Sci Fi & Fantasy / Raven Poem: Chpt. 2

This world stands still for no one. Change is eminent, taking place whether we wish for it or not. Some things change for the best, others…not so much. I look at my surroundings as I make my way to the nearest church. I’m in desperate need of someone to talk to. The nightmares, they’ve started to affect my waking life. I feel like I’ve been pushed into a corner and have nowhere else to turn. So I seek someone to confide in, someone outside my normal circle.

And so I’ve found myself walking to the first cathedral I can find, casually observing the town around me along the way. What I see makes my skin crawl, my body quicken, and my stomach turn. Signs of a dying world surround me; death, dirt, and decay are everywhere infesting every inch of the town.

It’s the first thing Monday morning and the overwhelming sense of gloom seems inescapable. The air is filled with a humid fog that only adds to the dreariness and surrounding murk. The moist and sticky air forces me to readjust my clothes as I peel them from my skin. I watch a homeless man search for sustenance in the discarded refuse of people unable to understand what it is to be hungry. Dressed in a discarded brown over coat, covered in spots soiled with sweat and grime, he waddles through their garbage until he finds a gold mind of wasted food still fresh and in substantial quantities. His long locks of tangled gray curls cover eyes that have seen more sadness and despair than anyone should ever know.

Only one block later, I notice a harem of prostitutes singing their siren songs; inviting passerby’s to come and have a good time. Dressed in little more than pieces of fabric and leather, some appeared to be as young as twelve or fourteen. They would sell their bodies, probably even part of their souls to survive a world that seems to have forsaken them. I looked at the youngest with an expression of sadness and regret. Seeing my concern she only lowers her face as if ashamed.

Another homeless man stands outside the cathedral, somber and with a look on his face that seemed as if he was staring into your soul. He stood their holding his cardboard sign, watching for anyone who would listen. His baggy clothes, several sizes too large, simply drooped over his thinning frame. As soon as I neared the church he set his sights on me baring his written word. His light brown eyes and pale skin seemed ill from lack of nutrition. He stared into me, begging I listen to his cautionary cries. His sign read ‘Heed these words, a false prophet is among us’ in bold dark letters. I considered his words for a moment then merely nodded in acknowledgement and continued on.

But as I approached the church I noticed another sign, this one on the ground, the same lettering as before. It read ‘Fall not victim to false gods, for they and their children are many’. This one, I admit, intrigued me. I started to wonder what he meant, but as I already had enough on my mind, I shrugged the thought off and continued towards the church instead.

Only much more than a church but a cathedral, large and almost intimidating, it stood before me as if it were reaching for the heavens. Probably older than any building in the town, its construction was loosly based on some of the old world designs. It’s architecture was reminiscent of the Cantebury Cathedral, one of the oldest and most famous christian structures in England. Though much smaller, its beauty mirrored the former rather well. You couldn’t help but fall in love with it. Even so, as I continued inward I could feel the atmosphere itself change, accompanied by a presence strong enough to almost overcome me. A powerful force no doubt built up from decades of devoted prayer and practice; a force that almost seemed to have a life of its own.

And so I proceeded down the center aisle taking in the beauty that surrounded me. Crossing under the skyward arches I was amazed at the intricate details put into each of the gold chandaliers hung between every stone pillar. The solid wood pews appeared almost polished as they shone with what could only be described as an eerie brilliance. Even the stained windows were beautifully done with an artistic talent some might say was wasted on putting saints to glass. The affect the sun had on every color made each seem almost life like. It was all so…intoxicating.

I must admit I haven’t spent much time in a church, let alone a work of art like this. This was a completely new experience to me. The funny thing is that I am in no way, nor have I ever been, catholic; nor am I particularly religious for that matter. Not that there’s anything wrong with either. But for some reason I found my way into this cathedral and in the confession box no less. I guess there’s a reason for everything. So as funny as it may sound, I made my way into the confessional and began confessing.

Only after a few brief moments of staring at the carvings in the wood of the confession booth, trying to build up my nerve, I began to confess. “Father forgive me for I have sinned, I know not for sure what it is I’ve done. Nor do I know how many days it has been since my last confession. I guess it would be never since I am, to the best of my knowledge, in no way catholic. I am, however, in need of guidance.

