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Take me to church
---~A kind of diary~--- "There is nothing to regret we did,
there is nothing left to feel, we felt it all..."  St. Michael's on a cold October morning, it's single belfry veiled in mists.
With the break of rainy dawn Francis sneaked through the door, a shadow of Autumn storm, bringing fog and rotten leaves to the dry solemnity of the nave. Slowly he walked down the center aisle, the night following him like wings, his steps echoing in the twilight emptiness of fading incense and prayers. He inhaled the atmosphere, standing upright at the altar, his blue eyes focused on the cross, on the carved face of a suffering Jesus, on hands and feet stigmatized by iron nails. He tried to remember when he had been to church the last time, but somehow these memories slipped from his grip, flickering like the candles, burning on the offering table in front of him. With the melting wax a tender scent of roses filled the air, adding to the warm drowsy ambiance. He noticed details, like the embroidery on the altar cloth. He noticed his boots left dirty prints on the floor; prints turning red with the first rays of sun falling through the leaded windows, speckling the marble with blood and gold. "Isn't it beautiful?", a sudden voice was heard. Francis turned his head and looked at the priest, entering the hall from the sacristy. He was young and lanky, with short blond hair and an open, friendly face. "I come here every morning, just to watch the light ascend through these old windows." Stepping closer he looked up and smiled at the glowing glass behind the cross, yet Francis couldn't help but stare at the cleric's throat, the soft, fresh shaved skin, the hypnotic slow moves of his Adam's apple. A silken shiver tickled his senses. "Indeed it is", he agreed in his usual low tone, his eyes finally following the priest's glance, bathing his features in bright crimson and vibrant purple. Absentmindedly he licked the scar on his upper lip. "It's beautiful. It's really... enticing."
---*--- NIGEL: There was a much different atmosphere from his prospective. Dark, quiet as he sat in the confessional box watching, waiting. Those dark eyes would admire through the thin slit provided by the prop of the door. There his dragon was toying with his prey. There was nothing he loved more then the final gasp of life from one, but the elude to it was just as sweet. Did this young boy sense his fate? Did his so called maker warn him? Probably not, for if he had, the priest would not dare step so close to those jaws of death. ---*--- "Enticing?" the young man in the soutane picked the word like a rare treat, rolling it on his tongue with an unfamiliar accent. Francis just nodded, his expression solemn, his cornflower eyes darting from the priest's face to the face of Jesus, both tinted in lush rainbow sunlight. The whiff of a smile curled the dragon's lips. A certain presence distracted him and made his skin crawl the utmost pleasant way. Nigel was near, watching him. Francis' heart skipped a beat. He felt his lover closer than he felt the goose bumps on his own skin. "Enticing, yes", he cleared his throat, his restless glance finally focusing on the cleric's face. He scanned details and learned them by heart. He inhaled his scent, he listened to the steady song of his pulse. Innocent blood..., he thought. Spilled right here on the altar, under the wooden cross, his gushing life adding another nuance of red to the color palette on the floor. "Inspiring to believe everything could be fine, in the end." "It will be fine, my friend", the priest calmly replied, "The day our father calls us home to join the angels in heaven." Francis looked down. There was a knife in his pocket, an angry little switchblade, sharp enough to dissect the young man's throat and all his glorious visions of heaven. It was so tempting to do it now, to lure Nigel with an abundance of coppery flavor. To see him approach through the purple twilight... and to get naked to... "My morning prayer calls me as well. But feel free to visit any time. St. Michael's is a wonderful place for contemplation." Francis just turned and walked down the aisle, carefully listening to the fading footsteps of the priest and the final clicking of a door. He stopped and drew his breath. He was dizzy with excitement. "Father, forgive me", he gasped and jammed into the confessional box, resting his head against the separating grid. His fingers clawed along the frame. He squinted his eyes and exhaled a moan. Nigel's closeness crushed his countenance within a split-second. "For I will sin. And I won't regret it."
