Re: Sunday Service: Mercy/Shiloh
Mercy didn’t want to be a splotch of colour, but it was a step up from being looked at like a stain. Too brown. Too dirty. Too mouthy. Too unconcerned with the social niceties, the societal politics of small town, small minded white people. And with the pack? Entirely fucking other, man. Lesser. There it hadn’t mattered that Mercy was a predator, too. And that was alright. Because he was an opportunistic sort of predator. Adaptable.
“Tell that to my mom,” he said, still grinning toothily. Not that he imagined she would give a different answer from the one she’d used his entire life, every time he’d asked her about his name. I just thought it sounded sweet. Puke. “I think the ‘intention’ was that I couldn’t say Mercedes when I was a kid. And when I got older the stripper jokes started to get old real quick. Mercy is sort of just easier, in pretty much every respect.”
He sucked down another lungful of smoke like he was afraid someone might take the cigarette from him. Mercy didn’t care about familiar. The distant sound of car doors closing and engines starting had slowed down considerably as the congregation filtered out of the lot like sand from an hourglass. “Leo,” he repeated, affirmation given again as Mercy slanted the pastor another amused look. He was not nearly reverential enough a churchgoer to worry about impudence here. He even feigned a solemn expression as he nodded along to the man’s nice words about asking forgiveness. “Nah, it’s cool, I get it. I’m sure nobody is going to spread rumours about pastoral sabotage. Even if it comes with some clever wordplay - I’m definitely not thinking something about a wolf in sheep’s clothing chasing out our dear, departed Father.”
He’d only made it partway through that last before the grin broke through again.