one word [liar]
(ref: here)
The word pounded under his skull like a newly-inked tattoo; sure everyone could see the label, everyone for two thousand miles, Jake left for the bus.
Waiting at the stop felt the same; some part of him treasured and accepted the wait as part of the perpetual payment on the guilt that would not release him. Waiting allowed him to hide from himself; instead of being someone, he became just someone waiting for the bus.
The bus came too soon. Pulling up and brakes squeaking, the door unfolded; the grizzled bus driver sneared boredly waiting for Jake to step. Grabbing the hand rails, Jake paid and picked one of the free seats near the back exit.
At every stop, Jake looked away from the door, knowing that each person would stare at him, at his label, knowing that he could do nothing to remove the shame. Pulling away from each step, Jake was certain he saw the bus driver look at him from the rear-view mirror; in fact, he was even more certain he'd seen the driver look at him before and after every turn ... as if he was just waiting for Jake to do whatever it was he had planned to do to get his day finally over.
Three stops later, Jake pulled the cord; a small ding followed and Jake stepped off. Knowing, without needing to look and verify, that he had a million voyeurs behind him and ahead of him, Jake walked heavily to the church.
No visitors, parish-members, or clergy stood at the door to challenge his entry. Placing the key within the lock, Jake pulled the heavy well-balanced door open. The few birds that had been on the roof near the door fluttered away and Jake walked forward slowly, closing the door behind him.
Planning out his day, he saw the first pew; by the second and third pew, his need to talk to God was greater than his ability to focus on the day's efforts. Slowly he walked, almost crawling to the fourth row from the back.
The silence was deafening; his heart beat harsh and beads of sweat fell from his brow.
But he made it.
The word pounded under his skull like a newly-inked tattoo; sure everyone could see the label, everyone for two thousand miles, Jake left for the bus.
Waiting at the stop felt the same; some part of him treasured and accepted the wait as part of the perpetual payment on the guilt that would not release him. Waiting allowed him to hide from himself; instead of being someone, he became just someone waiting for the bus.
The bus came too soon. Pulling up and brakes squeaking, the door unfolded; the grizzled bus driver sneared boredly waiting for Jake to step. Grabbing the hand rails, Jake paid and picked one of the free seats near the back exit.
At every stop, Jake looked away from the door, knowing that each person would stare at him, at his label, knowing that he could do nothing to remove the shame. Pulling away from each step, Jake was certain he saw the bus driver look at him from the rear-view mirror; in fact, he was even more certain he'd seen the driver look at him before and after every turn ... as if he was just waiting for Jake to do whatever it was he had planned to do to get his day finally over.
Three stops later, Jake pulled the cord; a small ding followed and Jake stepped off. Knowing, without needing to look and verify, that he had a million voyeurs behind him and ahead of him, Jake walked heavily to the church.
No visitors, parish-members, or clergy stood at the door to challenge his entry. Placing the key within the lock, Jake pulled the heavy well-balanced door open. The few birds that had been on the roof near the door fluttered away and Jake walked forward slowly, closing the door behind him.
Planning out his day, he saw the first pew; by the second and third pew, his need to talk to God was greater than his ability to focus on the day's efforts. Slowly he walked, almost crawling to the fourth row from the back.
The silence was deafening; his heart beat harsh and beads of sweat fell from his brow.
But he made it.
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