The Saints watched silently when the Father sinned against me.
Sunlight through beatific images of a holy few; glorious glass glowed, dappling the room in shattered colour. A broken rainbow; a broken promise, a broken child. Sanctuary spoiled; safety swapped for shame by a weak man’s ungodly urges. The consecrated corrupted; the martyr’s glass truly stained.
The Saints’ silence echoed, reverberating loudly and deafening those who should have cared, drowning out my cries long after the crime.
The Saints watch silently again now; one final, mortal sin. Stained-glass bottles and rainbow coloured pills. Another martyr to silence.
In my rush to post this before the cut off, I somehow managed to upload a blank page. How unprofessional. I’m seriously glad that I wrote and saved this in word first, otherwise it would have been completely lost. Apologies.
I had so many ideas generated by this picture of a window that I actually had ‘choice paralysis. Dark stories about surveillance, about peeping toms, about imprisonment. Bright stories about enlightenment, vision and letting the air in. It got to the stage where I almost missed entering anything at all!
But I went with this story. It was easily the strongest. It’s not based on any specific true story, but rather a distillation of horrible revelations coming out of the Australian Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Abuse. My story is set in a church (as this is where the window image took me, and the religious imagery lends itself to juxtapositions between sin and sanctuary, holy and unholy) but this story is repeated in schools, in clubs, in many places that children should be safe but are not. Organisations that should have helped, chose to hide. Crimes covered up and criminals shifted away to re-offend again (and again and again and again…).