Wretch.

Walks into the empty bar. Bouncer staring at his own shoes. Girl behind the bar on a stool, gets up slowly to serve.
Flashing lights and music from the mid-nineties, for a vacant dance floor. For a bar that doesn't seem to hold an invitation open for anyone.

Wretch, asks for a double whisky with ice. He's not even drunk. Takes a seat at the side of the empty dance floor. Sips. Occasionally takes out his phone and fiddles. He has no messages to read. No asking, no answering.

God also exists. Unfathomable, eternal, the source of everything. Is God in any way invested in this?

Wretch finishes his drink. Circular swirling of the glass, sloshes the melting ice around. Wants to cry.

Leaves the bar sober. Walks the street. Pretends to walk with purpose, towards a destination.
Passes full bars. Laughter and chatter, friends and flirtations.
His heart won't stop breaking. Still wants to cry.

Has God cried? If so, does he weep eternally?

Wretched arrives at a familiar door and inserts a key into a lock, automatically. Moves slowly, resentfully, up the stairs. Enters his home. He has returned.

The earth rotates, and after several hours, exposes the wretch and his home to the full light of the sun. Birds whistle and flap and fly-off and land. Wretch turns in his bed, resentfully. Wants to dream. Wants to escape for good.

In time, he comes around. Contrives a situation whereby hot water cascades down the drearily familiar terrain of his beaten body. Nobody is watching.

Is God watching?

Skips breakfast, as usual. Only so many mundane activities he can tolerate. Only so much tedium.
Opens a door that allows him to walk into bright sunlight. He wears dark glasses. He carries a heavy, bitter heart. He believes his best days are behind him. He cowers at the thought. Considers himself less remarkable today than yesterday. Wants to cry.

Wretch.

Doesn't know how to live. Doesn't know how to die. Cannot let go. Cannot hold on. Cannot improve.
Asks for mercy. Does not believe in god.

Despicable wretch.