God Left First

Table of Contents

The church had no shadow. That’s what Ezekiel noticed when he arrived. A crumbling chapel on a hill in the middle of nowhere, abandoned since the war, but somehow… not empty. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A test of faith. He thought it would heal him. But the closer he walked, the less the world felt real. No birds. No wind. Even the sun seemed like a dying light bulb behind gray skin. The cross atop the chapel had snapped—not broken, but melted. Melted downward, like it was ashamed.

Inside the church, the pews were all facing backward. Toward the doors. The altar was gone. In its place was a chair. A wooden chair facing the wall. And on the wall, someone had scratched words over and over:

HE WON’T COME BACK

HE WON’T COME BACK

HE WON’T COME BACK

Beneath it, a painting of Christ had been defaced. The eyes were burned out.

And the mouth. The mouth had been carved into a smile. Ezekiel approached slowly. The air smelled like metal and heat, like a burnt offering. The thing in the chair wasn’t praying. It was waiting. Its skin was pale, almost gray, stretched too tightly over its skull. A priest’s collar still clung to its neck. Its eyes were dry sockets. But it was smiling. Ezekiel whispered,

“Who are you?”

The thing spoke in a voice too smooth and too comforting.

“I used to be the messenger. Now I deliver the silence.”

Its grin widened. The thing stood. Its body didn’t move like a man’s. It unfolded, joint by joint, too many joints. Its arms dragged behind it, crucifixion scars in reverse—from the inside out.

Ezekiel tried to pray. But his mouth locked. His throat tightened. No words came. The thing leaned close and whispered:

“He doesn’t listen anymore.”

“He left when you turned worship into fear.”

“He left when you built gold thrones and called them altars.”

“He left because you never stopped killing in His name.”

Then it laughed. When they found Ezekiel two days later, he was naked in the road, smiling. He kept repeating one sentence:

“We were worshipping the silence, not the voice.”

He never stepped in a church again. But sometimes, at night, he stands outside cathedrals with his hands outstretched. Like he’s waiting for a crucifix that will never come.