frost, a beautiful phenomenon that glazes windows, streets, and nature alike.
it crawls it way up walls and onto your windows, glazing them over and separating the inside and outside world. a fragile barrier, blurry from a distance, complex in the eye’s side. yet when it meets the warmth of a curious fingertip, palm, breath, the wall of intricate crystals melts away.
but in this sacred place, there is no warmth to be found.
in the church, it freezes over the colourful glass, blurring the images of men with usually bright, gleaming halos.
in the church, it crawls up the prone form of a child sitting in the pews, hunched and shivering, hands clasped in nonsensical prayers.
in the church, the frost bites.
on the holy day, masses stream in and out of the building, their existence as ephemeral as their time on the planet.
their presence brings no respite for the poor child, left here in the face of repentance.
condemned and dressed in his best shirt, and a tie ‘round his neck like a noose, he repeats the prayers in hopes he will be heard.
even as the believers, the speakers, and the fathers have left, the boy remains. there is nothing to put a barrier between him and his god besides the cold that invades his mind.
it consumes him. it consumes all of him, his brain, his eyes, his fingers, his limbs. it takes all that he has and continues to take his very soul. he knows this is what he deserves. the frost covers his tongue and slurs his speech. it freezes his hand together so he may never break his prayer. until the boy can save his soul, there will be no one to warm him.
When the child dreams, it is always in the same stone-white tones. Frigid. Sterile. Devoid of life despite the countless lost souls that flit in and out the countless pews.
The dream is always the same. The child is sitting in a smooth pew, head down, shoulders hunched– hands grasped not in prayer but in pain, the wood feels liminal and cold as if made from metal rather than oak. Frosted stained-glass windows, filled with images of noble people with glowing halos, somber faces, and flowing robes, line the walls letting in only moonlight. There are no lights from cities. No lights from streetlights. The church is isolating. The Church is a prison. Someone says: “Stand, my Child.” Only, it comes with a wave of rigidity. Then they are very cold, startlingly cold, and there is glass and rot on the ground, and there is blood and skin on the pews. The child lifts their gaze up to the shining statue of the Son, the tones of gold cold despite their warm tones. Blinded, through bitten back pain, they clasp their hands in prayer.
They dream in the same stone-white tones.
They dream; smooth pews and burning skin, they dream of–
“Stand, my Child.” It isn’t said like a name, or a title, or an insult. It’s said like a designation. Like a manufacturing label for a broken, faulty product. For a disappointment.
The Child stands. It knows it has done wrong. It knows it has failed and as it gazes back at the statue of the savior, it knows its prayer hasn’t been heard. Has never been heard. Will never be heard.
The scalding pain comes back as the statue continues to shine, clean and holy. Gold, the same as the statue before it, weighs heavily around its neck– no longer a symbol of faith, but a symbol of imprisonment. It weighs heavy, heavier than the force that comes down upon its cheek.
The Child sags, its soul withering away every time it comes back to this place.
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