AFICTION | FAITH | PSYCHOLOGY | JULY PROMPT | THE WITNESS

The Geometry of Broken People

A psychological and spiritual microfiction about faith, fear, fractured humanity, and the strange ways God returns us to ourselves

Photo by Liana S on Unsplash

The day had been ordinary enough to be forgotten, the late autumn sky carrying a dull, uncertain gray. By eight o’clock, I had exhausted myself. There are moments when a person goes to God not because they are holy, but because they have run out of places to hide.

That was why I entered the church. The old brick building sat abandoned at the edge of the street.

Inside, the sanctuary lights were off, save for the small lamps garnishing the altar. I sat in the front pew, stared at my hands, and whispered a prayer that had stayed with me for months.

"God,"

I mumbled,

"I want my mind back."

In the private chambers of my thoughts, I believed there was a version of myself I had not fully inhabited, a self rich in peace and capable of solving the problems I was born to solve.

In dreams, I often saw it: luminous loops of light revolving around the center of a human heart, like sacred runes waiting for whoever was brave enough to step through them.

Tap. A pause. Tap.

I turned to see a man standing by the offering box. He looked no older than thirty, his coat far too thin for the weather. One hand gripped a rusted iron rod. His eyes were those of someone who had arrived somewhere they never intended to reach.

"Oh God,"

he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I thought nobody was here."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out all my cash.

"You can have it,"

I said.

"The money. Just take it."

He let out a broken laugh.

"You think I'm here for money? I don't know why I'm here."

Suddenly, I believed him. I saw a human being standing at the edge of himself. What if someone had called him by name before he reached this place? What if his mother were sitting somewhere, sensing her son was standing at the border between becoming and breaking?

"What are you looking at?"

he asked quietly.

"The same thing you're looking at,"

I finally said.

"Our way back."

For a suspended moment, neither of us breathed. The red light from a pharmacy sign outside filtered through the stained glass, scattering fragments of crimson and gold around our feet, the luminous loops not in heaven, but here in broken light, with broken people.

The wind struck the windows with sudden force. He flinched, and the iron rod swung. The metal collided violently with the brass altar rail, releasing a deafening ringing that passed through my bones. Terrified by what he had done, he dropped the rod. It clattered sharply against the floor.

"I didn't mean to,"

he whispered. He turned and fled, the side door bursting open as cold air rushed into the sanctuary.

I walked toward the altar rail and touched the place where the iron had struck. The brass was still vibrating, or perhaps I was.

I realized that witnessing is not merely seeing; it is allowing another person's fracture to reveal your own. The runes I had spent my life searching for had never existed outside the human heart. God had answered my prayer, turning on the switch of my mind to show me He had returned it.

The Witness is an exploration of those liminal spaces where faith, fear, memory, and humanity intersect. I invite you to read, reflect, share, and write on moments in your life that changed not what you saw, but how you saw yourself? Perhaps the stories we witness are also the stories that witness us.

May More thank you for the prompt

[embed]*Be my Witness — Flash Fiction Prompt *Microcosm News and Flash Fiction theme for July medium.com