Chapter Text
You didn’t know what you were hoping to find when you stumbled through the doors of Clinton Church, high out of your mind and fighting to come down. Refuge, perhaps, like so many others. Sanctuary from your demons.
You didn’t know that you’d be asked to confront them.
It started with a gentle touch and soft words.
“Are you alright?”
You startled awake, flinching back and sliding from the pew you collapsed on sometime in the night. You were used to words barked at you, a kick to the legs to check for signs of life. Someone showing genuine worry was a foreign concept.
You blinked at the shadow standing over you, searching for features blurred by the sunlight shining through the windows against their back.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe,” the shadow—the man said, crouching down in the aisle by the end of your pew. He came into focus then, though just barely.
Dark hair, fair skin, stubble on his jaw. The dark glasses threw you for a second, but then you saw the white cane in his hand.
Wiping the sweat from your brow, you opened your mouth to say something—you’re still not sure what—but then you registered his suit and flinched.
Suits generally weren’t meant to be trusted. People who walked around in them don’t associate with the likes of you. Not even the ones with similar habits—they could afford the better stuff and avoided people like you at all costs.
Never mind that you were in a church, a place people commonly wore nice clothes. Hell, you didn’t even remember where you were in a church at that moment.
And never mind that the man’s suit was ill-fitting and starting to fray on the cuffs of the jacket. It spoke volumes about him for anyone who knew the language.
You weren’t one of those people. You saw a suit, and your already-pounding heart went into overdrive. You crawled back, trying to get away. You stumbled, trying to get to your feet.
“Wait,” the man said. “Do you need help?” His hand touched your arm as he followed you up, but you slapped it away with a strangled yell.
Bolting for the door, you didn’t look back as the man yelled after you.
Time blurred together, and you eventually found your back to that church. Coincidence, fate, you’re not sure. You were too out of it that first time when you staggered inside to note the location, and then you were too panicked on your way out. You were only slightly better the second time.
You only recognized it due to uncannily similar circumstances.
You walked through the doors pretending to be as sober as possible. You remembered why you were there that time.
The high was too much; you needed somewhere safe to come down. Churches, you’ve heard from your roommates and “friends,” are less likely to call the cops and more likely to try to help you. Neither was great, but one was certainly better than the other.
And besides, your apartment wasn’t any good. You had just come from there and desperately needed to be somewhere else. Perhaps some part of you wanted help. Mainly, you didn’t want to go to jail again.
A touch on your shoulder, soft words you didn’t quite catch. You didn’t fall out of the pew that time, but the crick in your neck from the awkward position you fell asleep in was painful enough.
You groaned, and someone said, “I know a shelter you can go to if you need someplace to sleep.”
“Have a bed,” you mumbled, cracking your eyes open, trying to fend off the sunlight.
Seeing the shadow looming over you made the familiarity hit you like a freight train. You tensed, freezing instead of fleeing. But the voice that spoke isn’t the same as the man who woke you the first time.
The shadow moved, stepping forward to sit in the pew in front of you and turning. No longer backlit by the sun, you saw the man clearly. The black clothes and the collar eased you somewhat, but not entirely.
You wondered what kind of priest he was. Would he try to save you or call the police?
Your mind was still hazy from sleep and the crash from your high that you didn’t realize the obviousness of which one he was. If the priest wanted you tossed from his church, he wouldn’t have woken you, nor would he have sat with you.
“Now, I have to ask,” the man continued, and you took in everything you could, searching for some sign of his intention in his eyes. “Is your bed in a shelter or some abandoned house where people go to get high?”
You came to find out rather quickly that Father Lantom, for all his kindness, didn’t take bullshit.
“I have an apartment,” you answered, leaning forward, tension slowly leaving you. This man, it seemed, was one you could speak to. And for being a holy man, he didn’t seem the kind to sugarcoat things. A trait you greatly appreciated.
You knew who you were. People didn’t need to try to gently tell you that you were an addict.
