Lying on his back, looking up at the sky, and at the spire, it was strangely quieter than expected. The screams, either of the wind past his ears or of the parishioners below, should have been louder. Maybe he just expected more. Something more dramatic.
He made sure he dressed the part. His best vestments as if he was going to perform mass. Maybe if he spread his arms and legs he might be able to slow his fall? But why bother? He's done this. He'd made a choice and he must follow through.
He thought about what had happened, what he'd done. The parade of faces; women, children, old and young. None had deserved their fate and there was only one to blame.
He's only wanted to serve. To do right for those in need and he'd failed.
He thrust out his hand, thrust it toward the sky. To God. To beg forgiveness for all of his sins and to all those he'd sinned against.
A cry from below, a child's voice, "Father Joe", were the last words he heard before the sudden blackness ceased everything.
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