I feel like a lost child, seperated from what he loves most. Like something's missing and finding it will help me to find my way back home. But nothing seems right, and only lies seem to find me. My vision feels blurry, as if someones trying to hide something from me. I keep running into this wall. Everytime I think I'm getting somewhere, getting close to some real answers, this wall shows up in front of me. I just feel like I'm constantly searching but with no idea exactly what im’s searching for. I can't stand it, and I'm begining to lose my cool. I don’t come to you expecting answers, but possibly some guidance or direction towards the answers I seek. What is it that keeps pulling me, drawing me forward? Why can't things just be simple and self expanitory?” I sat in the confession booth, stuck in a moment of uncomfortable silence.

I ran my hand across the top of my head as if to smooth down the short black hairs. I’ve almost always kept it pretty short, just long enough to offer some sort of warmth and shielding from the weather. Anything more was uncomfortable. That and I looked pretty damn good with short hair. It was another bad habit to rub my hand over my head when I was nervous.

“My son, this is exactly what I’m here for. The job of the priest is to teach and enlighten; to both guide and offer comfort to those in need. Contrary to the teachings of some, God does not care whether you are Catholic, Jew, or Hindu; God loves you as you are. He merely wishes for you to see him in his true light. Nor does it matter how religious or not you may think you are at this time in your life, it makes no difference to him. We all tend to stray when we seek to find our true selves. It does not mean we love God any less; neither does it mean we will not find our way back to him when we are ready.

“Finding ones self takes time. This is a rather large, complicated, and often debilitating world. You must be patient. Follow your heart and that inner voice that lets you know that God is still with you. You will find your way. God will reveal your place in this world and in his kingdom. But only when he feels the time is right, and only when he feels you are ready. God reveals all things but in his time. You must be patient, for all things come to those who wait.”

I sat there, lost in my own mind, failing to think of a decent response. When I went to reply the only thing that would come out was, “I understand”. I sat back and started thinking about what the priest had just said. I stared ahead until I no longer saw the confession box wall in front of me. It had become a blank canvas, one on which I could project my memories. I thought about who I was and where I came from, more importantly where I was going. The problem was I really didn't know the answer to either; one of the many downfalls of being an orphan. My whole life things had never been what they seemed. I thought about my birth parents and wondered who they really were; it didn’t matter. They were both gone and I was here, there was no sense in worrying about any of it. The past was the past, and there was no way I could change that. Still, I couldn't help shake the feeling that if I knew who they were it might shed some light on who I was. And why all this was happening to me.

I guess I should expain that the dreams weren't the only odd things happening in my life. They were simpy the loudest voice in the choir. No, things have been progressively growing...more and more weird. For one it seems I've recently begun to notice things. Things that no one else seems to notice or even be aware of. It started with simple sensations, like my body becoming aware of a nearing prescence. Voices, mostly whispers that seem to come from nowhere, show up at the worst times. There's been a bunch of little things, things that would most likely be dismissed at coeincidence or paranoia. But the worse, next to the dream, would be other flashes of memory; things I thought I'd forgotten. Simple glimpses, fragments, of my childhood. Things I must of blocked out, I don't know. It's because of these other incidents and its constant reoccurence that I can't simply discount the dream simply as such. Every part of my body is telling me there's more to it, that all this is connected.

This has all been going on for a few months now. At first, like anyone else, I simply shrugged it off. But this thing, whatever it is, refuses to leave me alone. As time passed I knew it wasn't just in my head, it couldn't be. It was all too real. And there's something else. Maybe the worse, most disturbing part of it all. my parents have begun to act differently. My mother acts...distant. Like she's waiting for something, sometimes almost as if she may even be a little afraid. Things have changed, there's no way to deny it, although they do. The very act of being near me seems to make them tense up. Especially my foster mother. Sometimes I sware I can see a sense of regret it her eyes, almost as if she were appologetic for something. I just dont' know.

I stopped reflecting, realizing enough time had passed that I almost forgot where I was. The priest had been kind enough to let me sit and think to myself for as long as I needed. But sitting there and worrying about what may or may not have been wasn’t going to help me. I decided instead to forget everything that had happened recently, at least for the time being, and to try and move on with my life. All I could do next was to thank the priest and leave.

I exited the confession box and began to stretch a little, trying to loosen up my muscles. I let my eyes wander around the church, looking for what I don’t know. It was a beautiful place, warm and enthralling. There was so much religious imagery and devotion all around me. Candles were lit everywhere, giving off warm, intimate light. I could clearly feel the strength and energy of the place, and yet it was still something I just couldn’t understand. The crucifixes placed everywhere in sight were overwhelming to say the least. Especially the large one just behind the pulpit, the face was so torn and distraught, full of pain and anguish. I couldn't understan how that could be something to celebrate.