Later October, 2017 And yet again, the 2nd time, I seek the dry solemnity of prayers and incense, waiting till the windows lose their light, the shadows growing longer with the flicker of candles. I speak to him about salvation, I talk of God as if he were my friend. I play a game of snake and mouse, and he believes me... every word. I even ask him if he knows the Dragon, and he said yes and looks at me in awe, as if temptation offers better treats...
Somewhen in November, 17 a.D. I've been there again, early this morning. I stared at the cross and watched the sun rise. I sensed him stepping closer.
"I wonder how it felt", he said. I didn't turn my head.
"The nails?" I paused to give him time to gasp. "It's not about the nails. It's this hopelessness, this knowledge that it will take a good while till it's over, and that you have no chance to get down... at least not without help. The nails are just a short sharp pain and a constant throbbing. The rest is humiliation and agony."
"How can you..."
I simply smiled at him. Boy, the red dust of Golgotha still sticks to my boots. 
Sa. 18th of Nov. 2017
He enters the church, and again darkness follows him like wings. He's dressed in black tonight. Incense and music fills the hall, and the breath of visitors. The Mass is over, but some are still praying. He walks up, hands in his coat pockets. His fingers caress the knife.
Missing someone is a glass in front of you. Filled with hemlock. On the rocks. Take this cup away from me, for I don't want to taste its poison.
24.11. Tonight I approach St. Michael's like a thief. It's up to midnight, and I seriously wonder that the door isn't locked already. Perhaps it's always open, perhaps no one is scared here that evil could cross the threshold without permission. I turn round and look at the moon. It's still full enough, I think, hesitating for a moment to feel the night passing by to enter before me. I dive into the shadows and follow, walking down the nave like I did so often in the meantime. The fragrance of incense still lingers, but the warmth is gone, and the painted ceiling dissolves into darkness. The windows are black. The prayers have faded. It's cold in here. Nearly colder than outside. I can't help but shudder.  "I'm sorry, but we're closing...", I hear his steps and his words at the same time. Instantly I retreat. Till I feel the altar against my back and wooden eyes staring down at me in all time carved pain.
"O, it's you", he adds a smile to his voice, a smile that turns to static noise in my head. I close my eyes and release a growl, but he walks up without hesitation. I nearly can feel his hand on my shoulder. Don't tell me that you're happy to see me!
"Are you... okay?" And there is his hand, this touch I never ever wanted, and I open my lids again and stare at him, while the knife in my pocket starts to whisper. "I'm perfectly fine." Politely I add a "Thank you.", my voice low and rasp and surprising myself. His hand falls down. I exhale and walk away, opening the door and leaning against it, waiting till I hear the key from the inside. I take a deep breath. God bless you! 
Sunday, 3rd of December 2017, 10:48 p.m. EST It was a peculiar atmosphere tonight, as if the entire city held its breath, waiting for something cold and gruesome, something disturbing the colorful happiness, cutting its way through synthetic joy, and drowning old Santa in a pool of blood. All the glittering decoration, the blinking lights, the fragrance of cinnamon, hot punch and roasted apples... choked and crushed within the moment Francis got out of his car and the rain set in. Darkness bowed to his feet. The full moon sank deeper. The drizzle wasn't welcome but obvious. Sometimes the elements followed certain circumstances. Francis looked up the starry night sky. He inhaled the fresh air, the falling drops like tiny needles on his skin. A cold shiver ran down his spine. It felt good. Refreshing like the rain. It cleared his senses, while this weird kind of tension prickled on his tongue. Fear. Yes, a certain undefined anxiety, like they knew he was coming. He, Francis Dolarhyde, the Great Red Dragon. He never has expected to become The False Prophet as well. A master of words, his voice of hypnotic charms like velvet thunder. He still wasn't used to speak, and he still had this kind of handicap with articulation, but all of a sudden these flaws became attractive like an unknown accent, spiked with snarls and growls to leave goose bumps on the skins of those who listened, his delicate selection of words turning to feverish poetry. It was confusing, maybe a little awkward now and then, but always deeply appreciated. Francis blinked and smiled, rubbing his temples. The headache was gone. His eyes would stay golden, shimmering in anticipation to test their effect on the