Losing My Religion
A quiet wind rustled the leaves scattered under the trees as Father McBride stood patiently outside the chapel doors, occasionally glancing from left to right. He was awaiting the beginning of Sunday morning mass, the most popular ceremony of the week. Even the most feeble pensioner would make the journey on the day of the Sabbath to get their regular dosage of the Gospel. McBride played with the cuffs of his elegantly-adorned robe, and exuded a delicate sigh that caused his moustache to bristle like a feather-duster in the wind. It was rather absurd to believe that anyone would approach the church this early, a solid hour before a human blockade would surround the fountain of holy water. Yet that fact did not bother McBride. The parson had spent more than a decade pondering, preparing, planning-for this fateful day, when he would finally cast aside his collar and close that tabernacle for the final time. If he had waited this long, he could easily tolerate another hour or so.
The downfall of McBride’s faith had begun one early Saturday morning. Long before his housekeeper would rise, McBride lay in bed, restless, following a nightmare that had appeared to consume his very soul in the midst of darkness. In the dream, he had been walking through a graveyard, similar in many ways to the cemetery located near his childhood abode. Having lost control of what he could see and what he could not, McBride found himself at the mercy of his mind, unable to dictate where his attention would lie. Tombstones that piqued his curiosity only remained in sight for a moment; before he could examine their engraved details he had walked another five steps. The graveyard had stretched on for miles and miles, its border never seeming to be within sight, until finally, what seemed like hours later- a sole grave cast a shadow onto the neat grass. McBride looked up and had to shield his eyes, as the sun provided a blazing background to the cross that marked this...