|Mary Magdalene (gospel_of_mary) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2013-04-03 19:37:00
|Entry tags:||mary magdalene|
WHO: Mary Magdalene [narrative, but open to Nicholas]
WHEN: The early days of April
WHERE: A park
WHAT: Angsting in her Mary way and trying to be a better person.
Mary had been doing so well with Huitzilopotchli but then Valentine's Day had come around and blown it all to shreds. She'd been in his arms again, she'd heard him say he loved her, she felt his strength and adoration and all she'd wanted was to be with him.
The arrow wore off, but that feeling didn't really go away. All this had done was make her more sure. She wanted him, only him. On that morning she'd begged him. She had shamelessly dropped to her knees in front of the Aztec in nothing but that sheet that smelled of them and told him she would do anything, give up anything, that she would be his bounden slave if that was what he needed. All I need is you, she'd told him. She didn't care that she was making a fool of herself, that his warriors might be watching and see the spectacle.
But of course it hadn't worked. Of course he'd made her get out.
Of course Mary was alone again, because she'd been alone since she'd watched her teacher die on the cross. Only the Hummingbird made that feel any different.
Since then she'd gone to bed with any man who took interest in her, whether he could pay or not, whether he treated her poorly or not. She only wanted to fill the empty space inside that belonged to Huitzilopotchli.
Passing the park near her home one night, she paused in the place where she used to take her little group of apostles. There she sat on the grass heavily and asked out loud, “what am I supposed to do with myself?”
There was so much she was supposed to be but it was all so lost. She was lost. She didn't know what day it was, nor if she was expected somewhere by someone any more. Sometimes Saints called or left messages for her, but Mary ignored them. She didn't even talk to Judas, not even to call him names or abuse him. When he came to her window she was just silent, sitting curled on her bed with a bottle of rum.
It was a need for more rum that brought her out during the day, and passing the park she saw her little group. Sitting and talking even without her. Maybe, she thought, she'd managed to do one good thing.
She was torn between the desire not to been seen by them in this state – smeared make-up, clothes she wore to pick up men, puffy eyes, half-drunk – and the desire to find comfort in them. One of them made the choice for her, spotting her and calling out.
They'd missed her, they said. They'd worried, they said. Mary burst into tears on one of the women and let her stroke her hair. It was good just to have that comfort. She told them things had been difficult for her lately, that there was a man. (“Isn't there always a man?” one of the younger girls said dryly, and they were sympathetic and understanding laugher.)
The next day she came back, sober and dressed in jeans and a sweater. There was still an aching place inside of her, but this would help. Because helping others was what she was here for and if they didn't help, then what was the point?
Deep breaths. Listen. Speak. Be the woman He chose you to once be, be the woman He saw that you were always capable of being.
On the third day she felt more at home, more like she could be The Magdalene, using her voice to inspire and lead. It was going to be okay. Mary was going to make it be okay.