Niall Wilson lay in his bed in the shared flat that he had found at the last moment, the moment the government had given him to either find a place or they'd find one for him. If he had left it up to the council he wouldn't have been homeless exactly, but living in a dormitory-type hostel wasn't what he wanted at his age. Hostels, he felt, were like shelters for younger men; places you end up when you haven't got a quid to spare, so the good-natured desk clerks usually turned their heads when it came time to collect your weekly rent. Sometimes he may have had it, but not most of the time, not now, not after his divorce. Not after his stint with the hospital, the rehabilitation center, and the court-appointed mentor, he had to see twice a week. He lay in his bed in that shared flat wondering why it was that God wasn't listening to him. He asked again.
God wasn't listening; that's what it felt like. He could stare at the ceiling for all God cared. He couldn't find the right words to even describe what his head was telling his soul. Even the inside of his own heart seemed to be on vacation, it wasn't taking any calls from his brain and he just felt so disconnected all the time. He didn't feel as if he belonged in the flat; he was the old man. At forty-three he had lived a bit longer and had far more experiences than the other addicts that happened upon the place before they too, were shuttled off to the wards of Hosteland. "Find a bed! Find somewhere, and get an address so we can count you done. You're out now, you're no longer our responsibility!", that's what he was being told by the good nurses and doctors who had forced him for weeks and months on end to eat whatever they told him to eat, to drink whatever they gave him, to take the meds they pushed, but God forbid he smoke a cigar! God forbid he spoke of drinking again.
This was his fourth trip to the gallows, the end of the line for him really, as the council attendants made it clear to him that his last prayer had just set sail. If he failed again, he could be a permanent resident; he knew he didn't want that. He found a place to lay his head. The second-floor flat occupied the same street as the best-kept secret in Edinburgh; Lola's Breakfast Bar. Every morning just before dawn Lola MacLean and her crew fetched, found, and floured some of the best sausage rolls, pretzel buns, doughnuts, and pastries ever cooked. The smell rose and infiltrated his room; gloriously waking him and reminding him for a brief moment that there was a God to pray to. Would today be the day He finally heard the prayers of the beaten sinner? It wasn't as if the man didn't already know there was something between him and the Almighty; but what it was, he couldn't put his finger on it.
Another day, another sleepless late night into the earlier dawn hours, finally being aroused by the succulent scents of seasoned sausage and the pleasant aromas of pastry dough boiling in oil. What was it holding his prayer at the ceiling, he questioned; what held him in the misery that he knew he had personally created? Without warning there was a rap, three strong thumps on his door. He knew who it was on the other side of the door. Immediately, and as clear as the sunlight now making its way across the diamond-paned window, cascading over his small wooden desk, over the chair, across the rails of his bed, and finally upon his face. There it is. There he is. His sin.
Before rising to answer the door, Niall Wilson called to his mate on the other side of the oak barrier to let him know he wasn't dressed. Some sort of call was returned, a laugh, a half-meant and half-joking call, something about it wouldn't be the first time both men had seen each other "otherwise disposed of". Nevertheless, it was painfully present, the knowing, the absolute knowing that he had been living not only a lie but a lie that when coupled with what it really was, was an abomination unto God. Niall's mind, as well as his heart, were finally communicating. It only took a second; the time it takes one to see the flash of lightning in the distance, or the time it takes for a heart to break; he knew.
Given that, only a second or two had passed, and only a few more would pass before the man on the other side of the unlocked door would make his entry, Niall knelt beside his bed in prayer. His few but pointed words were whispered as he asked his true Refuge to not only forgive him but to give him the strength to stand alone in the next decision he felt (and he knew) he needed to make. Upon entering the room Scotty Riggs stopped short of moving forward toward his lover; something wasn't the same, he knew it the moment he entered the room and saw an unusual light surrounding the bed where Niall had been kneeling and was now standing fully to his feet; his face nearly glowing from the light of the sun.
Niall didn't have to say a word. Amazingly, the moment wasn't his to share, but the battle belonged to the Lord and to His servants. Forgiveness had been shown, it had been given to the man who had repented and had asked freely for it. Nothing needed to be verbally proclaimed. Without a word, without a single word, Scotty turned and left the room alone.
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