Crumbling Down

I was half-dead and all out of blood, sheet-white like the cobblestone beneath my feet. The other guy bled out in the alley, or booked it halfway to Rio, or had a gun to the back of my head – I was too anemic to care. I stumbled up the steps, my gun slipping out of my hands, a flash of silver and porcelain clattering away from me. Why was I here?

I fell into the door and beat against it a couple times, as loud as I could before my arms listed off to the side. I was on my knees, my shoulders digging into the wood. I saw a trail of my blood. I saw my gun, hopelessly out of reach. Everything felt grey and white and black.

The door opened behind me and I fell inside. A man knelt down and edged my head into his lap. There was a bit of red, a flash of a cross; in the hand that held my head aloft what felt like rosary beads dug into me. But the pain was ebbing away…

"Why are you here, my son? What happened?"

I… I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember.

"What’s your name?"

Where was I?

"Your name, my son, what is it? Tell me, quickly."

Everything began to blur. My neck stopped supporting my head, and the man slipped from my sight as I found myself staring into the cathedral proper. Before my vision disappeared, it almost looked like people were staring back.

"My son… name…"

I think I died, but I’m not sure. Everything felt grey and white and black for the longest time.