An echo reached his ears as he set foot in the cathedral. Lined with marble angels, saints and paintings, it seemed more like a glorified art gallery, save for the countless pews that were painstakingly aligned.
The smell of vanilla lingered in the air, it wafting from the candles that surrounded the stone figure of the Virgin Mary. Her eyes, though empty and white, seemed to gaze upon onlookers lovingly.
Catedral de Malaga had always been his refuge, his sanctuary. He had first gone there as a little boy, when his mother was still alive. She had taken him to mass one autumn, when the ground was still covered with an orange blanket. He liked to jump in the leafy piles and feel the crunch beneath his feet.
She'd never forced him to believe, but it grew on him anyway. He quite liked the quiet solitude he found whenever he sat at the pews, alone with his thoughts and prayers. Nobody insisted on baptism, nobody insisted that he join the rest of them. He discovered that he enjoyed the masses held, and acquired the habit of saying Grace before his daily soup and bread.
Now seated at a pew, he began to run through his daily prayers, his lips silent but moving. His hands clasped a gold-and-white rosary, his fingers deftly handling each bead as he progressed. The town bells tolled for midnight.
He would be 36 today.
Finishing his prayers, a sudden urge came over him. He let out a muffled sound, a cross between a laugh and cry. The sad hilarity of it all finally hit him. Who'd have guessed that he would end up here?
Such a grand cathedral, ceilings gold and pillars cream, the scent of vanilla complimented it perfectly. He took out a palm-sized bottle and began walking towards the altar. The countless marble figures gazed at him curiously as he passed them, a slightly worried expression upon their faces.
Pausing for a moment, he uncorked the bottle of kerosene in his hand, and proceeded towards the vanilla-scented sticks of wax. The flame atop each one flickered furtively as he approached, as if threatened by the flammable liquid.
Watching them, a grin drew itself across his face, mouth stretched, pupils dilated as he brought the bottle to his lips. He let the bitter liquid trail down his throat into his stomach and, finishing the last of it, dropped the bottle and reached for a candle.
The smell of vanilla lingered in the air, it wafting from the candles that surrounded the stone figure of the Virgin Mary. Her eyes, though empty and white, seemed to gaze upon onlookers lovingly.
Catedral de Malaga had always been his refuge, his sanctuary. He had first gone there as a little boy, when his mother was still alive. She had taken him to mass one autumn, when the ground was still covered with an orange blanket. He liked to jump in the leafy piles and feel the crunch beneath his feet.
She'd never forced him to believe, but it grew on him anyway. He quite liked the quiet solitude he found whenever he sat at the pews, alone with his thoughts and prayers. Nobody insisted on baptism, nobody insisted that he join the rest of them. He discovered that he enjoyed the masses held, and acquired the habit of saying Grace before his daily soup and bread.
Now seated at a pew, he began to run through his daily prayers, his lips silent but moving. His hands clasped a gold-and-white rosary, his fingers deftly handling each bead as he progressed. The town bells tolled for midnight.
He would be 36 today.
Finishing his prayers, a sudden urge came over him. He let out a muffled sound, a cross between a laugh and cry. The sad hilarity of it all finally hit him. Who'd have guessed that he would end up here?
Such a grand cathedral, ceilings gold and pillars cream, the scent of vanilla complimented it perfectly. He took out a palm-sized bottle and began walking towards the altar. The countless marble figures gazed at him curiously as he passed them, a slightly worried expression upon their faces.
Pausing for a moment, he uncorked the bottle of kerosene in his hand, and proceeded towards the vanilla-scented sticks of wax. The flame atop each one flickered furtively as he approached, as if threatened by the flammable liquid.
Watching them, a grin drew itself across his face, mouth stretched, pupils dilated as he brought the bottle to his lips. He let the bitter liquid trail down his throat into his stomach and, finishing the last of it, dropped the bottle and reached for a candle.
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