Title: Break Apart
Note: Sometimes, faith is lost.

He stumbled in, drunken feet tripping over velvet runners. Not quite sober hands outstretched, fingers fanned in a feeble attempt to maintain a semblance of balance. Unblinking eyes watched him from every corner. Eyes condemning and at the same time offering condolences and understanding staring down at him. He glowered back at each and every set.

He damned the Saints, he trice damned the Angels, he scoffed at the cherubs, and when he reached the end of the aisle and stared up at the most imposing set of eyes of all, he damned God. Feeling a bit more sober, he stomped forward, shoulders hunched in a protective stance against an oncoming blow that would most likely not land. He drew his body up and pressed his face right into the son of God. Those constantly mournful eyes stared back. What made it worse was he knew; he was completely aware that the broken-hearted gaze wasn't for the man on the cross but for mankind, for him.

With a nearly feral roar, he threw his right hand up and slapped the world's Savior from the wall. The crucifix hit the runner and bounced, the spine of the cross bending as it did so. The son of God skidded to a stop, and he watched the wood. He wanted the Savior to get up, to pull himself from the cross, get to his wooden feet, and face off like a man. He wanted a chance at the other cheek. Suddenly, he snatched his rosary from his coat pocket, clutching the painted, wooden beads in his tightly clenched hand; he had every intention of hurtling the rosary at the son of God. The tiny silver crucifix bit deep into his hand, almost as if a tiny bit of the wrath of God had seeped into that small piece of silver.

All the words he had wanted to scream in the silence of the Church dried up, catching in his throat as if barbed on the scripture he had had crammed down his gullet and into his heart as a child. The unconditional rage that had built up over hours and hours of drinking slowly began to wither away.

Tears bit at the backs of his eyes like the hounds of hell, and shame and guilt lashed at his soul like Satan's imps. He crumpled to his knees, face falling into his upturned palms. Broken sobs clawed their way out of his chest, gasped into the silence of the Church's air at midnight, and died. All those eyes stared at him, watched him silently from all corners of the room, as he broke apart. They watched as his soul tore apart at the seams as each and every sin unfolded like poisonous flowers that had bloomed in his heart. They watched as his body curled up, his forehead to the runner, his lips moving in constant, silently prayer. They watched as tears puddled on the floor, silver in the shadows.

Those unmoving, constantly staring eyes watched as he broke apart, begging for forgiveness and pleading with a God who not fifteen minutes before he had damned to Hell and back. Those silent eyes watched, condemning him but offering salvations as he finally lay still, gasping in choked breaths, completely broken before the son of God.