The last pew on the left, the wood is so worn from years of prayer, there sat a soul so tattered that she screamed internally every time she walked into the hallowed halls. Hands resting on the dilapidated bible, it was a gift on the day she took her first communion in that very church. The faint scent of incense moved through the building like a gloomy June fog. Her nose burning the moment she took the first inhale of the sweet aroma. A mixture of heaven and hell, she slumped at the shoulders, awaiting his visit like a man awaits his walk through the green mile.
As the door squeaked, she tensed up not in fear but anticipation. Soft steps inched forward. The bench never moved when he sat. Was he as light as a feather, or she as heavy as a stone? Alabaster fingers reaching for her hand, he laced the bony fingers with her own slender digits. Her breaths feeding him, he waited for her in silence, never rushing the sorrow that pelted her soul each time the sickness struck another blow across her weakened veins. She was sick, but not diseased ridden. Her heartbroken from years of abuse. She was living proof that you can die from a broken heart and still walk the earth in the shell that’s left behind.
“Are you ready,” he asked.
A softness to her voice, she looked to him for the first time, “Since the moment you left.”