priest. Eyes, words, body language: his repertoire of reptile charms. He longed to seduce him, holding him in his arms while his prayers fade to sinful pleadings, giving a f*** bout his celibacy. Bathed in bright blue moonlight the Dragon sneered. O, how he craved to see this boy fall, his pleadings finally bleeding out. While the town seemed to hold its breath, Francis felt like walking on air. Careful, careful, don't be too wicked! Perhaps you are safe, but nothing and no one is worth to take a risk. This young cleric got the secret number written on his forehead. He is marked by sweet, sweet shame already. So whenever the time was right... Igniting a cigarette Francis snarled in disappointment. A steady stream of smoke escaped his nostrils. Touched by a sudden whiff of anger he licked the scar on his upper lip. What time could be better than a full moon so heavy that it nearly hit the ground, so huge that one could reach out and pick it from the sky like a silver dollar? The time was perfect. But his love wasn't there, and without him their plans were just soggy dreams. Smoke and mirrors. He missed Nigel. Fantasies. Chimeras. He missed him painfully. His entire body ached in need. To bathe in full moon light was one thing, to bathe in blood... Francis kicked the church door open. He entered without hesitation. Darkness followed him, shadows billowing like a pair of wings. The rain kept waiting on the threshold. (The town exhaled. No idea why...) It was warm inside, warmer than usual, the high walls speckled with candle flames and the flicker of fairy lights adorning a huge Christmas tree in the middle of the nave. The fragrance of incense mingled with the flavor of oranges and oriental spices: cardamom, cloves, star anise, vanilla. He couldn't help but smile. This melange was enticing. And it looked so nice. Festal. Friendly. Cozy in a way, stirring memories he never had: a family, a home, a holiday season. He closed his eyes. And closed his mind. He did not come to get charmed by the ghost of saccharine Christmas. 'Wake up!', a voice whispered in his head, 'All this kitsch is not meant for you!' His hand grabbed the silver snake in his pocket. He took it out and snapped it open. This knife was real, speaking a language he understood: the flickering fear, the shimmering ruby, the enticing fragrance of fading breath. His lids sprung open. And there he was and stared at him. The Dragon smiled. The knife in his hand smiled as well. "I dreamed of you", the priest said. "Don't tell me", Francis replied softly, "I think I see it in your eyes..."
10th of December, 2017 Sunday night at St. Michael's: red altar wine in the sacristy, the priest and me staring at each other, trying to read each other's mind. "I dreamed of you", he has told me. I've planned to seduce him, but it was done already. He inhaled my silence, listening to every word I did not say. I smiled and he shivered, his eyes big and round like the moon. At midnight he led me to the door. "Soon", I whispered against his lips.
Jan/2018: I'm circling the church like a hungry wolf, snarling at closed doors, pissing against the walls, marking my territory. I want to get in, want to find my prey and drag him out in the inevitable rain, quenching my thirst by ripping his throat with my teeth. "You're overdue", I whisper to the dark windows of the sacristy. "I will bring you home to my lover, so we can eat you alive and bathe in your blood."
It was brisk and moist this early Februar morning I reached Saint Michael's, my breath a white cloud, mingling with the smoke I exhaled. Dawn crept up in shades of graphite and dark salmon, while the drizzle wrapped the world in a veil of silver. The rain set in the moment I left the car. I had to smile. Nature didn't like me; not in this place. Or it liked me too much, inspiring me to finally do something really epic. It made no difference: as a matter of prudence I wore a hoodie, and I felt like a thief when I approached the church. The Red Dragon in black, my gloved right hand grasping the handle. To my surprise the door was closed. A disappointed snarl escaped my throat.
"Don't do this to me", I whispered and took another drag from my cigarette, "Don't let me wait in the cold." I came too late. Just some minutes, but nevertheless too late, the door was closed, and the inevitable drizzle wet my hair in an instant, refreshing the heated skin of my face when I looked up the cloudy sky to howl at the blue moon. The cold drops felt good, like tears of despair, keeping my eyes from really crying. With trembling fingers I drew the silver snake from the pocket of my coat and carved my sign into the church's door. Fence time is over! You will fall tomorrow. You will die in my arms; in this or that way. Don't pray for mercy, for I'll be your savior. Your God won't hear you. But I will. 
