The Black Concerto

The old woman lurched through the back door of the church, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and fell gasping to the ground. The ashes fell onto the cold marble, adding the only warmth to the empty house of God. She felt it, that emptiness. Felt it the same way that she felt the shame, the desolation, that existed in the confessional where she bore out her soul to the man in the black cassock. She hated the church. Hated how they had condemned her son to hell for bearing to leave this world. How dare they claim that he was beyond absolution when Jesus supposedly died to absolve all sins. Was it due to the fact that he was no longer pure, but stained as are all souls trapped in this mortal coil? No candles, dull or dim, no incense, spicy or musky, could grant forgiveness. No matter how many hours she spent saying the rosary, hands sweating, knees bleeding from the hours spent kneeling on the cold marble, could save him.
She puffed on the worn cigarette, feeling the fires of hell Congregate into her lungs. The whisky, sour and putrid, lulled her into the darkened realm of nightmares.
"There is no salvation." She whispered. "As it is in hell, so shall it be on Earth." And in her hand, lay a rosary... "Now I lay me down to sleep, no longer to pray, yet always to weep.." "Amen." Came the whispers from the shadows.

He was in the shadows, watching. Watching the woman he loved destroy her life, destroy her soul, over a memory. A memory of fifty years ago.
He wondered, did she know what she did? Did she understand that it wasn't real, that she had never had a son? Why did she harbor such an illusion when it was clearly destroying her sanity?
And why did he still love her?
It's been fifty years since, he mused. Fifty years since her brother, the son of the father who destroyed innocence, took her down to have an abortion to save her reputation. It had destroyed her.
Catholics don't give their bodies away before marriage. Catholics don't give up their hearts to those who they could never wed. Catholics don't kill their children.
Damn her father for telling her that. Damn him for controlling her, for breaking her. God she was beautiful.
In a way, he understood. She couldn't deal with the fact that she had killed her child, that the church had turned its back on her when she had needed it. So she had created a lie.
A lie that had consumed the rest of her life.
A lie that she had yet to leave. What did she hear when she prayed? He wondered. Did the answers elude her; did she weep at the idea of justice? Did God tell her the truth? The real question was, of course, could she stand the truth- or would it finally destroy her. He loved her. That was something he would never try to deny. It was a love like a sword, and a lie that could never be complete. But then again, there was no such thing as a lie- just a piece of the truth made a shade brighter than the rest. There is always a bit of truth in every lie. That, he decided, was how she survived.
It was because of that lie that he could never have her. She was owned by the past, and she didn't want to escape the cold grasp of the coffin. He understood. And he watched.

She felt it- the hand of God. He had sent one of his angels to watch this church. It was her church. The presence of the ethereal being calmed her. Maybe it was her son- her beautiful son. God, please let it be her son. The violin played softly in the background. She wondered where it was coming from. The only one that she knew who could play that way had disappeared years ago. Off to fight- off to live.
Off to live.
Something she had been unable to do.
The violin played and she felt it- the wings of the angel. Black wings that enveloped her, and cleansed her. Wings of charcoal, black and gray- like the charcoal Van Gogh would have used. The rosary in her hand felt heavy. As did her eyes. But, for once, not her heart. She felt innocent. That was something she hadn't felt since she was sixteen.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for me- A sinner- Now until the hour of my death. Amen.
She slept. He watched.
And the violin played on.