the begining of a story

He was sitting in a park, Jonathan was, a small park beside a large church. A cathedral really. The park was Victorian, resplendent in its restored rigidity; hard edged gardens circling around a bronze fountain. The gardens were just dirt this early in the season, but the black soil held promise. The church soared. The angle Jonathan saw the spire at made it seem much taller than the towers a hundred years younger behind it. Neo Gothic popped into Jonathan’s head as a cloud of pigeons described an arc around the back end of the church which was hulking like the prow of a ship. Jonathan liked the symmetry, the arc of the doors matching the windows, matching the holes in the tower that let the bell noise out. It made him feel relaxed.
Jonathan needed to feel relaxed. He’d woke that morning, for the first time, a murderer. Something he would now wake up as every morning for the rest of his life. It made him feel sick. When he woke, and now.
Jonathan lit a cigarette, watched the birds, watched the people. He tried to let the normalcy of the surroundings spread over him like a balm, but it just made him feel more separate and different.