There is a light that never goes out
By Terrence Oblong
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The church was empty but for the vicar, who was replacing the candles surrounding the font. It was silent in a way that only churches in a busy, bustling city can achieve.
He didn’t hear the young girl approach, so engulfed was he in the thousand and one tasks he had to do before the next service. She didn’t wait to catch his attention, just stood behind him and spoke, her words as awkward as her poise. “Forgive me father for I have sinned,” she said, “I must talk to you about the tiger.”
He turned round, startled initially by there being someone there, just a foot or so behind him, then startled by her appearance; ghostly thin, pale and empty-seeming, and then finally, after what seemed a minute, he finally got round to being startled by her words.
“This isn’t a Catholic church,” he said, “I don’t take confession, but you can come and have a chat with me, tell me what’s worrying you.” He understood that this wasn’t going to be a normal conversation and led her through the back of the church into the vestry, where they were certain of privacy.
On the way to the vestry he casually offered her something to eat, which she declined. Although he had only just met her, he already feared for her life, for the girl wasn’t just thin, she was emaciated, undoubtedly anorexic, bones protruded from her face, reminding him of pictures he had seen from Auschwitz. Somehow, he demanded of himself, I must help this girl.
As soon as they were both sat down she started to talk. “It’s about the tiger, father, it is here for me, sent by God as vengeance for my sins.”
“I think the tiger came from the zoo”, he said patiently, “in fact I’m rather sure of it, it was in The Times and the Guardian, they can’t both be wrong. It was let out when the riots happened, nothing to do with God, or your sins.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she said, “God sent the tiger for me, look, it came for me.” She held out her pasty-thin left arm, along which were a maze of scars. The vicar recognised the long line up from her wrist as an attempted suicide and the others as evidence of self-harming, he had met many fragile people in his work.
“These are my tiger scars,” she said, “his claws cut me here and here,” she gestured to some of the marks on her fair skin.
“And why do you think the tiger did this?”
“I have sinned father, I have sex with strangers. For money, and God is punishing me.”
“Many people sin, it is not God’s nature to condemn them, to send tigers to punish them, God wants to help you, not to harm you.” His words felt like empty nothingness, though he was entirely sincere, looking into her cold, empty eyes he could see that his words were just words, they had no connection with her impossibly hard life.
If I could just help this one girl, he thought to himself, then my whole life in the church is justified. I have to do better, I must find a connection with her.
“Of course,” he said, “if you’re unsure of what God wants of you, you can simply ask him. Let us close our eyes and say a short prayer.” He watched her close her eyes, just getting her to turn off her gaze seemed a minor triumph, maybe she could be helped after all. He began a prayer. “Lord, in these days of roaming tigers and new fear, look down on us and protect all your children. Though we are sinners, we have kindness in our hearts, show us the light, a way to redeem our sins. Keep us from tigers and the harms of the mortal world and guide us through this period of fear.”
The prayer lasted less than two minutes. When the vicar opened his eyes the girl had disappeared.
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