The Prodigal vs The Pharisee
576 Words
The air inside First Corinthian Church smelled like bleach, and hypocrisy.
Lena Carter knew this because her very own father, had the floors scrubbed every Friday—not to honor the Sabbath, but so the congregation would notice, so that he would get praised. That was the Carter way: faith as a performance, righteousness as currency.
From her usual third-row seat, Lena had her spine straight, hands folded over her leather-bound Bible, her voice, sweet and pleasant, blending in harmony with the choir raised her voice to sing.
"Rock of ages cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee...."
Beside her, her father—Elder Charles Carter—glanced at his Rolex. Not a second off rhythm. Not a note out of place. The Carters didn’t just attend church; they perfected it.
The doors at the back creak open. Suddenly a harsh silent fell over the congregation. The air suddenly became tense. Everyone didn't need to turn to know who it was. It was the Mercers, with Dax Mercer at centre of them.
The Mercers were First Corinthian’s open secret. They claimed to be believers but everyone knew they faith was flexible. They tithed in cash, took communion with split knuckles, and parked their black SUVs where everyone could see the bulletproof glass. Rumor said they laundered money through the church’s homeless outreach. Lena’s father said worse.
Dax’s father, Matteo Mercer, smirked as he slid into a pew, his gold-ringed fingers flipping open a Bible. His men—always men, never women—filled the row behind him, their presence a silent challenge.
Lena’s mother leaned close, her whisper sharp as a blade. "Don't look at them." "Don’t look at them."
Pinning her focus back on the sermon, Lena recited the Scripture along with Pastor Williams, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
A snort cut through the holy murmur.
Lena didn’t need to turn to know who’d made it., it was him, Dax Mercer, who sat near the fire exit, his boot propped on the pew in front of him like he was at a baseball game, not a worship service.
Her brother Tyler tensed beside her. “Animal,” he muttered.
When she risked a glance back, Dax wasn’t smirking at the sermon. He was watching her with a look that made her skin prickle—not with fear, but with the uneasy sense that he saw her. Really saw her. The way no one else did...
After service, the parking lot became a battleground of polite nods and clenched fists. Dax leaned against his motorcycle, rolling a silver cross between his fingers. Lena’s father stopped dead. “Matteo’s boy,” Charles said, too loud. “Does your father still take confession between card games?” Dax pocketed the cross. “Nah. These days we just donate to your building fund instead.” A beat. “Funny how the new stained glass matches your wife’s Mercedes.”
Tyler lunged.
Later, Lena would remember three things: The sick c***k of Tyler’s fist meeting Dax’s jaw. The way Dax didn’t fight back—just wiped blood from his mouth and smiled. The verse flashing in her mind:
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
And then Dax said the one thing that would haunt her:
“You’re better than this, Lena.”
As if he knew her. As if she wanted him to.
- Writer
