The next few months went in a blur. Every week he attended church. Every week was like a removed experience. He had no clue what he was doing there, just a sense that it was better for him to be there. He could barely focus on the sermons such were the nightmares still ravaging his consciousness. He kept being told that he was saved, but he didn’t understand it, didn’t understand how it was possible. The condemnation of his own mind weighed heavily down upon him. He was a murderer. There was no taking that back and if these people knew that, then surely they would realise that he was lost forever and stop being kind to him. He didn’t want that to happen, he couldn’t bear for that to happen, so he got into a routine of playing the part all the while wishing to have the security of faith that they seemed to have.