My eyes keep flickering to my Father, currently under duress by other higher authorities. His gloved hands wringing around his cuffs, the leather creaking as he smiles, as though his teeth make that sound instead. He cocks his head at them as though innocent, he knows he is not, he knows what he has done. They deliberate between the silk woven tight by him, looking at each connective piece. How so much of it ties to me and **. I feel the tugging, a single delicate finger, and his countenance almost contorts at the touch. Almost.
Arrogance etches his wrinkles, he sits proud of his architecture. What he has committed me to. What he made of **. None of this is right, God should be kind not cold. A chuckle rises from his chest, his eyes everywhere. Over me now, watching, observing my tears. Holy water burns as it cleanses away sin. What use is there in repentance if he commits me to sin? What use is there in fighting his will?
