Jesus. Christ. Finally. A new update! So sorry it took so long; you're patience means the world to me! Erm. Yeah. I'm SO tired of filler! But I feel as though I need to establish a good relationship first as well as giving insight into Clare's mental state over the past few weeks. THEN. And only then, can I get to the stuff I enjoy, which means longer chapters, actually readable material, etc. Thanks to all my Tumblr followers (see my profile for link), reviewers, and DreamWriter123. She's the author of Just Breathe. Just getting her feedback gets me inspired. Enjoy.
As Clare sang the final hymn, adrenaline spiking her blood with each note, she couldn't help but smile at the world around her. For nearly a month it had looked so bleak, so dreary, the colors slinking off their canvas, leaving dull shades of grey in their wake, black and white blurring into a numbing monotone of mundane. But now, Clare noted with increasing ecstasy and overwhelming relief, the colors were slowly starting to swim back into focus, sparking life into the church. The flickering flames of lighted candles exuded vibrant golds and oranges, while the rainbow light drifting through stained glass cloaked her body in a radiant skin of hues, seeming to only add to the glow already gleaming on her shining face.
This past stretch of darkness—for it couldn't be measured in time—seemed so indefinable, abstract, just a blur of black and bleak. Clare was submerged in the lukewarm waters of monotony with blasts of frigid anguish that slashed her body deliciously with the earth-shaking feeling of beautiful sorrow. And it pierced her heart, mutilated her beyond recognition, yet it was a break—a blissful nirvana from the constant, aching presence of omnipresent melancholy. She fell in love with her agony, lusting for the pleasurable pain, the masochistic torment that came with the brief surges of wretched misery, reducing her to an animal, a primal beast, with only her emotions to lead her blindly forward. She remained immersed in the suffocating waters of her own feelings, trapped within the confines of her mind.
Sometimes she opened her eyes, glimpsed the ceiling above, contemplated rising to the surface, to the world outside of the animalistic, dark fortress she had come to know as home, but shied away from the light like a brute fleeing the ominous flame.
It's only when the pressure built within her lungs, the trivial task of breathing nudging her tediously, as her vision swam, swam, swam, the lights becoming brighter, twisting, mutilating, sneering, and reaching out to her, beckoning to her with their warped, neon fingers.
Maybe it's better not to breathe.
But inevitably she'd broken the crystal, calm surface, gasping in deep breaths of reality, feeling it burn her tonsils, the taste stale and brittle on her tongue. Panting, puffing, letting her heart thud to a shuddering stop, and slowly melting back into the pool once more; a vicious cycle of promising death and devastating life.
It was only at times like these that Clare could truly say she truly felt alive, not just like her being was merely a robotic pawn in the sadistic game of life. Here, in the familiar and safe church, with the organ blaring, drowning out her thoughts, transpiring negativity into melody, Father Smith's warm, gentle voice trailing softly across her skin like luxurious velvet, comforting and lush, she felt the hopeful spark of life illuminate within her listless body.
Even her parents had taken a break from their senseless bickering to take notice of her improved mood. Her mother raised her perfectly plucked brows as Clare devoured her breakfast that morning, feeling hungry and alive instead of hollow and worthless. Her father clapped her on the back when she had come down to the table, make-up painting fabrication and color onto her sallow skin, hair, clean and neatly curled, a false smile drawn sloppily on her face, and he beamed, saying how good it was to have his little girl back, that he was glad that 'grumpy' phase of hers was over.
Phase… yeah, right, exactly. Just a phase…
She's just a phase.
Was it all a dream?
"Clare!" her mother's voice hissed, slitting her train of thought, slicing through her contemplation like a razor, as her hazy eyes snapped into focus.
The organ's melody no longer wafted through her ears. Instead, painful silence constricted her airflow, threatening to swallow her as mortification heats her face. The song is over. The people are all sitting. Sitting. Staring. Scrutinizing.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
The irrational, yet consuming fear that they Know griped her, squeezing her throat with its icy fingers, as she struggled to breathe. She hastily slumped into the pew, head hung, heart pounding.