March 2018 ...... But he doesn't listen. He doesn't want to know about Sandra.
Once or twice a month I sneak through the drizzle to the doors of Saint Michael's, slipping in like a thief, bathing in the candlelit darkness of prayers and incense. He waits in the shadow of the cross, stepping behind me, his hands aching to touch my skin.
"Tell me a secret", he whispers.
I smile and turn in his embrace, looking deep into his eyes.
"I'm glad I didn't kill you", I exhale to his lips.
"Damn yes!" a moan escaped my lips. The candles flickered. I opened my lids to look at him, his smooth body dancing on my lap, his face reflecting awe and ecstasy. I saw the cross above us, the wooden eyes of Jesus staring down on us. I couldn't help but smile. Next time I will climb up to pick your crown of thorns... He bowed down to choke my thoughts with his tongue, exhaling his lust to my mouth. He flickered like the candles. I held him tight and wrapped the altar cloth around us. It's always cold at St. Michael's. "Something is going wrong lately", I finally whispered, my fingers raking through his hair. He ignited a cigarette for me. "What do you mean?" he asked. "It's about the balance... it... teeters. And there is something else... and it's worse than Good and Evil. It's like a disease, and I'm seriously scared. It devours everything, chews it up and spits it out again. And what is left... no one of us dares to imagine." "What is it?" He sank deeper against my chest. His skin was cool and sweaty. My right arm fell down to grasp the golden chalice filled with altar wine. I took a sip and sighed. "Madness", I said, "It's universal Madness. And neither your God nor mine is immune against it. It's older than the Earth, maybe older than Time itself." Another sip, another sigh. A humid kiss to his forehead. He shivered. I shivered as well. "What can be done?" His eyes met mine. I tried to smile. Why do I care, I asked myself. Because I currently saw too much blood. Because I am who I am... Because someone has to care. "Pray!" was all I uttered. He looked up at the cross, then back at me. "You think the prayers of a fallen priest will still reach the ears of God?" I dragged him back onto my lap. "Ego te absolvo", I whispered.
"Please, take the crown off", he breathed into the twilight of incense and prayers, his voice fading, a broken echo. I did not open my eyes: I knew this church by heart. I knew him by heart. "Dieu de l'enfer ou Dieu du ciel, demain, le sang sera lavé...", I murmured to myself.
Blood trickled down my forehead and temples, hot and sticky, passing my lids and cheeks. The thorns didn't hurt me; the awe in his glance pierced my soul. I leaned back against the wooden bar. It has never, never been my wish to become this important. 
28th of November, 2018 And all of a sudden I found myself at Saint Michael's again, dropping my cigarette and opening the door to get away from the darkness and the rain, the night slipping in behind me, crawling up my back to billow my coat like giant wings. I deeply inhaled the familiar scent, incense and candles, the fragrance of a home I never had, accented with the sweet perfume of Christmas: oranges, cinnamon, gingerbread, a huge fir tree standing infront of me. Twinkling lights bathed my features. I couldn't help but smile, allowing myself to savor a childhood's dream, wishing I could weep or pray now, my blue eyes wide with wonder, my heart filled with innocence. I wished he was there, stepping down from the pulpit to run into my arms, ready to heal my sadness with the awe in his glance. But the church was empty. I could hear the rain. I could feel the darkness, a flock of crows, black silken wings rustling in the entablature high above me. I turned around and walked away, slowly reaching for the door... "Wait, please wait. I'm late, I'm sorry." I stopped and shivered. My eyes welled with tears. "It's not your priestly duty to sense evil every time it's approaching", I said in a low husky tone. "You are not evil", he whispered, "I can see your halo." I stepped up and covered his eyes with my cold right hand.
"You see nothing!" My forked tongue conquered his lips.
