I returned to the chapel.
It’s a small, enclosed space with just one narrow window…
a sliver of light to remind us that there’s a world outside these walls.
Not an invitation. A warning.
You should always be careful.
It’s quiet today.
The kind of silence that waits for you to confess to something
you’ve been hiding from yourself.
I didn’t wear my vestment.
Didn’t expect anyone from the congregation to show up.
There are no prayers to lead.
No wounded to console.
Just the ritual.
I took out the vinyl.
Whispered the usual benediction under my breath.
Lowered the needle like I was lighting a candle.
Pink Floyd. The Wall.
Side One.
The static crackled like an old god clearing its throat.
Then, the opening question—
“…So you thought you might like to go to the show…”
And I felt it.
Not comfort.
Just that calm transcendence of hearing the truth.
I looked around the chapel.
The walls are covered with the sacred works of Gerald Scarfe,
faces stretched into screams,
marching hammers,
eyes wide and useless.
These aren’t saints.
They’re what happens when you tear down your walls.
Then I saw him.
—
He stood at the edge of the chapel,
like someone who forgot what it feels like
to come home.
He didn’t bow.
Didn’t speak.
Just stood there,
carrying the silence like a confession
he hadn’t found the words for.
I’d seen him before…
in memories,
in moments I mistook for epiphanies.
I almost didn’t recognise him
without his mask.
He took a seat in the last row,
not with reverence,
but surrender.
His eyes found the wall…
the faces, the hammers,
the open mouths screaming for a god.
Not a prison.
A prophecy.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,”
he muttered, almost smiling.
—
He helped me build the chapel…
not just the bricks,
but the illusion.
People came not for the sermons,
but for the wall.
And he let them.
He let them believe
it was beautiful.
That it meant something.
But he was bleeding inside.
Hoping someone might notice
the cracks.
Ask who built it, and why.
No one ever did.
And slowly,
the thing we built
began to feel like a cell.
He would sit by the narrow window in some days,
believing that if he stepped outside,
he would find someone who would hold him,
see him,
and stay long enough
to feel like home.
Even if that freedom didn’t last,
he told himself that would be enough.
—
One day,
he tore the wall down.
And left.
No one knows how long he’s been gone.
There were whispers that said he was happy.
That he is not returning.
But in his absence,
I rebuilt the chapel,
brick by brick,
waiting for him to come home.
Because I knew he would.
And he did.
Because he finally understood:
The Wall is gospel.
The Wall is never wrong.
—
I sat beside him as he listened to the hymns
Bowed his head at Nobody Home
Lifted his hands during Comfortably Numb
And wept through The Trial.
When the voices rose in judgment,
he hung his head down,
but not to the music.
To something older.
The part of him that always knew he was guilty
for wanting more.
He stayed until the record stopped.
Didn’t flinch when the silence came.
Didn’t ask to play it again.
He looked at me,
but not for approval.
Just long enough to say, without words,
“You were right to build it back.”
No blessing.
No farewell.
He pulled the mask on,
not in shame,
but with precision.
With pride.
Because the pain wasn’t that he felt unwanted.
It was believing he wouldn’t be.
He turned back to me, voice cheerful beneath the mask.
“The show must go on.”
He got up, tapped me on the shoulders,
And he walked into the deep catacombs of the chapel
and didn’t look back.
I stayed.
Reset the record.
Side One.
The static returned like a memory.
And the opening line fell into the chapel again.
Soft. Certain. Inevitable.
Just like hope.
Just like failure.
“So you thought you might like to go to the show…”
Featured image adapted from a photo by Reneé Thompson
See more on Unsplash: @reneethompsonco
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