Sean

The only other ways of escaping the treatment centre without getting kicked out were appointments at the doctor, hospital or dentist and he’d done all of those already for one reason or another.
Only a few of Sean’s inmates went to church and he’d sniggered at them when they left the previous three Sundays, but now he envied them.
The big problem was pride, as usual.
On the day he entered treatment, a local priest had come in to do what was known as ‘The God Spot’; a light-hearted session of religious learning.
Sean thought this an appropriate time to tell his new audience exactly what he thought of God.
Later diagnosed as suffering from drug-induced psychosis, his outburst was understood as normal for one so confused, but it hadn’t prompted the welcome he’d hoped for in his deluded little mind.
‘I’ll tell you about God. He’s given up on us because we gave up on him’ (as well as suffering from The Jesus Complex, Sean believed all the world’s problems came from God, even when he knew damn well that it was people who fucked everything up) . ‘When we started using computers and CCTV cameras everywhere it was game-over, tracking everyone’s movements like we were criminals, watching us pick our noses and eating crisps. I thought we were supposed to be innocent before proven guilty but now we can’t even walk down the street without some nonce in a blue uniform watching us! We’re God’s bastards, plain and simple.’
The priest was taken aback by Sean’s display but said nothing. Later, he would come to resent him but, being a man of the cloth, he couldn’t possibly show this to be the case, although by the twitching of his upper lip, the more perceptive of the inmates could see he hated Sean.
‘I’d like to go to church this morning,’ he uttered to Christine, the nurse on duty.
She gave him a quizzical look, theatrically tucking her chin into her neck.
‘Right you are, Sean,’ she said after a bit. ‘I’ll see there’s enough room in the car.’
As they headed out of the driveway and onto the main road, Sean smiled quietly to himself. He remembered the times his mother came to visit at weekends at his crappy school in Wales, gleeful that he’d be fed at the Majestic Grill and given some change to plug the fruit machine in between courses.
Gemma, an anorexic from London, David, a functioning alcoholic banker on his last legs from Tunbridge Wells, and Georgie, a heroin addict from Greece all sat quietly as they made their way up the tiny road into deepest, darkest Surrey.
The church was a beauty, nestled into the woods and far from anything resembling civilisation.
In the churchyard, a hundred or so graves stood at various angles, most covered in moss and algae. A number of birds sang as Sean looked across the graves to a patch of bright green grass. One of the girls at the treatment centre had taught him how to meditate by fixing his eyes on a part of the foreground and concentrating on it without blinking. He’d found this most exciting because everything in his vision soon became wonderfully blurred. This reminded him of being on acid, so he was always trying to perfect this art of meditation.
‘Come on,’ said Gemma. ‘The service is starting.’
Sean lolled around for a little while and then followed her in begrudgingly.
Scouring the congregation for eye-candy to keep him occupied, his eyes scanned across the pews and landed on a pretty girl of about twenty.
Sean sighed as the impact of actually being in a church settled. The overbearing voice of the parson taking the service caught him by surprise.
‘We are gathered here today,’ he said, and Sean muttered, ‘Oh my fucking God’.
Gemma poked him in the side but couldn’t help smirking as she did so.
When communion came up, Gemma took Sean’s hand and urged him to join her so he reluctantly went, happy enough to be doing something different.
The parson offered the cup to him and for some strange reason (he’s an alcoholic?) Sean forgot himself and took a swig.
Gemma’s eyes widened and suddenly Sean realised what he’d done. Immediately, thoughts that the treatment centre would throw him out for drinking came to mind.
As they settled back into their places, Gemma turned away as if to say, ‘I saw you do it but I’m not sure I can keep my trap shut about it’.
‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered. ‘I totally forgot it was fuckin’ wine or sherry or whatever it was.’
Gemma shrugged with pursed, unimpressed lips so Sean decided to get up and walk out. In the churchyard, where he felt at home with the graves, he wrestled with his conscience as to what action to take. He’d have to say something back at the treatment centre because if he didn’t someone else certainly would.
Dwelling on the bright green patch of grass, he decided to meditate to take the thoughts away, but then a man came up to him.
He looked like a nice fellow, clean-cut, fresh-faced and with eyes like crystals. This man had seen Sean’s tormented face in the church and had become very interested in him.
‘May I ask your name?’ said the man.
Sean didn’t see any problem with this request. ‘It’s Sean.’
The man smiled brightly at him and placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder.
‘Would you mind if I prayed for you?’ asked the man.
‘What, like, here?’
‘No,’ said the man, beaming a smile at him. ‘I’d like to pray for you every day for the rest of my life.’
Sean didn’t know what to make of that statement but something strange was going on inside him.
He felt like crying. Sean didn’t do crying.
In the end, at which time he felt extremely uncomfortable, he said ‘Thank you’ and the man smiled, nodding slightly.
Gemma came out with the rest of the congregation.
‘You drank the wine, fool,’ she said, laughing.
‘I totally forgot.’
‘Just tell Christine when we get back and you’ll be fine.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
Christine laughed when he told her.
‘So many people do that, Sean. As long as you didn’t mean to do it, that’s fine. Thanks for telling me.’