Black letters sat on top of a torn piece of lined, flaxen paper. The ink bled through the other side, blowing the words out like an old, cheap tattoo. Despite this, Henry Glass could still make out the address: 108 Tullers St—abandoned Saint Apelstein Chapel. Below, in worse condition: September 18th, 6:15 PM. The very bottom of the note had been signed with a wispy R.
Reaper, a street name, is a ghost to the law. In 2009, he burnt his fingerprints—even toe prints—off with acid. His teeth were removed, some say by his own hand, and replaced with silver ones. He covers every inch of his skin, except his stone eyes, with black cloth. His past is an untold story. His actions are years of stacked conspiracies. A dealer, a murderer, Satan himself. Buy from him once and you have sold your soul to the Devil.
Henry met Reaper sophomore year of high school, five years ago. Henry had a friend, who had a friend, who knew a guy, who worked for Reaper. Reaper was a legend. The go-to. The Party Master.
Once upon a time, Henry’s buddies threw a large get-together. Reaper was in and out with six hundred dollars in five minutes. Before that night, Henry had plans to attend Suttoman’s University, major in Engineering Dynamics, pursue experimental architecture, get married, have a kid or two, retire early, buy a boat. He was not peer pressured. Hell, he barely remembered that night, but before he could recognize what he was doing, his nose touched the cold, glass table.
Henry wouldn’t say drugs ruined his life. But, coming from a junky, that isn’t saying much. In his high illusion, drugs rescued him from the depths of the white, uniform lifestyle—working until you collapsed cold and dead. He never graduated high school, and never pursued an actual career. All he ever made of himself was moving up to Assistant Manager at 7/11.
6:00 PM, mid-September, and the sun still beamed down in relentless sheets of heat.
Henry stood before the heavy, faux golden doors, the humid air staining his pale skin red. Even as a relatively average man, the doors towered over him, making him feel insignificant. His sunken eyes followed the frame of the building. Up the broad circular cathedral glass that reflected soft pinks, blues, and heavenly greens onto the concrete below. Henry, confused at the building’s upkeep, pushed through the doors.
Each wall was trimmed with polished gold and charmed with a familiar ancient glass story. The ceiling rose high above the rows of wooden seats, each of which held a thick book containing printed rules of faith. Ahead, past the emptiness, was the choir stand, the podium, and a large statue of sacrifice.
Henry walked slowly, his head tilted slightly upward as he admired every little detail. Abandoned, he remembered from the note before double checking it from his pocket.
When he refocused, he noticed a figure sitting in the center in one of the empty pews. The man was slim with short brown hair neatly combed over and he wore all black. Henry approached the man, stopped at his row, then sighed with disappointment.
“Were you expecting someone else, son?” The man turned to face Henry, the collar of his shirt embracing a slip of white. A Priest. Henry didn’t know what to think.
“Uh, yeah, he told me to meet him here.” Henry whispered.
“Join me while you wait for him, I would hate for you to sit alone.” The Priest offered, scooting to his left.
Henry, with a raised brow and sweating palms, considered for a moment before accepting the offer. He took a seat on the cool pew.
They sat in silence for a moment, Henry suddenly hyper aware of his breathing; hyper aware of the Priests lack thereof.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The Priest smiled, keeping his eyes forward.
Henry looked over at him. His hair was graying, and his mouth and eyes were burdened with age. Henry nodded and focused his eyes forward.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Man may create his own ugly but he also, sometimes, makes so much beauty that it overshadows his grims.” The Priest sounded as if he were reading straight from the pages of an old tale.
“Sometimes a man’s beauty makes another man’s ugly,” Henry responded.
“What is your name, son?”
“Henry. Henry Glass.”
“What makes you say that, Mr. Glass?”
Henry scrubbed his arm. “Life isn’t fair,” he said bluntly.
“That it is,” the priest agreed and repositioned himself to face Henry, “But that’s what makes it interesting.”
Henry chuckled under his breath. “Amusement doesn’t justify anything.”
“No, it does not. Yet man still manipulates it as an answer to his problems.”
“He shouldn’t.”
“Man tends to do what he shouldn’t. It is human nature.”
“Human nature? Seems a bit far-fetched don’t you think?”
“Mr. Glass, why are you here? You’re a religious man, no?”
Henry’s body began to ache. There was a hint of humor in his tone as he responded, “I’m not religious.”
“So why come here? Why today? Why now?”
“Like I said, I’m meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“That’s none of your business,” Henry said dryly.
“Yes, my apologies, Mr. Glass.”
The Priest looked away awkwardly and silence followed for a moment until Henry spoke again, “If human nature is doing the wrong thing, why do we continue to use it as an excuse?”
The Priest remained quiet as he searched his mind for the words, then when found, he answered, “Well, that’s just it, Mr. Glass, human nature isn’t always the wrong thing. Personally, I say it is a choice. But, sometimes it isn’t. We don’t have full control over every little thing in our lives. A man doesn’t do wrong because he wants to, on occasion, he has to.”
“Yet if he has the choice, why does he still choose to do harm over everything else?”
“Not only to others, but to himself. In your eyes, the choice may be good, pure, and justifiable. But, in someone else’s eyes, it’s bad, evil, and merciless.” Henry sat quietly for a few moments, suddenly feeling nauseous.
