Memorial

The record of April. She was at the meeting place of The Organisation. Most people called it church. Not them, they were special. They called it Bethel. There was a quiet celebration going on. It was the memorial of the death of the Christ. She liked the feeling she got when she walked into this place. She liked the soft music that played in the background. Today she had almost had an anxiety attack sitting on a bench on green grass overlooking green trees. Almost. She had felt wretched. As if a piece of her life had been trying to escape from her. Miserable. Absolutely miserable. She had left campus and gone home, her hands shaking, her body cold. She had tried sleeping but could not escape the blinding headache. It was still there, a dull, throbbing reminder. She had gone back on campus. Done some sports. She thought now of the bench and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. She took a deep breath and looked away from the green treetops. There was no bench here, just soft music and smiling, righteous strangers who wanted to know if this was her first time, if she was part of The Organisation, if she was a vagrant sinner snagged and reeled in just in time by a servant of God. That last question they never asked; it leaked out of their benevolent eyes and dripped into her lap, a thick, viscous pool she hid with her small bible. The green had finally faded from behind her eyes, washed away by the tide of harmonious melodies, hushed laughter and the overpowering stench of unatoned immorality wafting up from beneath her New World Translation Of The Holy Scriptures.