The morning sun bled onto the horizon, painting it crimson.
Golden light crept across the city, finally reaching the church on its western outskirts.
With no one to tend it, the wild vines and trees had taken the area hostage, spreading wherever they felt like it.
They had started to creep all over the church's old walls along with the stony stairs.
Taking a look at the bright sun, Eli climbed the worn steps. One at a time.
He carried a heavy bag of what he assumed were donated clothes as frayed cuffs were poking out through the unzipped opening.
While with his free hand in his pocket, he held onto the cross.
Situated on the west side of Eldwych, a neighborhood populated mostly by the elderly and a few restless young people waiting for their chance to leave, the church rarely saw much generosity.
Most of what it received were the cast-offs of families eager to clear out their closets.
But the priest, Father John, would always say his thanks with high enthusiasm, no matter if it were a pair of socks or a few dozen blankets.
So Eli always carried up whatever had been left at the foot of stairs.
At least this way, he was helping Sister Catherine share the burden of making multiple trips.
Despite coming to this church for over a decade, he still didn't know her real name, only that she was Russian, and unfailingly kind to everyone who stepped through the doors.
All this while, an old man with a hunched back shuffled beside him. There was a smell of rain and tobacco clinging to him.
Neither spoke.
His musing halted as he placed his feet on the last step.
The old man looked at Eli with his murky gaze. Giving a slight nod, as if greeting the young man, he turned back to leave.
There was no intention of going to church. The old man was only there to make sure his donation reached its destination.
The grip on the cross loosened as Eli walked around the fence and made his way to the back side of the church.
"Eli is here," Sister Catherine, a beautiful woman in her prime, smiled like a sunflower, emitting brilliance that could even melt the stone.
And Eli was essentially just a human.
His pursed lips lifted upward into a fleeting smile as he raised the bag a little higher.
"Offerings." Just a nice sounding word for donation.
"Ah, thank you for getting them all the way. Put the bag here. I'll sort it out."
Following the instructions, Eli placed the heavy bag on the small table, which would always wobble due to its one leg being defective.
However, even when he placed the bag, the wobbling never turned into tumbling.
It was always the case.
This table, just like himself, always managed to survive yet another day, or night.
After a polite nod, he turned on his heels, nearly face-planting into the arms of Richard.
The man in his fifties looked startled before grinning at him. "Father is inside. You can go ahead."
A heavy pat on Eli's shoulder nearly made him wince aloud.
Richard was a good person, really. He would be better if he could just keep his limbs to himself.
Before one of those bone-crushing hugs ensnared him, Eli subtly avoided the raised hand and, with another polite nod, he scurried away.
The main doors of the church were wide open. They always were.
God would welcome anyone at any time — that's what Priest John constantly preached.
Glancing at the clematis covering almost the entire left side of the church, Eli had a fleeting urge to reach out and touch those tiny white blooms.
Yet, he didn't.
His destination was somewhere else, a place where a sinner should be.
His shoes thudded against the floor, the harsh sound of the echo nearly made him want to just turn around and flee.
Though, the stillness of this place managed to keep his feet glued where they should be.
Almost as if saying that no matter how many times he would come here, this place would be the same, waiting for him with open arms.
The confession room.
Tucked against the wall away from the altar was a small room. It was only a few steps away from where Eli stood.
His stone grey eyes remained still like bottomless pools as he entered the soundproof room.
Instead of sitting directly on the chair, he stood there, gazing at the small confession window.
Then, without another word, he knelt on the cold floor.
His lips parted before closing back. Again and again.
That was until a gentle voice came from the partially blocked window. "What have you done to burden your soul like this, my child?"
The grey in his eyes rippled slightly.
"I... Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
The person on the other side, Priest John, sighed. "What kind of sin?"
Eli felt his throat parch.
Taunting shadows moved around him. When they inched closer, they seemed to recoil, as if disgusted with his soul.
Yet they refused to leave him alone.
They were attracted to him. Perhaps to them, he looked like a delicious piece, a perfect vessel to manifest evil.
"I have killed a human."
There was a long silence.
The chillness crept through his knees onto his thighs, enveloping him in a cold embrace.
Darkness sat in the house of his bones, rattling in his ribs like a caged beast.
If someone pierced a knife into his chest, Eli was sure, they wouldn't find red. There would be black bile, dying everything in molten darkness.
He could see it so clearly.
The rise of smudges piling around him, pulling him into the thick tar. It reached his chest, then to his lips, over his nose.
Until there was no breath left.
"Elijah."
A call was accompanied by a hug. The embrace was warm enough to thaw his frozen heart. The tar receded.
Eli grabbed onto the priestly garb like it was his lifeline. Or perhaps it really was.
His lips parted to take heavy gulps of oxygen, filling his greedy lungs.
"You did it again. You used your spiritual gift until you were left empty. What does that mean?"
Father John had one hand on the back of the gasping young man, while his other was resting on the top of black hair.
If one looked closely, they would have been able to see a thin, almost invisible layer of golden light.
"It.. means to have..." Eli's fingers clutched onto the pristine garb until it became hard to tell which was whiter, the fabric or his knuckles.
"... an empty vessel for the dark beings."
"Yes," Father John patted gently at the thin back with his wrinkled hand.
Not in the least bit minding that the sweat beading on the young man's forehead was soaking into the fabric of his shoulder.
"Without protection and a priest by your side, you shouldn't perform an exorcism alone. How many times have I warned you?"
Didn't Eli know it already?
But what else could he do when his heart went out to those suffering spirits?
And with his godfather, he doubted anything would actually happen to him.
So, he was very grateful to this old man.
If it wasn't for Father John picking up the twelve-years-old boy and providing him with shelter, Eli knew what he would have become.
A scoundrel.
Someone who would loot the tormented people using his gift.
Or perhaps calling it a curse would be better.
After all, this curse was the reason why he would soon find himself face to face with the syndicate. An encounter that was going to change the route of his entire life.