Tomorrow

My first post; sorry in advance if the formatting is strange/nonsensical - I'm new to this whole thing (:

This was written for an English assignment; we had to pick a current issue and write a short story with that issue as the trigger. As may or may not be obvious, since apparently this story is vague, the issue I chose was that of the sex abuse scandals of the Catholic church. Enjoy!

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Tomorrow

The sun rises, a new day dawns…and tomorrow never comes.

Thank God.

It’s an old building, this one; worn and crumbling, as churches often are.

Regardless, you share an undeniable connection, you and the sandstone construction, that the claustrophobic silence of your new, shiny concrete house could never offer.

God knows why, but it makes you happy. Of course, you know that this is an impermanent heaven, this heaven on Earth, the sort of peace that could shatter next decade, or tomorrow.

The knowledge that life has taught you, that a new day always dawns and tomorrow isn’t here, is one of comfort to you. Tomorrow means change, and you like your world the way it is.

~

It starts slowly – peaceful, placid contentment marred, not swiftly, but slowly and sickeningly, a cancerous infection of darkness in a place of light. You feel it; and you hear it, in the echoes of whispers and one continuous phrase, repeated over and over and over again –

You can feel it, but you ignore it.

“Did you see?”

It shows most in the children, of course, mismatched huddles of normally-enthusiastic devotees gathered in unnoticeable corners, hushed ‘Did you…?’s silenced hurriedly as soon as anyone over twenty approaches.

“But Father Evans – it’s not like Aida- shh!”

Children know everything. It’s a confusing sort of paradox – wisdom in ignorance, maturity in innocence, intimate knowledge of the workings of evil in the midst of God’s purity. They see all, and understand nothing.

They understand, though, that anyone over the age of twenty would never dream of heeding their words.

They try, though.

“Father Andrews, can we talk to you?”

A sigh. “Later, Daniel. I’m busy.”

“But, Father-“

You don’t wish to see, so you don’t. You ignore, because you don’t want to see your perfect world fall to sorrow and chaos one cell at a time.

…And so the todays pass, till finally ignorance can’t shield you and your conscience anymore.

“Father Evans?”

Silence.

“Tom? You there?”

There’re a few long moments, behind the closed door, of nothing but the sound of rustling clothing.

“Yes, Andrews?”

The voice is calm, unruffled.

“Sorry, I was merely wondering what-“

“Aidan – you know Aidan, yes? – and I were in the middle of an important discussion. If you don’t mind…?”

And there’s nothing left to do but walk away.

~

They see you coming; somehow; the small, intense groups dissipate instantaneously, voices of the elders ringing out in too-enthusiastic exclamations of ‘where’re we meeting tomorrow, Daniel?’ and ‘Cricket match on Sunday, yeah?’

One of the older boys (one you’ve known since he was a toddling infant) turns to you, a smile of polite, fake enthusiasm moulded into his features before he meets your eyes. “Hey, Father!” he exclaims.

“Where’s Aidan, Daniel?”

The façade slips; briefly, but enough for you to see the slightest flicker of distrust and – loathing?! – before he regains composure.

“Why,” he begins, fair skin flushing slightly, “what on earth are you-?”

“Daniel.”

He bites his lip.

~

Aidan’s a slender child, almost female with those waif eyes and stick-thin teenage frame. He moves with the grace of a girl, too; artless and innocent.

However, those movements, you notice, are hampered – hampered by a weight which has sunken hollows deep in the shadows of his eyes, which draw to him your attention sharply and sickeningly.

He sees you looking at him, and the slight crease of his lips in greeting only serves to accentuate the dull horror in his eyes.

“Hello, Aidan,” you greet him gently, smiling in return even as the painful swirling of emotion in your head nearly causes you to stumble over your robe.

“Father.”

His voice is dull, too; but it cuts into your heart, a veritable knife.

It takes countless meaningless trivialities before you finally find yourself ready to attempt to voice what you’d been wanting to since the start.

“Aidan, my boy…”

“Sir?” Though something nameless still lingers in his eyes, he’s relaxed slightly.

“Are yo-”

“Aidan!”

Father Evans easily towers over the two of you, his “What are you doing?” fatherly and caring even as the boy stiffens beside you.

“Just talking, Tom,” you reply for him. The other man looks at your companion, cool gaze a contrast to his warm voice.

An eyebrow rises. “I see,”

“Well,” he finally says after a long silence, “come along then, Aidan.”

He walks away without waiting for a response.

Aidan follows, a whispered “yes, Father Evans” going seemingly unheard.

They leave as you wonder how many times you’d seen the appeal in those eyes – and how you ever could have ignored it.

~

His parents avoid your gaze as they murmur some vague formal social niceties – ‘stressed’, ‘hospitalised’, ‘health’.

You believe it less than they do.

When you look up, Daniel’s looking in your direction – but through you. Turning, it’s to hear the same question; the same answers.

The lurching nausea in your stomach at the sight of his cold annoyance brings you to your feet in a rush.

“Father?”

“Bathroom,” you mutter, trying desperately to suppress the overwhelming urge to vomit at least long enough to make it out of the room.

The door closes as you look over your shoulder.

Your eyes meet his.

And you look away.

~

Why?

Why must I watch, be blind, stay silent?

You can’t forget the contentment of six months ago – when you rejected his pain and you sent him to suffer, you, the silent observer, uncaring onlooker – you!

Me…

~

“This is ridiculous, John.”

The old, frail man looks at you, confusion in normally-calm eyes causing your heart to lurch painfully with almost-guilt.

He doesn’t deserve –

Waif eyes, slender frame, and the haunting darkness of helpless despair –

“Sir, please. Please.”

The sigh is frail too, the single exhale a window to the fatigue and fragility of age.

“My son, I don’t think…” He lets the sentence trail off unfinished.

You understand, the silence whispers. You do.

And that’s why you bow your head respectfully, murmur some meaningless acquiescence, and are careful to very gently close the door that you shall never open again.

He doesn’t deserve this.

How old is he? Eighty? Eighty-five? Old enough that you can’t force him to destroy his world. Old enough that he’ll never forgive you when you do it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

But neither did he.

~

Because the sun rises, today dawns…and tomorrow never comes.

And I’m tired of waiting.