A church. Someone in there will protect me from the armed maniacs who are after me, right?
As I frantically push open the large double doors, the gust of wind extinguishes most of the flickering candle flames. The rain drips from my soaked wedding dress onto the stone floor.
Then I see the priest standing in the dim candlelight, a bloody razor in his hand.
Obviously, I am not the only one who has sins to confess. . .
