Hospital Debauchery

The heavy oak doors of St Augustine's Church groaned shut behind Elias Thorne and Theresa, the sound reverberating through the vast sanctuary like a reluctant sigh, swallowed by the hallowed stillness. The air was cool, tinged with the smoky sweetness of lingering incense, the faint polish of old wood, and the musty scent of hymnals tucked into the pews, their pages yellowed from years of fervent hands.

Elias slumped heavily into a back pew, his broad frame sagging as if gravity itself was punishing him, his face a storm cloud of anguish and defiance. His deep-set frown was as stark as the shadows pooling at his feet, his dark suit wrinkled, tie askew, graying hair a tangled mess from restless fingers. The past few days had been a descent into hell, his public disgrace at the hospital, his downfall and Devon, he held his mouth as he was in the house of God.

He however didn't believe in this place, didn't think a church's could unravel the knot of rage and despair in his chest. He was here only because Theresa, and so she can keep quiet. He was too exhausted to argue, too worn to resist her anymore, so he'd followed, his boots dragging like they were chained to the floor.

Theresa sat beside him, her presence a stark contrast, a beacon of quiet resolve in the dim light. Her dark hair was swept into a tight, impeccable bun, her dress modest but tailored, clinging softly to her frame, the hem brushing her knees. Her hands were folded in her lap, clutching a rosary, the black beads clicking softly as she worked them with practiced devotion, her lips moving in a silent, fervent prayer. Her eyes were closed, her face serene yet steely, as if she could will salvation into her husband's fractured soul through sheer faith alone.

The faint hum of her whispered prayers wove into the distant strains of an organ practicing somewhere deep in the church, its mournful notes rising and falling like a heartbeat, wrapping the sanctuary in a cocoon of solemnity. Elias shifted restlessly, his foot tapping a rebellious rhythm against the pew, the soft thud a protest against the sacred quiet, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He glared at the altar ahead, a simple wooden table draped in white linen, crowned with a brass crucifix that gleamed faintly his eyes burning with resentment, as if the cross itself was complicit in his downfall.

Their fragile moment of solitude shattered when a young female priest approached, her black robes whispering against the stone floor, her steps light but purposeful, like a bird gliding through the stillness. She was barely thirty, her short blonde hair tucked neatly under her clerical collar, her blue eyes warm but sharp, carrying the quiet authority of someone accustomed to guiding lost souls.

She stopped before their pew, her hands clasped in front of her, a small, practiced smile softening her features. "Mr and Mrs Thorne," she said, her voice clear and melodic, cutting through the hush like a bell. "Pastor James would like to see you in his office now." Her gaze lingered on Elias, catching the storm in his expression, the way his frown deepened, his eyes narrowing into slits, but she held her smile, undeterred, gesturing toward a side door near the altar, where candlelight flickered in the shadows.

Theresa's eyes fluttered open, her prayer pausing mid-breath, and she nodded, tucking her rosary into her purse with a graceful flick of her wrist. "Thank you, Father," she said, her voice steady, warm with gratitude but edged with urgency, as she rose, smoothing her dress with a quick, practiced motion.

Elias didn't move, his body rooted to the pew, his frown carving deeper lines into his face, his eyes fixed on the priest with a mix of defiance and exhaustion.

Theresa turned to him, her dark eyes flashing with that familiar glare, a silent command that had always bent him to her will. "Elias," she said, her voice low, a single word laced with warning, like a blade pressed lightly to his skin. He exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, his shoulders slumping as he dragged himself to his feet, his movements heavy, reluctant, like a man marching to a gallows.

He adjusted his tie with a jerky tug, muttering a curse under his breath, and followed Theresa as the priest led them through the side door, down a narrow hallway lined with faded portraits of past clergy, their stern faces watching from the walls, and votive candles casting trembling shadows, their footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor.

The pastor's office was a small, intimate space, steeped in the scent of old books and wax, its walls lined with sagging bookshelves crammed with theology texts, dog-eared bibles, and a few framed certificates yellowing at the edges.

A simple wooden desk sat at the center, cluttered with papers, a brass cross, and a half-burned candle, its flame flickering in the draft from a single, narrow window that let in a sliver of golden light.

Behind the desk stood a young man, his clerical robes fitting snugly over a lean, athletic frame, his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee framing a face that was both youthful and commanding. His eyes glinted with a quiet, almost unsettling confidence, his dark hair combed back, and a faint, enigmatic smile played on his lips as he stepped forward to greet them, his presence filling the room like a shadow stretching too far.

Elias froze in the doorway, his brows furrowing so tightly they nearly met, a jolt of recognition sparking in his mind, sharp and disorienting. That face, those sharp features, the piercing gaze it was hauntingly familiar, like a ghost from a nightmare he couldn't place.

He stared, his eyes narrowing, his mind clawing at the memory, but it slipped away, elusive, leaving only a nagging unease. He shook his head, shrugging it off, though his gut churned with suspicion. Theresa paused too, her brows knitting together as she studied the pastor, a flicker of doubt crossing her face, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but she pressed them shut, dismissing the feeling as she focused on the moment.

The young pastor extended a hand, his smile warm but with a razor's edge, too polished, too knowing, like he was savoring a private joke. "I'm afraid Pastor James had an unexpected emergency and couldn't be here today," he said, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "I'm Pastor Daniel, stepping in for him. I'd be honored to sit with you, discuss what's troubling you, and offer prayer if you're willing." His eyes flicked between them, lingering on Elias just a fraction too long, the smile never faltering, though a glint of something, amusement, triumph? flashed in his gaze, too quick to pin down.

Theresa nodded, her expression softening, though a trace of unease lingered in the slight tension of her jaw. "Thank you, Pastor Daniel," she said, her voice polite but measured, as she settled into one of the two worn leather chairs in front of the desk, smoothing her dress over her knees with a careful hand, her rosary beads peeking out from her purse like a lifeline.

Elias hesitated, his frown deepening, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his body radiating reluctance, every muscle screaming his desire to be anywhere else.

Theresa's sharp glance cut through him, her eyes narrowing, and he sighed, a low, defeated sound, sinking into the chair beside her, his posture rigid, his gaze flicking between the pastor and the floor, suspicion and resentment warring in his expression.

The air in the room crackled with unspoken tension, the faint flicker of the candle casting shadows that danced across the pastor's face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.

Theresa straightened, her hands folding in her lap, her rosary beads catching the light as she drew a steadying breath. "I'm Theresa Thorne," she began, her voice clear, carrying the weight of her resolve, her eyes meeting the pastor's with a quiet strength. "And this is my husband, Elias Thorne." She gestured to Elias, who sat like a statue, his jaw tight, his frown a permanent fixture, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and exhaustion as he stared at the pastor.

The pastor—Devon, though they remained oblivious to his true identity, leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped loosely on the desk, his smile widening ever so slightly, a glint of amusement, perhaps even satisfaction, flickering in his hazel eyes as he listened to the couples in front of him.