All My Broken Pieces (FindingLight #2)

Chapter 29

Fallon

My head pounds as I groan into my mug.

“You look like shit, Cher.” Hudson laughs, pulling down a bowl.

I grumble back at him, but can’t focus enough to throw a decent insult as the small movement of my jaw sends spears of agony through my skull.

He glances at me again, gently setting the box of cereal in his hand onto the counter. “Hey.” I ignore him, staring miserably down at the dark liquid clutched in my hands. Sighing, he plops down across the small table from me. “Fal, look at me.”

I finally shift my eyes up, meeting his concerned gaze. “What?” I groan again, reaching up to massage my temples.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet and I hate the pity I can see shining in his pale eyes.

I’m here to help him, not the other way around.

“I’m fine.” I snap, cringing at my harsh tone.

I didn’t used to be like this. On edge and irritable. But the only times I find my constant anxiety isn’t setting all my nerve endings on fire is when…

“Why don’t I get you a refill?” Hudson offers, reaching forward and taking the mug from my hands before I can protest. Pushing to his feet, he turns toward the kitchen when his feet freeze.

Lifting the drink to his nose, he sniffs, his eyes darting back to me. “Fallon.” His slow pronunciation of my name sets my teeth on edge. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning.”

“I know what time it is.” I grumble, gripping the table and slowly standing upright. The room spins a little as I do, but my hold on the wooden surface keeps me on my feet. “I gotta go.” Turning on my heel, I walk toward my room, trying to keep my gait even.

Hudson’s quiet voice rings out behind me. “I’m worried about you.”

I don’t say anything, simply disappearing down the hall and away from his soon-to-be mini intervention.

I don’t have a problem.

I stumble into class twenty minutes late, earning glares from the other students.

The professor doesn’t miss a beat as he continues his lesson. “In pop culture today, there is a much wider range of inclusivity than previously displayed.”

I suppress a groan as I slip into a chair at the back of the classroom.

Of course it’s this class.

When I originally saw the Sexuality Diversity Studies course being offered this semester, I was excited, hoping it would help me to understand a little more about myself. Something for me to cling to and maybe even grow as a person for when Arriana came back. Plus, it would check off one of the required category coursework for my English major. So I signed up for it.

Stupid mistake.

All this class has done so far is remind me how people like me are viewed by those who long for the “good old days”. Like I needed more of a reminder of that.

“Jesus said we must avoid sin. That if we seek to join Him in Everlasting Paradise, we must cut off the parts of us that drive us to fulfill our worldly desires. Matthew eighteen versus eight and nine,” Pastor Ian flips open his bible. “‘If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of Hell.’” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air. A few hushed agreements filter through the congregation, heads nodding along.

My heart beats wildly in my chest as I try to fight the urge to hide below the pew. I know he’s not talking at me, but it sure feels like the sermon is a pointed nod at my current situation.

“The Devil tempts us in ways he knows we are weakest.” Pastor Ian’s voice booms through the speakers. “When we come face to face with the desires of the flesh, we must remember that we are children of God and we can draw strength through Christ who saved us.” He runs his gaze over the congregation.

I gulp when his piercing eyes land on me, the same feeling I’ve had a thousand times while sitting in this very seat suffocates me. The feeling that he can see inside of my soul and knows all the hidden desires. Along with it the fear that somehow who I am is wrong and sinful, despite my decision to choose love over this…this…hate.

He narrows his eyes before dragging his intense gaze over the other half of the room. “Let us pray.”

All around me, heads bow and arms raise. I dip my head, careful to keep up appearances so as not to further upset my parents.

“Amen.” All across the room the word is echoed by church members.

The sermon is over, and I release a small breath of relief as people funnel out into the foyer. My throat tightens and I fight against the panic welling up inside as I try to blend into the crowd, keeping my head dipped and eyes averted in an attempt to avoid conversation.

“Oh heavens, is that you, Fallon?” A voice calls out, and I cringe.

Turning as slowly as possible, I plaster on a fake smile. “Hi, Pastor Lyla.”

She smiles back at me, stretching her arms wide for a hug. I lift mine, the motion an automatic response after years of conditioning. “I’m so glad to see you back, dear.” She enthuses.

“Yes, it’s good to see you back in the Lord’s house.” A deep voice rumbles behind her. She smiles back at her husband, releasing me to tuck into his side.

I try to hide the fear that wells up at his voice.

Why did I come here?

“What a wonderful sermon, Pastor Ian.” My mom praises, startling me by her sudden appearance.

Pastor Ian lingers his gaze on me for another moment before turning to my mom with a blinding smile. “Thank you, Penelope. Now if you’ll both excuse us.” He ushers away his wife with a hand on the small of her back.

I watch the two smile and mingle with their congregation, the nauseating feeling growing inside of me at each fake interaction. “Excuse me.” I mumble, rushing to the bathroom.

Once inside, I lock myself in one of the stalls and bury my face in my hands. My body shakes as quiet cries escape.

I don’t know how I ever thought this place was one I could call home. There isn’t love behind the walls of this church. I’m not sure they even know what it really means.

Because love isn’t so full of hate. Love isn’t telling someone they are destined to burn for something they can’t control.

If there is a god, if somehow all of this is true and I am broken. He’s the one who made me. Why would a loving god create flawed people and then punish us, cast us into eternal torment, for something he did?

That doesn’t sound like love, not the love I’ve come to know.

“Don’t forget the test next week.” The professor calls out as all around me everyone gathers their things to leave.

Fuck.

I was so lost in my head, I didn’t even hear the rest of his lecture.

I’m going to fail this class.

My stomach churns at the thought. I’ve never failed a class before, never gotten below a B, and even that was gym, so I’m not counting that one.

I gather up my things and trudge out of the classroom, the weight on my chest growing heavier. Glancing around the hall, I dart into an empty classroom and fumble with my bag. My fingers close over the metal and I release a sigh.

Pulling out the flask, I twist the cap and tilt my head back, taking long pulls of the liquor inside. My senses begin to dull and with it the anxiety lessens. After one more drink, I slip the canister back into my bag and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I sneak back into the hall and stumble toward my next class, relishing in the warmth spreading through my body as the alcohol takes effect. By the time I slip into my seat, I have a smile on my face and it almost feels genuine.