Her emotions fluttered restlessly about her body, flapping and flitting, nauseating butterflies—crows—pervading her stomach. She can't stand being watched. The piercing stares of others judging and evaluating, examining and dissecting her being with their penetrating gazes assault her mercilessly, haunting her soul, as though by watching her they can uncover her secret.
Her rescue—salvation—came from the interruption of an angelic voice, intercepting lightly with a charismatic laugh that jingled and resounded like church bells, filling the church with warmth.
"It seems as though over-vehement Miss Edwards was too caught up in the hymn." Father Smith chuckled; head tilted back, the dark mole on his throat dancing joyously as the deacon's Adam's apple bobbed with hearty guffaws.
The cornflower blue of his sparkling eyes disappeared briefly as his lid descended and he directed a sly wink directly at Clare, slipping her a genial grin.
Clare blushed, yet her heart slowed from its erratic palpitation, and the searing humiliation ebbed as the congregation chuckled good-naturedly. She sunk lower into the bench, spine curled. Breathing out a tremulous sigh of relief, Clare basked in the solace of being invisible, taking unfathomable consolation in the absence of impaling eyes.
She felt the glow of the Father's sympathetic smile shine through the curtain of curls shielding her blushing face from view, looking up only when he began to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his gentle voice drifting through the small chapel like the smell of fresh cookies, familiar, comforting, and warm. "Miss Edwards has been going to the church for as long as she can remember, yet she and I have only become properly acquainted within the past few days."
He paused to flash her a delicate grin.
"In a world that is constantly changing, constantly spinning and moving, one would assume the only thing we, as people, can rely upon is religion." He said, his pure, white robes gliding behind him like tendrils of smoke as his leather shoes paced rhythmically in front of the altar. "And yet, we are distracted by the pitfalls of our own mundane, insignificant lives, blinded by the glaring, glittering colors of our television screens, and preoccupied with our own human desires and needs.
"Adults. We have spent generation upon generation teaching our children how to act, to follow our examples, when they themselves are so pure and beautiful in their youth. Jesus favored children. Children are without sin. We must ask ourselves as parents, authority figures if it is not we that are truly doing harm, polluting the next generation's minds with the smog of sin."
The church had fallen into a deathly silence.
In Clare's experience, no one wanted to be faced blatantly with his or her flaws. Never. Even now she felt her mother squirming beside her like a criminal under an interrogation light. Clare, herself, felt slightly restless, and she found herself aching for the pure and innocent world of her childhood, back before heartbreak had hardened her, back before she drowned in frigid waters.
Before she had felt like she wanted to die.
The uncomfortable silence humidified the church, stifling in its awkward bluntness. Each movement, every small twitch, seemed to intensify the sweltering atmosphere, and Clare struggled to breathe while being suffocated by the flaws of humanity.
Suddenly, the deacon smiled. His breath-taking grin gleaming like the sun shining through the clouds of misery pervading the chapel. The tension began to diffuse.
"But this young lady," he said, voice so praising and warm, feeding the hesitant flame of joy within her belly. "I have seen her when others do not come, when they cannot be bothered to. This girl, this young, fifteen year old girl, still turns to God in her time of need though she has been placed through much adversity. This girl has become a godly woman."
The bishop's eyes shimmered, his lip curling.
"Clare," he murmured, voice low and tender, face radiating such sincerity it took her breath away. "I am so glad you are alive."
The world stopped.
Her lungs melded to lead, sinking, restricting her ability to breathe, while her chest collapsed on itself.
I'm glad you're alive.
Someone saw her life as viable, substantial, worth something. She was… valued.
"Men and women of the congregation, please join me in applauding this wonderful young lady."
Claps resounded against the looming stone walls, echoing in Clare's ears as she felt a full-blown grin climb her face. She caught father Smith's eyes, seeing only promise and belief in his compassionate face as he applauded with the rest of the church.
Maybe things were starting to look up.
Yay? I'm so discouraged in my writing abilities right now. I honestly don't know what to do about it; I just don't feel like I'm good enough… Oh well. I don't think there's any sexual innuendo in this chapter, which makes me sad, but if you find some be sure to let me know! Also, check out my Tumblr if you will, just to drop me a couple notes each week telling me to get off my ass and WRITE. Also, to establish more of a habit, I will now update REGULARILY on Fridays. If I do not, feel free to stone me… virtually.