You had always told me how much you loved the church when you were growing up, and at that moment a part of me could clearly see its appeal. I briefly wondered what it was like being raised in a catholic home. You said you loved the church, but I could always tell the restrictions and dogmatic rules were something that never sat well with you.

You always told me how much you loved God, but that you refused to believe in of all the hellfire and brimstone bullshit that went with it. “How could a God so beautiful and full of love, condemn people to eternal suffering, for a few simple acts of transgression? Fear is not something to base faith on, love is.” You were always so beautiful when you talked about God and compassion. I don’t think I’ll ever know anyone with a heart as true as yours. Just then I smiled to myself. Thoughts of you always made me smile. I knew then that if I went to see you everything would seem less important, less frigtening.

And so I made my way to leave the church when I noticed an older hispanic lady lighting candles and crying. I would have simply left her to her prayers but I found myself thinking of you. Not because she was Hispanic but because you had always told me that we must be the change we wish to see in the world; that the slightest bit of compassion could change a person’s entire life. I wasn’t sure that I’d change her life but I agreed she should know someone cares.

I made my way through the pews and over to the candles next to the pulpit. She held a rosary in her right hand, slowly threading the beads between her fingers as she softly prayed to herself. I made sure she knew I was there before I actually approached her, standing to her left. For a moment I simply noticed all I could about her. Her hands were rough, the skin dried and showing her age. She seemed to have some difficulty holding onto the rosary. Her hands tensed, struggling to keep the beeds between her fingers, most likely victims to arthritis. She wore a simple green dress covered with floral prints, an olive colored shawl thrown over her shoulders. A scarf with much of the same patterns and colorings as her dress was wrapped around her head. She seemed so sad. I wasn't sure if there was anything I could really do.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to disturb your praying, I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” I gently touched her left shoulder with my right hand and offered her the handkerchief I kept in my back pocket.

“Yes, thank you sir”. She had a deepened voice yet still soft and grandmotherly, probably distorted by the crying.

“Can I ask what’s wrong?” She used the kerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry. My English_is not so good. It’s my nieto. My_grandson, he’s gone missing; taken in the night.” She started to break down again as the tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” I knew then there wasn’t much I could say to make her feel any better. She had lost her grandson, nothing but his return could fix that. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a receipt I had put there until I could find a trash can, and a pen I kept on me just in case. “Here.” I wrote down my home phone number and handed it to her. “This is my home number. If you need anything or if there’s anything I can do to help, just call. Me or my paraents would be more than willing to help you if we can.”

She simply looked at me at first, no doubt questioning why a stranger would offer her any help, let alone his personal phone number. But after hesitating for a moment she tucked the number into her dress and looked back at me with a questioning glare. “Why_you do this for me? You not know me or my grandson. We are not wealthy people.”

I couldn't hellp but smile just a little at that. I looked her straight in the eyes so she could see my sincerity. “I just want to help if I can. That’s all.” I smiled and gently patted her on the back. “Just let me know if I can. We're all Gods children aren't we?”

She started to cry again. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

"I just hope I can help." I smiled again and began to walk away when she grabbed me by the shoulder. She gripped me firmly, so much so that I could sense the pain it caused her to hold me so tightly. A little caught off guard I turned to look at her as she simply stared at me without a word. The look on her face was one of wonder and contemplation. And something else I couldn't quite make out. Was it fear?

“Is there something I can do?” I started to feel uneasy about the whole thing. I didn't know what she wanted or what do just then.

“You_are very special.” Her eyes widened as she tried to choose her words carefully. “Jesus has put his mark on you_and you alone.” She seemed to struggle getting the words out, not sure how to put them.

“What? What are you talking about?” I had had enough of this conversation. I didn’t like where it was going. My muscles began to tense and I'm sure she could tell I was getting angry.

“It_is ok. You will find want you want to know in time. But I fear for you. You are looked for by many. Be very care who you trust.” She turned and went back to her prayers as if nothing had happenend.

This time it was my turn to stand and stare. I wish I hadn’t, because after just a moment I noticed a faint form standing next to her; a small boy clinging to her jacket. He was translucent, barely able to be seen. His figure shifted back and forth in puffs of white smoke. He looked at me with wide, wondering, and innocent eyes. I was almost completely sure; this had to be her missing grandson.

I took no time in turning and running straight out of the cathedral, not once looking back. This was becoming a pain in my ass. If having dreams and hearing voices wasn’t enough, I was now seeing dead people. Damn it. There was only one place left to go, the After School Center. I only hoped you were still there.

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