December (will be magic again) "What do you see?" he asked and stepped behind me, wrapping his arms around me as if he could save me from the moon and the rain and the lurking darkness inside my soul. I stared at the tree, at shimmering lights and tiny angels, at lametta and candles and gingerbread horses. "I see the youth I never had. I see the scars on my back. I see the cold drafty attic of the orphanage. I see corpses on a blood-soaked bed. I see a baby in a manger and the shadow of a cross on a stable's wall. I see the pain of an entire world..."
With a sigh I turned round to look at him.
He swallowed hard: "What have they done to the child in your eyes?" (For those who believe there might be a heaven...) 
"What do you see?" His voice made me shiver. I felt his eyes caressing my back, his enarmored glance drawing the outlines of my tattoo. I stared up the cross, my skin covering with goose bumps the moment his arms slipped around me. My body reacted instantly, but my mind turned back the hands of time. "Do you know how many died this way?" I whispered into the half-light of Saint Michael's, my voice low thunder ascending with the smoke of candles and incense. "There were thousands and thousands along the Appian Way... Dignity degraded. Humanity humiliated. Omnipresent Death in all states of decay. The stench, the flies, the birds and wild dogs. The heat glistening with blood, sweat, feces... and despair. " I drew a deep breath. "It takes endless hours to die this way. Your flesh deflowered by iron nails... Your limbs screaming in pain. Your lungs tightening. And you can't do anything except focus on dying." I swallowed hard. His touch burned like fire. Slowly I closed my eyes. I craved a cigarette. "You have been there", he gasped. His lips grazed my neck and made my hackles rise.
"More than one time..." Leaning against him my words faded to a moan.
8th of May, 2019 a. D. A painful long while has passed since I was here for the last time. Four months, I think, maybe five. It has been round Christmas, a huge fir tree reaching out to touch the painted ceiling, the air thick with childhood dreams of gingerbread and roasted apples. Fairy lights everywhere, flickering candles in all colors of the rainbow. Tinsel. Shimmering ornaments. Honey and cinnamon and peace on Earth. Tender music, fragile harmonies; a moony welcome for the filthy little beast that still lives inside me: this wondering wounded boy, shy and hungry, craving to be loved and wishing he would have never been born. Not this way. Afraid of scissors and mirrors, attracted to the warmth of a home he never had. I'm grateful most things have changed in the meantime. I'm stronger now. I'm not shy anymore. But though I flash a smitten smile to every reflection I see, I am still hungry, still craving for love. My forehead rested on the steering wheel I recall his arms around me, his breath in my neck, the awe in his eyes caressing my tattooed wings. I listen to the rain, submerging the drumming of my heart. I have to get out of my car. I have to see him. I have to talk to him. I need to inhale his scent, kiss his lips, taste his flesh. I need to get drunk on his moans and shivers. I know it's after midnight already. I know it's late... The streets are empty. Bleak. Abandoned. The rain is cold: a touch of Winter in the middle of Spring. My footsteps echo on wet asphalt. I walk through a film set, a sunken city, neon light like ships on a nightly ocean. It could as well be another planet. I wonder why it always rains when I approach this church. Somehow I manage to ignite a cigarette. After some greedy drags I drop it again. My breath lingers in the air. Two years ago I came to kill him. Now I need him. Alive. On my lap. Tightly pressed against the locked door of St. Michael's my fingernails scratch despair into the wood, close to the carved symbol I once have left, this thick merciless door that exiles me to the darkness where I belong, but I smell the incense and the candles and the prayers, his sweat and blood and adoration, and the salvation I would get, if it would open to... "Let me in", I whisper, "Goddamnit, let me in!" My hair and shirt is soaked already. My dripping fingers nearly crash the doorknob. "Shahar..." A tender hand touches my shoulder. An icy chill runs down my spine. My skin covers with goose bumps. My muscles contract. My eyes widen. With a deep low growl I turn round and slap his face. "How dare you", I hiss in Hebrew, the ancient language, the only language, "How dare you call me by this name?" "Helel ben Shahar", he sobs and rubs his cheek, his brown eyes shimmering with tears. I swallow hard, my golden glance focused on the crimson streaks trickling down his chin. He still wears his soutane. "I know who you are since the first time I saw you, bathed in the multi-colored light of a breaking morning. You are Shahar. Eosphoros. Lucifer. Dawn. The bringer of light." "I am nothing but darkness. Scars and mirrors. My light flickers low." With another growl I grab his shoulders, cup his cheeks, conquer his mouth with my tongue. He tastes of rain, wine and blood. His kiss is much sweeter. "I am so old, and sometimes I'm just tired. Sodom drowned in a hail of brimstone. Babylon the Great has fallen. Ancient Rome burned to the ground. Inspire me to rise from the ashes." "Stay", is all he says. And I nod, without hesitation.
