This is my very first fanfic! Please give me feedback - I know this scene has been written and rewritten a thousand times, but this is my take. Plus, there's more… This will not be a Mary Sue and will hopefully, instead, focus on Silas and his journey to redemption. Also, I'm kind of busy and have a limited attention span, so I might not ever finish this. If you'd like me to, please review! I could use it… Also, any criticisms, suggestions, or reviews of my writing style will be welcomed as well!

Thanks!

-Fabala

Chapter I: Despair

Mist settled low upon Kensington Gardens. Silas could feel the tiny droplets of moisture floating in the air as he quietly kneeled on the wet grass. The bullet wound beneath his ribs was still oozing blood. Biting back the pain, he lifted trembling hands to the heavens in prayer, pleading, begging forgiveness. The clouds overhead were a pure white, as pale as his skin, but they hurt his sensitive eyes. He blinked back tears, but could not bring himself to look away. The image of Bishop Aringarosa, his mentor, his savior, falling onto the cold pavement, a bullet in his chest, could not be erased from his mind. A sudden upwelling of remorse and guilt, of unbearable shame for his actions, rose like a tide within him. Through clenched teeth, he could still feel the warmth of the officer's gun in his hand, could remember the touch of the trigger beneath his finger.

We are betrayed, my son.

Silas prayed, using every remaining ounce of his being to beg forgiveness. He could feel the bullet wound more clearly now, an aching, throbbing pain that was now slowly spreading upwards, towards his heart.

Pain is good, he repeated.

Pain is good!

But the familiar mantra had no meaning for him. Silas bit back tears as he discovered what he had always known: he was alone. Pain could not save him from a lifetime of purgatory. The pain served as a constant reminder, not only of Jesus' suffering on the cross, but of the pain of his past life. What he truly needed, beyond all else, was the healing power of redemption.

It was too late.

As the blood continued to flow from his wound, Silas felt as if his soul, his life's force, was also slowly leaving his body. His skin was a sallow white now, veins showing blue on the pallid, translucent flesh. His face was ashen, a haggard gray, and his thin lips were chalky with dried spittle.

As he became progressively weaker, Silas now felt profoundly cold, colder then he had felt in a long time. The pale light of hope, too, was leaving him. He was alone.

Fighting a sudden bout of dizziness, Silas collapsed downwards, clutching his wound with one hand, and supporting himself in the muddy grass with the other. His body was quaking with some unseen trepidation, a force he could no longer control. The light had nearly left him now.

Soy fantasma.

Je suis un spectre.

I am a ghost.

He collapsed now, shivering, onto the cold grass. The steady drizzle felt icy, a final reminder of the freezing emptiness of his soul. Drawing his dripping cloak around him, Silas could feel himself slipping away, into another time and place.

And yet the world had never seemed so clear.

Finally allowing the tears to flow, Silas prayed for forgiveness. God, I need to be pardoned. I am unworthy…

Bishop Aringarosa, bleeding from the wound.

The gun, clasped in his hand.

The prison walls collapsing around him.

His father's face, grinning at him from the darkness.

Tu es un spectre.

A ghost.

Closing blurred eyes in recession, Silas said his final prayer.

Hail Mary, full of grace…