InsaneJournal

Who: Ailsa and an NPC priest (closed)
When: January 7, around 3pm
Where: The parish on the outskirts of town
What: A good old dose of Catholic guilt
Rating: R
Status: Complete



Around three in the afternoon, Ailsa rolled onto her back in bed, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t really slept in days, and it was starting to take its toll. She was snapping at everyone, looking like the walking dead, and she was tired. So tired. She still hadn’t heard anything from Ellesandra, and Ailsa was starting to get desperate. She needed answers, needed solutions. And there was only one place that she thought she might get them. So, after leaving Bastian a note telling him that she’d be back later, Ailsa got dressed and got in her truck, heading toward the outskirts of town. There was a small parish nearby, and though she knew that if they could help her, they’d already have been contacted, she didn’t know what else to do.

Pulling up to the chapel, Ailsa was awash with fear. Would getting out of her car and touching the hallowed ground make her burst into flames? Would going inside the church kill her? She didn’t know the answers, but that couldn’t stop her from finding them. She had to know. Opening her the door to her truck, Ailsa twisted, flinging her legs over the passenger seat and hanging out the side of the car. Taking a deep breath, Ailsa reached out and pressed the tip of one finger to the dirt.

She kept it there for what seemed like an age, and then finally pulled back. Nothing had happened, her finger was unblemished, aside from the damp earth that now covered it. She let out a strangled laugh at herself and pushed her body back up, getting out of the car and straightening her skirt. Yes, a skirt. She figured that if she was going to go speak to a priest, she may as well look the part of a good Catholic, instead of the defunct one she actually was. Her little heels sunk into the ground as she walked toward the door of the church and Ailsa kicked herself for not just dressing normally and being comfortable.

Her feet hit the stone entryway and Ailsa stopped, inches from the archway leading to the church. No matter how hard she tried to force her body to move, she couldn’t go in. Even reaching her hand out to touch the door jam was impossible. The demon wasn’t letting her go inside. “Well, this is just fucking perfect,” she grumbled, stopping up her mouth when she saw a young priest walk near the door.

Luckily, he hadn’t heard exactly what she’d said, and gave her a benevolent smile. “Come in,” he offered brightly, waving her on. Ailsa shook her head. “I...can’t,” she stuttered, not moving. “I get um...claustrophobic.” Good job, Ailsa. Lying to a priest. You’re so going to hell, she thought, but that didn’t make the situation any better. His confused look from under the high ceilings of the church didn’t make it any better, but she continued anyway. “I’d like to talk to one of you...if you’re available,” she said quickly, biting her lip.

“Of course,” came the kind reply, and the Father smiled, coming out into the dimming sunlight. Ailsa turned and they fell in step next to each other, wandering around the grounds. For a long while, Ailsa dodged the issues, talking about anything and everything but what was happening to her. Demon aside, she was considering becoming one herself - after a fashion - and the fact that she’d been putting Bastian off on her decision for an entire month weighed down on her.

Watching the woman, who couldn’t have been a year younger than himself, the Father’s brow wrinkled as she deftly dodged any questions relating to why she was actually there. Obviously, there was something troubling her deeply, something that she didn’t even feel confident speaking to a priest about. And yet, she was there, so she did want guidance, she did want to talk. Eventually.

They walked for over an hour, discussing everything from the weather to how long the Father had been at the parish, before Ailsa stopped near a gnarled tree, running her fingers over the scarred bark. It reminded her of herself, worn out and abused, and all she wanted was to be healed. “Do you believe that someone can be cursed?” she asked quietly, not looking at the man next to her.

Blinking, the priest looked at Ailsa and shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he admitted slowly, watching her fingers continue to trail over the tree’s trunk.

“Bad things keep happening to me,” she whispered, so quietly that the Father had to lean in to hear her. “All my life, it seems, but lately...” she trailed off and shook her head. “Lately, it’s been really bad.”

“I believe that God gives us the trials that He knows we can handle,” he said, with no sign of superiority in his voice. Just simple belief, and one that Ailsa found refreshing. She’d expected sermon, Bible verse, not sensible thought. “As for a curse, I don’t believe in that kind of thing. More just...coincidence and the world at large,” he shrugged.

“What about demons?”

The question made him stop up short, and his eyes went from the tree to Ailsa, who was looking back at him expectantly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he started, slowly. “But I don’t believe in demons. When was the last time a real exorcism was performed? And honestly, were they ever real? No one knows, and we won’t. I believe that Satan’s minions are a lot more simple than demons. They’re just...bad decisions and misguided people.”

Ailsa sighed. “So then I’m willing to bet you’re not going to believe me when I tell you I’m possessed by one, huh?” she asked, unable to stifle the little smirk. They really were a bunch of innocent hacks. His disbelieving look and shake of his head were enough. “Got a cross on you, Father? Some holy water? A Bible?” Ailsa asked, raising her eyebrow and looking him over for any holy artefacts.

“You’re not possessed, child,” he admonished, but the look on Ailsa’s face told him that he’d have to prove it to her as much as she wanted to prove it to him. Sighing, he lead her back to the doorway of the church and went inside, wetting a finger in the vessel and then coming back out.

He went for her forehead, and Ailsa dodged, offering her arm instead. “It really fuc--It really hurts,” she amended, not so far gone as to start swearing in front of a man of God. He made a face and then brushed a cross on her forearm with his finger tip.

Ailsa let out a scream and wrenched her arm away, holding it protectively for a moment before removing her already bandaged other hand and showing him the seared-in cross on her arm. “See?” she said pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

It took a minute for him to recover, but once he did, he crossed himself before turning his hand on Ailsa. “In Nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti...” he started, but that was all the blessing he got out.

With a roar, the demon took over Ailsa, sending her hands to his throat, smashing his windpipe with her delicate little fingers. “You will not banish me!” he screamed, and Ailsa, trapped in her mind, watched the Father’s eyes bug, and his hands grip at her own, uselessly trying to force them from his throat.

Confined in the inner workings of her mind, Ailsa watched, helplessly as the life started to fade from the man who had been so kind to her. There was no screaming, no pounding on the walls, only silent tears streaming down her face. This was going to be her life. Everyone that tried to help her, tried to be kind, they would all die.

Apparently, the demon didn’t have enough fun strangling the poor Father, and instead threw him to the ground. Ailsa’s body pounced on him and she watched her own hands rip out his throat, her fingernails coated with blood and skin. He gasped for air, causing more blood to shoot out of his veins, hitting Ailsa in the face, and the demon laughed; a chilling, grating sound that made Ailsa curl up into a ball and cover her face, sobbing uncontrollably.

Eventually, he was dead, and Ailsa found herself in control again, sitting next to the mangled body, covered in his blood. A thousand thoughts of what to do raced through her head, but all she could really do was stare at what was left of the face that had smiled so benevolently at her. He was so young, so idealistic. And now he was dead.

And she’d done it.