Corrupted
He hated church. He hated the stiffness of the pews, the smell of the elderly and the odd patterns of the carpet and curtains. All church's seemed to have no sense of style, always painted some dull or dark color with wooden decorations and fake flowers. He hated the children that screamed during songs, and hated the parents that let them even more. They were here to worship, others were here to worship- couldn't they shy their damn kid up for the hour of services?
"Our Lord asks us so little- follow his word, worship him and you shall see that gates of heaven."
He hated the preacher. He hated the way those violet eyes would grow bright when he talked passionately about the Lord, or how his already deep tone dropped a few octaves when he spoke softly and humbly to them. Alfred hated his wide shoulders, his towering height and rumbling Russian accent.
What he hated most though, what he loathed, was the way his pants grew far too tight everytime the sermon started. How the church grew too hot, how it felt like everyone and their children stared at him in judgment. He kept a bible over his lap, covering the bludge in his suit pants. He despised the way those eyes would bare into his soul, drilling holes in them as he preached on and on in that loud voice that made the hairs on Alfred neck stand and sent a shiver down his spine.
He hated the way that, here, where he was supposed to be pure, he felt the most corrupted.