Leaned against the wall of St. Michael's I smoke a cigarette in silence, meandering gray dancing through the drizzle, curling around the pale round of the moon. It's a peaceful night, a peaceful month, Strawberry Moon, and no one has died.
"You're beautiful", he whispers, and I drag him close to kiss his lips. My sinful priest... come, lick my wounds.
We're both still dressed. But this will change pretty soon. (Tuesday, 18th June 2019)
"Did you know him?" I stared up the cross into Jesus' face, at carved eyes, carved lips, carved pain. I could hear the rain, drumming on the roof, and the thunder, slowly roaring closer. The candles flickered. The leaden windows hummed in a soft vibration. He stepped up and followed my glance. I reached out and wrapped one arm around his waist. I needed to feel him. "I remember when he died", my voice is calm. I'm simply tired. "I remember the sun and the heat, the stench of sweat and blood: the landscape bathed in shimmery white. It was the beginning of the third afternoon hour. The mop refused to disperse. Two women cried at the foot of the cross. He looked down on them, but I doubt that he saw them. The sky grew darker. Storm gushed up. Bolts ripped the clouds. The first drops fell, thick red drops, the tears of a giant wounded animal. Heaven itself started to weep. Finally the crowd dissolved. Those who stayed fell to their knees. It's said that he whispered his famous last words. Father, forgive them..., you know, but... seriously, he couldn't speak anymore. Agony has wrapped its wings around him. He was too close to the final doorstep. Most of him was dead already. And what was left... died with the fading thunderstorm. He didn't pray to his father. He didn't ask for forgiveness. There was nothing to forgive." I turn my head and look at him. My priest, my lover... my beautiful savior. "They knew what they have done. They knew it all too well. And they still know it. Like he knew it. And I know it. For some the only way to save those they love is death. For some others... it's betrayal. So I kissed him to save the world for 30 pieces of silver. And hanged myself three days later." His eyes widen. "How many times", he gasps. I brush his lips with my thumb. "I lost count. It doesn't matter. You have to die a few times before you can live. Today is my birthday." I smile. "One of so many..." (13th of August 2019, St. Michael's) "Shahar..." I shivered and sighed: "You like my name, don't you?" "I like you", he replied frankly, his breath tickling my hackles. "I like to look at your face and listen to your voice. I like the stories you tell me, though most of them are sad. I like the child in your eyes, and the Dragon behind this child, and the angel behind this Dragon. I like the warmth of your heart and the silver shards of your soul." "You like my body and the flavor of sin." I turned around and kissed his lips. "You like the fire of my passion: the Abyss behind this angel. You like the way I keep you from praying." With a smile he nodded: "Your name reminds me of sand and sun and desert storms. There are a million words in one. A million ages. A million lies. A million truths. I like your name: Shahar." (19/9/19) 
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"I desire you. You completely. I know who you are. I know your name. I see your halo. I broke my celibacy because of you. I wish to see you, please, Shahar! Your wings, your horns, your tail. Show me the Dragon."
"...don't save it. Learn it by heart. You know who I am. I have to take utmost care. Call me. But never harm yourself again. I don't want you to feel physical pain. Not because of me. I don't deserve that. And most of all: I don't demand that. Whatever you do: no regrets! You are loved, never forget that. You got the love of the reptile and me. That's more than a mortal man could ask for."