“. . .And the people who don’t have a choice will just live knowing everyone thinks poorly of them? Now that’s unfair.”
“Yes and no. Those who don’t have the freedom to make choices still have a choice to make.”
“A choice?”
“Whether to get help or not.” The Priest smiled toothily, then took a deep breath. “Asking for help is one of the most difficult things a man, or woman, can do, Mr. Glass. It tests a person’s true strength. A person bound by lack of control must be dug out from which they are tethered, and that shouldn’t be done alone. See, you do not cut your own hair because you cannot see the back of your head—it is common sense.”
Henry rubbed his shaking hands together, the blood in his veins feeling cold, then hot, then cold again. “This place was s’posed to be abandoned, y’know?”
The Priest cocked his head. “How so?”
“I was supposed to meet. . . someone. . . in this church. He— uh…gave me this.” Henry reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a folded slip of paper. The note.
The Priest looked up at Ethan, a brow raised. “R? Is R a friend of yours?”
Henry contemplated for a moment, then confessed, “R stands for Reaper. He is my dealer. We were s’posed to meet here. But he said the church was abandoned, you see?” Henry gestured to the word on the note then continued, “. . .so it would be safe to, you know, exchange.” Henry looked down at his hands, sheepishly.
“I see. Maybe Reaper guided you here for a reason? Maybe he wants to help you?”
“I doubt that. Reaper barely even talks. He has no smile. Hell, I don’t even know if he breathes.”
“So why stay, Mr. Glass? The moment you realized this place isn’t abandoned, why not leave?”
“I hoped he would still show, I guess.”
“Or. . . maybe you were glad he didn’t?”
Henry laughed, his tone hardening, “Look at me, Father. Do you really think I’d ever be happy with that?”.
“I apologize for the assumption.”
“It’s whatever.” The church bells rang, and the sound ricocheted outside and absorbed into the church’s walls.
“Mr. Glass?”
“Mmh?”
“You’re here because you want to be. You do not have to stay.” The Priest’s eyes softened, the setting sun turning them from brown to amber.
“Yeah, I know.” Henry rubbed his arms roughly.
“So will you find Reaper to relieve your pain?”
Henry shrugged, saying nothing.
“I understand. It is your choice.”
“I have no choice. I’m hurting.”
“Even without choice, there is still one, Mr. Glass.”
“I can’t.”
“You can, son. You can stay here with me. We can talk all night.”
Henry groaned painfully and leaned forward in his seat. “That’s not fair to you. I can’t burden you with that.”
“Son, life isn’t fair. But that’s why I am here, to help anyone and everyone. That was my choice.” There was another long pause in the church as the sun, like the ocean waves turned to cold liquid gold, came through the window behind the two men, enlightening their darkest features.
“And if I don’t?” Henry asked.
“Then I may never see you again, Mr. Glass.”
“Would that really be that horrible?”
“Yes, son. It would be. Even without certain faith, a man still deserves a chance.”
The air felt like a dense, humid fog that wrapped itself around Henry’s aching figure. Henry shut his eyes, both in thought and to blanket himself from the heavy stabbing setting into his frontal lobe.
When Henry opened his eyes, the sun was set behind the broken glass behind him. Henry looked around, suddenly all alone in the middle of the splinters and mold. Rain-washed graffiti decorated the walls where windowless openings held the branches of overgrown trees and shrubs outside. Fragments of stained glass were scattered around his feet, dust collected on top of smashed wooden benches, and a mother robin fed her crying chicks in the rafters. The choir stand was collapsed, the podium gone, and the statue of sacrifice was vandalized with red paint. Ahead of Henry, a mound of cinder on the floor. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, yet no flame lived on. Within the pile lay pages of faith; their words blackened to ash.
A shiver ran through Henry’s spine, over and over again until he felt nauseous. To both of his sides cold, empty benches. When he called out for the Priest, his throat burned, and his voice broke like a sputtering engine.
He was turned around by the sudden sliding of a heavy door. Behind him, he watched a man of tall stature approach, head to toe in loose, black garments. Henry stood, his legs phantom limbs beneath him. Henry looked down at his watch, 6:15 PM. The man walked a slow, careful stride. His mask was concealed by a thick mask, but Henry watched as his dark eyes scanned the room.
“Who were you talking to?” the man asked, in a low, interrogative voice.
Henry hugged himself, turned around to face the chapel’s stage, then turned back to the man. There was a long pause as Henry wet his throat.
“There was a Priest.” Henry knew to only tell the truth.
The man nodded, looking up at the rafters, then back to Henry. “Mhmmm.”
He seemed uncertain, unentertained. Henry’s mind was spinning.
“Well, do you have payment?” The man now stood a short distance from Henry.
Henry nodded, then shook his head, then nodded. He fell back onto the bench, chewing his nails.
“I’ve got to be out of here in five. Make up your mind.” His voice seemed to echo in the chapel, like a long, droning breeze with nowhere to go.
Henry looked back up toward the man as he threw a small, clear bag down next to him. Bone to a dog, Henry thought. He was suddenly back on his feet, staring down at the packet.
He looked between the man and the bag for a minute. Sweat formed in tiny beads on his forehead and upper lip. His hair began to stick to his skin like thick mud. His body shook as if something were trying to escape from each and every pore.
The man grunted, now impatient.
“Reaper,” Henry began.