The air of this land was stiff in my eyes as my boots clapped the concrete sidewalk, singing out a defeated tune. My hands were shoved in the pockets of my coat as far as they would go, hiding. My coat collar was flipped out and my head remained lowered, my eyes glued to the dirty dusty sidewalk I now venture on. My eyes are a bit hazy and a tear forms and rolls down my cheek slowly, painfully.
A couple passed by me. In between them a little girl sporting pigtails, holding both of her parents hands. She had golden blonde hair like her mother, the same smile too, and had her father’s gray eyes. Despite her giggles as her parents swung her back and forth, I could see her eyes potential for intensity. I had known those eyes too well. I saw them every time I looked in the mirror.
They wouldn’t look at me as they passed as I tried to ignore them. Everything about their aurora was hauntingly familiar. The smiles. The laughs. The love. I choked back a sob and continued to walk. 
The Cathedral was now in sight. Finally. Like a scalded dog, I limped my way to the doors looming over me like the gates of hell. My hand that found the wooden door was now weak as I hesitated. Do I dare enter? Do I dare walk through these gates after what I have become? Do I kneel before the saints with their judgmental eyes watching me like a hawk to a rabbit, waiting to lurch their razor sharp teachings into my back?
However, many others find comfort here. They tend to find answers here. They find hope and resurrection. This is a holy place. How bad could it be? I pushed through the door to discover the intricate ceiling  and walls with carefully and skillfully crafted lines and indentations sprawling across the cobblestone. The cathedral was deep, expanding out in front of me for what seemed like miles. I was an insignificant in here. I was a marble drifting through space.  The room was darker then the winter sky. The floor showed hints of red, green and blue from the stain glass windows of saints, reminding us of their constant judgments. I’m the only living soul in the cathedral, the emptiness making way for my thoughts and my memories. 
Our wedding day. In a church just like this. I walk at the same pace as she did. Her high heels introduced themselves to the cobblestone underneath the organ and the gasps. It was a beautiful symphony. Her smile as white as her dress. Her smile would be seen from the darkest corner of the room.
But the altar is empty, and that smile is gone. All I see now is a wooden stand and a book open to columns of little black letters inked across the delicate white page in the middle of the very top margin was the word “Romans” in bold. I looked down the page. There was a line lightly underlined with pencil. It read, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,”
Good. I wasn’t alone after all.
I looked from the book and to the wall behind me. There was a man, his arms outstretched and his legs crossed.  He was not standing. His body reflected the wooden post he was hung from. He was held there with three nails. One in each had, and one for both of his feet. His head was bowed down, showing his cruel, twisted crown, drawing blood from his head. The blood dripped down his naked chest and to his loincloth.
It closely resembled the sweat that ran down my body. Alcohol flowed freely in my veins and influenced my clumsy actions. It was in control of every word I said, every thought I had. It loved the rebellion and betrayal of every moral I once had and tried so hard to keep. It loved the pleasure of some strange woman’s touch. I just couldn’t contain myself. She was persuasive, young and beautiful. She too wouldn’t look at me after I told her I was a married man.
I looked into the man's eyes. I saw pain. A similar pain as when I told her of my infidelity. There was pain in her bluebird eyes, tears formed at their corners. Her eyes would remain the same as I tried to convince her to stay. She just continued to shove everything she had in her little blue suitcase.
“Heather, let’s talk about this.”
I remember chasing her down the stairs, pleading her to stay.
“Heather, Please stop.”
She had woken up Anna from her nap and was carrying her down the stairs. Her golden hair was wild and frizzy and hanging over her shoulder. Anna stared in confusion as she looked around just to get her bearings on this unstable situation.
I would not be able to stop her as she marched out the front door, dragging Anna behind her. She packed her car hastily as I pleaded hopelessly, my voice almost yelling,
“Heather, Please don’t take her away.”
I would stand in the street as they left. Anna’s head was out of the window. Her golden hair was frantically waving. She was sobbing as she looked back at me. My everything was in that car. She turned the corner and then she disappeared. Just one bad decision, and they were gone, nothing left but rubber on the asphalt and carbon emissions in the air.   
“Heather, come back.”
I set next to the man nailed to the cross. My hand fished out my wallet from my pants pockets. I shuffled through the stupid hard plastic cards until I found the fragile photo. I pulled it out. The corners were folded over and the left side had began to tear. Somehow coffee had stained the photograph. But there we were. My family. Anna’s golden hair was in braids. Her smile was crooked but bright and silly. She had fire in those little grey eyes like mine. Her Christmas sweater was stained and was about two sizes too big. She sat on my lap with her arms around my neck. She was so young. So gentle. So happy. So strong. She was mine. I had my own little angel, picked right out of heaven. My sunshine. And I threw it all away. Nothing will be the same. I’ll never get that same look from those eyes again.
I caressed her photographic face with my thumb. Above her was the most delicate face I had ever laid eyes on. My wife. With her bluebird eyes and careful pure smile. She was so kind. So stubborn…  sometimes. I guess she had a reason to be with a monster like me.
“Heather…” my voice, strained through the pain, struggled to pronounce her name. Each syllable was a shard of glass jumping in my throat.
Then there was a man I didn’t recognize. He held my daughter tightly. His eyes weren’t mine, filled with joy and content. His beard was well trimmed unlike mine, wild, greasy, and tangled up with depression.
Though no one could tell us apart, we are not the same. That man is not the same anymore, he has become overwhelmed by the guilt. Swallowed up in darkness. And in that darkness, lurks a creature. A creature of pain. A creature of sorrow. A demon. He is trapped beneath my skin and behind my skull, feeding on my memories and producing sinister thoughts. As much as I hate him, I can’t get rid of him. He is me. It’s what I deserve.
With a silent, swift rage sweeping over me, I tear the man’s wonderful face out, only leaving what matters. I cast the tattered corner to the side. With hazy eyes, I look to the man with the crown on thorns. It seems like he’s looking at me. I stand. My hand trembles. With what little of me is left, I raise the photo up to the man's eyes.
“Please,” I begin. Tears begin to flow.
“Plea-,” I try again, not getting very far. Choked out with my tears.
“Please, help them!” I'm practically yelling now. My broken voice bounces of the stone walls.
I can’t stay here. Like a phantom I vanish through the wooden doors, leaving my photo beneath the feet of the bloody man nailed to the cross.