“Then why aren’t you sleeping there? Why crash in a church?” he asked as if he already had an answer. You wondered if he meant “crash” as in sleep or “crash” as in fall from a dangerous high. The words weren’t accusatory, but you couldn’t help but take them as such.
You wouldn’t meet his eye or even answer his questions. You were running, and staying in an apartment you shared with three official junkie roommates and a few unofficial ones wouldn’t do you any good.
But you couldn’t say the words out loud. Couldn’t say why.
Just leave, a voice whispered to you in the back of your mind. There’s nothing for you here.
You’ve tried to quit before. Family and friends tried helping. Tried sending you to rehab, among other methods of intervention.
It never worked. They stopped trying.
You’re not worth saving, no matter what the priest may have thought.
“I’ll go,” you said quietly, moving to stand.
“How about some coffee for the road?” Father Lantom asked before you could even get up from the pew. “We got a new espresso machine that I’m still trying to get the hang of.”
The way he looked at you without expectation, without an offer of salvation, made you hesitate. He offered nothing save coffee. Free coffee.
The hole in your wallet answered for you. But first, you asked, “Do you have any flavored creamer?”
With a smile and a nod, he said, “I do.”
You often wondered what Father Lantom saw in you that day. Other than the sweat-slicked skin, hollow cheeks, and empty eyes, that is. You wondered what it was about him, about Clinton Church, that made you keep going back.
The answer was easy.
Father Lantom talked to you like a person about anything and everything. He never mentioned your habit. You certainly never brought it up. He gave you coffee and a place to sit where you weren’t surrounded by people getting high.
It felt good being in the church, speaking with him.
But after a while, you started to feel bad.
There you were, stealing this man’s time and coffee while offering nothing in return. You thought maybe you could donate some money to the church. A repayment of sorts, but you couldn’t bring yourself to part with the money.
You needed it for your next dose.
You were still using, of course. Father Lantom hadn’t asked you to stop, and you had no desire to, despite the fact that more and more of your measly warehouse worker paycheck kept going towards your next high.
He must have seen something in your demeanor. Must have sensed you were about to run because of some unspoken fear. What happened after had to have been Father Lantom and not some divine intervention. There’s no God for you. No holy being steering you toward a fate different than overdosing somewhere.
One day, try as he might, Father Lantom barely got a word out of you. You had hardly touched your coffee and couldn’t meet his eye, something you’ve been able to do after the first cup however long ago.
The two of you were sitting in one of the middle pews, your regular spot for your chats when you came to the church a couple of times a week. You were contemplating dropping your paper cup and running, but you didn’t want to make anyone clean up your mess.
True, Father Lantom never asked anything of you, but you couldn’t help but feel you were disappointing him all the same.
You were about to slam back your lukewarm coffee when Father Lantom spoke.
“Ah, Matthew, have you met my friend?”
You tensed. Though your conversations with the priest were hardly about anything too personal, you certainly didn’t want to speak to anyone other than him.
Father Lantom was different. Matthew would more than likely be more of the same pitying, condescending, or worse, helpful crowd you were used to dealing with.
Turning to look behind you at the stranger, you squinted against the sunlight pouring in through the windows.
A sense of deja vu hit you. An overwhelming feeling like this happened before. You’d forgotten that it had and thought perhaps you simply remembered when Father Lantom had woken you.
Matthew was a man in a suit and circular red glasses. Cane in hand, he looked like he had paused midstep at Father Lantom’s words.
“Hello,” Matthew said softly, straightening, seemingly rethinking his approach.
He might not have been able to see you, all that you were, but you surely saw him.
Saw his suit.
Knew what it could mean from someone else. The potential danger it posed.
Heart starting to pound, you turned back to Father Lantom, confused, wondering if you should feel betrayed. It was far too coincidental, too carefully timed to your intention to run, to be a coincidence.
The priest started to speak, but you didn’t hear him over the blood roaring in your ears.
You dropped your coffee and ran.