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Mallick wasn’t a particularly religious person. He couldn’t remember the last time he stepped inside a church… maybe for a funeral, or some familial wedding when he was a teenager. But, here he was, awkwardly entering through the large oak doors, the fixtures of crucifixes and stained glass staring down at him.
He doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t take coffee or whatever snacks are laid out on the table by the door. He just sits in one of the cheap folding chairs, staring at nothing in particular, and barely registering any of the words that begin to come out of Bobby’s mouth. Maybe it’s a trick of the stage lights on TV, but he seems shorter in person. Though, his demeanor is as equally as infuriating here as he is on any television special. His words are too cheerful, spilling over and mixing together with the miserable nature of everyone else in the room.
Then, the talking stops and footsteps approach him. Bobby calls on him, if you could call it that. A twisted version of a teacher calling on students who were well underprepared for class… Mallick knew the feeling well. He slowly looks up from where he had been perfectly content staring at his lap to lock eyes with the man. Not everyone turns to face him, but those who do do so with an intrigue that makes him feel sick to his stomach.
Stammering, he manages out a quiet, “My name is Mallick. I’m… uh— well, I’m…” His available hand is twisting his sleeve tightly around his arm. His casted arm hangs limply against his chest, weighing heavier now with several pairs of eyes on him.
Suddenly, he feels dreadfully out of place, horrifically guilty among these people who probably felt just like him.
He’s worse. He knows that to be true, and he knows that he doesn’t deserve to be here. But, what makes him deserve something less than all of these other people?
Maybe it’s the burn scars cutting into the flesh of his torso and arm. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so hopelessly dependent on Brit that he doesn’t know what to do without her here. Maybe it’s because he’s going through rehab for the first time in his life, and he’s even more of an anxious mess than normal. He’s been a stupid junkie for god knows how long and now, somehow, he’s getting to be someone else. Maybe this is his opportunity to finally go through with that.
He looks up again, surveying the group. They’re all around his age or older, but his eyes land on a man outside the circle. He’s intimidating, his presence weighing down on Mallick for an inexplicable reason, and for a moment, he wonders, does that man feel guilty? Does he have any more of a right to be here than Mallick does?
The answer is probably no.
“Sorry, I’m just not sure how to uh, start.” He shrugs, using his free hand to rub the back of his neck, adjusting his arm brace’s strap in the process.
“That’s perfectly fine, Mallick.” Bobby’s smiling, a twisted facsimile of something friendly. Why is he smiling? Why does he look so happy all of the time?
Bobby Dagen had never killed eight people. Bobby Dagen never had to watch three other people die because of the choices he made. Bobby Dagen is insane to be doing this, to be making any of them do this.
Mallick shrinks in on himself, twisting the fabric of his shirt, the repetitive motion grounding him, at least to some degree.
“Can I just… wait till next time?” An anxious smile spreads across his face, like a mockery of Bobby’s.
“Of course, I never want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
It’s like he’s gloating, with his Hollywood-funded shining teeth and bright eyes and lack of remorse for making any of them relive what they went through. A deep, angry, and almost haunting feeling consumes Mallick, something he hadn’t felt in weeks. His nails dig into the palm of his hand, a stigmata of sorts; an oddly fitting description, considering the haunting thorn wreathed head staring down at him from above the pulpit.
Bobby continues to talk, moving on to his next victim. Mallick doesn’t pay attention, his mind is anywhere but this church, anywhere but the high ceilings and pews pushed to the sides.
What a fucking joke.
He had never believed in God, but it almost seemed like a mockery to put him and all of these people inside of this supposed holy place. After everything they had gone through, were they supposed to pray? Maybe if he had been raised differently he would have, but it’s hard when one hand is cut down the center and strapped to your chest.