The ground is different here though. It is dry and broken. It may be because we haven’t had any rain for three weeks, but everywhere else looks fresh and green compared to St. Peters. Nothing is meant to live here. The saints gave up on these grounds a long time ago. The archway casts a shadow of shame, as though trying to disguise itself in darkness. The stones are the colour of bruises. And the gravestones are beginning to crumble. It looks as though the dead are trying to escape.

There are some past secrets that you would prefer not to return to. I’d always said to myself that I would never come back here after what happened but I thought that if I faced my fears of this god-forsaken place, I may be able to write something truly significant. To return to a time where my emotions were thrown into chaos. To a time of great pain. Perhaps a poem may bloom from the recesses of my mind.

I felt the darkness fall upon me like a mourning veil as soon as I passed through the archway. The birdsong suddenly seemed so distant. I picked my way between fractured gravestones. One of the more intact ones read: Here resteth Mr. Thomas Williams 1794-1837. Dirt covered the bottom half of the stone, so I wiped it away with my sleeve. It said: Also resteth his dear wife Mrs. Elizabeth Williams and his two children Thomas Williams and Charles Williams. May God be with them. Were they all there underneath my very feet? Is Elizabeth’s skeleton entangled with her husband’s? Do the children cling to their parent’s bones? The thought of it sent a chill throughout my body. It brought them back to life for just one moment. As long as something is remembered, it can never truly be dead. I ran my hand over the graves, trying to decipher them and give their occupants a little of my life. Moss and time have obscured them. Perhaps they want to be hidden. But it only makes things harder once they are brought back to light again.

I know why I am here. A heavy church door is the gateway between my past and present.

The church is always open. Just in case any of the village residents feel like dropping in for a quick prayer in the afternoon. Nobody does anymore. I used to come here quite regularly. It was a place of peace, away from the domestic riots. The smell of burning incense still lingers faintly, although there hasn’t been a mass here for about ten years. The dusty dark corners are held together by spider webs.

I step into the wide aisle between the pews and I am suddenly greeted with a memory of him. His heavy, aggressive breath upon my neck. I see his face, distorted and twisted up into an undistinguishable monster’s face. I close my eyes to block it out just like I did on that night. But he was still there. The events were being replayed. He pressed me against the wall so forcefully that I thought I might get pushed through the stone to the other side. Then, at least, I could run.

He swore: Shit. Fuck. Bitch. Christ. He pushed hard into my resisting skin. Christ, where were you? I was only twelve years old. Eventually, I crumbled. Ripped tights and cloud coloured bruises. Blood and semen filled my eyes. I thought he was going to kill me when it was over but what he did was much worse.

He traced a cross upon my forehead with a cold and blood-stained forefinger. “May God be with you” he said. Then he fled, leaving me in the cold crypt, with the Saints and the Saviour passively looking down on me. Everything has looked a shade darker since that night.

I scream. I cannot help myself. I pick up the kneeling bench, using all my strength and throw it through the window which had been casting shadows of colour across my back. Pieces of rainbow tinkle and fade on the stone floor. I pull the white cloth from the altar sending candlesticks over the edge, their heavy clanging echoing through the empty pews. I tear pages from the bible. The pages are like delicate tissue and they pull away from the book so easily. I half expect it to bleed but it doesn’t. I scatter the pages down the aisle like confetti. Why have you forsaken me? I try to scrawl it across stone walls in lipstick but it crumbles and breaks away. I need more. I take my pocket knife from my jacket and make an incision deep into my fingertip. I draw crucifixes of blood on the walls, on the altar, across the faces of those saints. And Him.

This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood, spilt for you.

I am done and I turn to leave it behind. The darkness seems to have lifted and the sunlight of June sifts in through the crack in the stained glass window, making the dust dance and the spider webs shimmer. I pass through the door and back into the present. I cast a glance at Thomas Williams and his family and I suddenly see a daisy emerging at the foot of the gravestone. I smile.