Good Friday

The sacraments were passed throughout the congregation, soon to be in the guts of drunks, liberals and liars, but not Brother Chris. He had broken the saltines into squares, filled each thimble-sized cup with juice, and initialed one “BC” for Brother Chris. The pastor raised his cracker, “this is my body.” He raised his cup, “this is my blood.” Brother Chris swallowed the liquid. He waited for the dreadful realization to manifest on the faces in the congregation. His suffering would reveal his true character. He felt a tickle in his throat. His breaths shortened, his heart raced. He clenched at his collar, loosening his tie. Brother Chris wondered if he could be forgiven; his sacrifice robbed by murder.

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