i have seen the end and it is beautiful

“The world says that men aren’t supposed to kiss other men. The world says we can’t share a goddamn bed together,” says the heretic. His voice cracked slightly, the weight of years pressing on his words. The priest watched him in silence, his own breathing heavy and uneven, as though the very air in the room burnt his lungs. His sin was heavier than any alter stone.

The heretic ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, with the world, with everything. He felt it heavily, especially in absence. The guilt gnawed at him, not for loving the man before him, but for the small part of him that believed the world was right. He had not been to mass in years.

“The world says men like us deserve to burn in hell.”

“And yet, here we are. I’m not burning,” says the priest, his fingers tracing the edges of a hymn book as though it might anchor him. The pages were worn, curling at the edges from decades of hands like his, trembling and unsure. He smelled like incense and musk, something holy and ancient, but the faintest whiff of sweat lingered, a reminder of his humanity.

The priest let out a dry laugh. No, not yet, not now. He saw the disembodied head of God in the corner, the bacteria on His lips, the bile that dripped from His jaw. He wondered if he could taste it on His mouth. He looked back at the man in front of him, more beautiful than God or any biblical angel.

His hand wanted to move to his face again, thumb brushing his cheek, his lips, anything to remind him that this was real, that he could still want something. He needed it more than imaginable.

“One day you will, Father,” the heretic whispered, his voice soft but cutting.

“Do you feel guilty for your sin?” the priest asked, tragedy coating his voice. It was the kind of tragedy that ran deep, the kind that made saints of men. His collar felt too tight, the weight of the cloth a noose around his neck. He was a man on the gallows.

One nod. A single, unrelenting affirmation.

The priest’s eyes flickered upward, catching on the monstrous face of God looming in the shadows. He saw all of Him now. Darkness spread out from His chest like a plague, His form putrid, bloated. God was rotted to the core, divinity soured like curdled milk.

“How many Hail Marys do you think would erase that image of me in your mind, Father? How many years in a monastery before you could forget the thought of my hands on you?” The heretic’s tone was suddenly mocking, laced with bitterness, but there was a tenderness buried in it. It was raw and yearning. The priest did not answer. He could not. There was nothing left to say in the face of a God that no longer looked back. Silence settled like ash on the forehead of humanity.

“How would God feel?” the priest then mused. His words were deliberate, slow, as if each one was meant to convince himself. “I live as God does.” A priest walks the shadow of God. He had been told this once, long ago, when the weight of the cloth was still new and exciting. It had felt like a mantle then, but now it was only a shroud.

“Disgusted,” the heretic said with finality. “He would feel disgusted, but you know that already.” The words rang out, undeniable. He continued, “Pushing me away won’t make a saint out of you.”

In the corner, God dangled a rosary from His hand, the beads swinging rhythmically like a pendulum. The priest sighed, the sound heavy and resigned. He could not touch the man he loved anymore, not the way they used to, but neither of them wanted it anymore. He thought of the distance as a quarantine. Later, he would go home and scrub the dirt from under his nails until they bled. He would kneel in his empty room and try to pray, but no words would come.

The heretic knew he was going to hell. He had made peace with it long ago. The only thing he wanted now was to go to hell with the priest. The fire and brimstone could never be as warm as a lover’s embrace. At least it is real, graspable.

“Tell the man I’m coming home. If it is hell, then so be it,” said the heretic. His voice was steady, defiant, almost a constant. 

The priest placed the hymn book back in the pew, his fingers trembling. If his hands were stronger, he thought, he could tear the whole place down. But God had not given him that strength. God knew his face, but it didn’t save him. The cross around his neck burned against his skin, a personal stigmata. He wanted to shrink into his clerical robes, to disappear completely.

“Then so be it. Walk in the light.”

The sun shone through the stained glass. It illuminated the face of God, scarred with lesions and leaking pustules. He twitched and convulsed, body spasming like a feral dog. There is no dark to hide what is disgusting. The priest wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees, weep, cover his eyes from the monstrosity in front of him. He was God no more, just a contorted, vile thing.

The heretic, though, did not see the hideous creature. He only saw the light, and it was undeniably beautiful. While the priest prostrated himself at the feet of the leper, sheathed in darkness, the heretic took a step forward. He did not feel forsaken, nor did he bear the weight of fear. 

For a moment, it was enough.