the insane one. My eye catches onto something and my laughter comes to a dead halt. There's the Son, staring down at me from his cross with those disgustingly sympathetic eyes. I don't need your sympathy.

"Do you hear me!? I DON'T NEED YOU!" I scream at the top of my lungs and throw my knife at the Christ. The thud of the blade sinking into the wooden statue's forehead echoes through the chapel. An animalistic snarl is now painted across my features, fitting the appearance created by the scars across my face and the eye-patch covering the empty socket that used to contain my left eye. I look down at Father, into those seemingly endless, loving eyes and I wrap my hand around the back of his head.

"And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Goodnight, Father."

I give the priest's head a quick snap and the crisp crack of separating bone is all that is heard in the hollow, empty church. I straighten up and gaze down at the man that raised me up under the light of the Holy Spirit.

…And I feel nothing.

The void in my soul hasn't been filled and, if anything, the weight on my heart has only increased. For the rest of my life, am I doomed to feel like my chest is caving in on itself? Will this hole ever be filled? Will I ever feel like I am alive, or will I simply pass through life gazing into the distance with empty, gray eyes? There's no one left who can answer my questions. No one left. I'm alone…

I gaze up at the Christ on his cross; the blessed martyr. And for a moment, I almost wish I could forget everything that happened in the last fourteen years. Just for the sake of peace of mind and soul.

A single tear rolls down from my eye, slipping in and around my scars on its way down. A sad smile sneaks on to my chapped, cracked and bleeding lips.

Too little, Too late.

I glance over at the Blessed Virgin, watching me from her post high above, framed in stain-glass.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace… Pray for us…"

-Fin.-

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