Fear of Faith

Once again, do not expect a joyful tale reading this. On the contrary however, I write misery when I am at my happiest and vice versa.

This is a work of complete fiction.

Richard caressed the unpopulated benches of his beloved church as he took slow thoughtful steps towards the alter. He put his faith before almost everything, dedicating his life to show praise to he who he'd never witnessed.
Light shone through the stain-glass windows modestly as the 50-something year old man prepared himself for prayer.

“Lord,” he started with his knees pushed down upon the aisle. “I am at a moral dilemma.” Beads of sweat began to form across the upper part of his face, this was to be no ordinary ritual of prayer.
“My son, he has sinned and will not learn or even acknowledge otherwise.” He briefly checked to see if he was alone before continuing.
“You know the facts Father, but I ask you not to smite him, he is my responsibility.” A hand drew from behind his waist.
“I ask you to let me smite him myself.”

The man juggled a small weapon between his hands trivially whilst looking up to the heavens — or the ceiling that separated him from them, anyway.

“I understand this is quite a request and so I ask of you, if you think this is in any way the wrong thing to do, show me a sign.”
He paused, gazing upon the handgun as if expecting it to burst into flames and ashes.
“Then it's settled... for the good of my name...”

Alex was on the very edge of his bed, as if a reflection of his spirit, strength and faith. A pool of memories surrounded him; photographs, clothing, notes, even dreams...

A faint gasp that showed nothing but hopelessness released itself from his mouth. If he were to regain his hope, he needed to start a new. The past needed to be taken care of... literally.

The grind of a match against the rough edge of the box drew upon his fragile state, the faint fall of said match followed.
What followed next was far from faint or quiet.

Flammable things memories, combine that with a teenagers room and boom — a sadistic individual's dream, and like the fires of hell they were.

Richard exited his car beholding the heavenly neighbourhood of which he lived in, basking in the midsummer heat and inhaling that barbecue smell you often sniff out in the suburbs, he progressed around the corner to his home.
What was his home, anyway.

Flames soared over the falling roof, windows were shattered and the house was engulfed in smoke.
On the curb he stood, speechless, watching his only son run from the side-door and on to the lawn. He was being burned alive and yet still he stood still and watched, his first thought? God had smitten what he had laid claims too.

“Well how about that?” A voice came from a few feet away. “Seems the job's already been done for you Richard.”

Richard turned, smitten, towards the individual — his priest. “How do you...”

“I heard your little prayer, perhaps better suited for the confession box don't you think?” The priest chuckled. “Your son's dead Dick, because he refused to match the image God intended for him. And for the good of your name and your 'faith' you wanted this to happen, yes?”

Richard let a discreet nod show.

“You know Richard, there is faith and then there is the fear of faith. Obey everything out of fear and soon you begin to contradict yourself and then...” The priest pointed to the mess that was beginning to look no longer like his humble abode. “... Hell breaks loose.”

Young Alex now belonged to the ground, as only a blackened corpse.

“Now then,” the priest rubbed his hands together. “Let's take the body somewhere a little less charted, for a burying fit for a heathen. The fear of faith is rich in this neighborhood, we shall hope they turn a blind eye.”

“But Reverend,” Richard took him by the shoulder as he stepped forth. “My son...”

“I'm sorry old friend, but I cannot allow myself to be found in anyway connected to this boy's death. For the good of my name and that of my church.”