The few candles that were lit flickered, their tiny flame fighting against the darkness, trying to spread some light in the shadowed room. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary stationed at the top of a fountain, red liquid fell from the highest point into the bottom basin, making a sound that would generally be comforting.
Above the large altar was a stain glass window, the portrait of The Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus, a sign of protection and comfort to most. The marble floor, clean and waxed, had a large crack running up the middle, its beauty marred by the large scar like imperfection.
The crack led up past the solid wood pews, straight to the altar, where a teen girl was sitting, her dirty feet sprawled out behind her, the white dress she was wearing was torn, its once beautiful fabric looked like rags, clinging to her small frame. There was a loud gasp, then she began to shake, her body convulsing with sobs, her black curls bouncing around on her head.
A mans voice echos through the high ceilings, a thick southern drawl. “I found my favorite sin in a church.” The girl screams, nails scratching against the marble floor, crying harder. Loud laughter follows the mans voice.
That’s when you realize it isn’t a dream.
