The very fact that the old wooden church was still standing, various vines still clutching the rafters in all manners of squeaking strangulation, was a testament to the power of a God that I had devoted my entire life to. The central cross inside the church was overturned by thick tangles of Brier, and Christ's face now rested in sloppy egg-ridden mud. It was here, upon these filthy pews, that we met every Sunday, ritualistically; to fuck.
We both walked back one evening, hand in hand, and finally, painstakingly, I explained why I loved her. She looked up at me with her uncomprehending, all-too-young, hazel eyes.
“I love you too Father Brenon.” She said in her simple voice, her severely cleft palate mangling her words, and obviously quite unsure of herself.
She smiled a toothless smile.
In the distance, I could swear I heard a demon cackle.