"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
❛ pleasure. ❜ that is something nathan hasn't experienced in awhile.
as he sits in a centre pew, rain dripping from his poorly groomed hair and scratchy face, the voice echoing against the walls causes him to turn — one he doesn't know, yet. over the weeks, he has become well - acquainted with those who roam through these stone - cold walls; though, not enough to ask for names, to engage in significant conversation.
no, all nathan does is wallow — the faint smell of scotch always on his breath … not that he lets anyone get close enough to detect it. nobody can know that a man of his position is allowing himself to waste away, seeking the toxic and the unknown. his reputation has already been torn by misguidance.
his gaze refocuses on the front of the aisle, fingers twining together with his arms draped over the wood. if god isn't watching over him, one of his soldiers is. perhaps he has been sent to him.
his head hangs, momentarily, before his eyes reach the tarnished ones of christ from afar. judgement.
″ it's raining, ‶ a simple reply, haunted by something more. it is always raining.