🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in repose, @ 2018-06-11 00:44:00 |
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The church, it was the old stone type. It had a circle of stained glass at the roof of the nave, and the pews were made of worn and smooth wood that had seen a whole lot of posteriors in their time. Misha, he'd found the place near as soon as he'd found Damian, that first night when no one seemed real sure if the other boy would live or die. This was the first time Misha was going back, though, how he was, and he walked there, seeing as it wasn't so far from the hospital. It was early in the evening, and the night was just starting to claim the day, and Misha dragged his feet as he went. He didn't want to go, but he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself none if he didn't go. He was dressed real unremarkable in denim and a black hoodie with a tee 'neath, and he walked in while the choir was practicing up in the loft. The singing was beautiful, and it made Misha's eyes plenty damp, and he always felt a whole lot better 'tween the walls of His home. He didn't like Heaven a lick, but churches, good churches, were different. He walked in, and he felt warmth and love and heartbeat after heartbeat of folks. It was reassuring to him, the glow of the folks standing up in that choir loft. He could hear it, see, their goodness, and he could feel it in his marrow. Every lick of promise and good feeling in them, the boy felt. It was like warm water on cold mornings, and he let himself listen and look on up at that loft a spell. But, and even with the music and the warmth, he felt heavy. He felt guilty, and he knew he needed to cast that guilt off. And, so, his feet carried him on into the confessional. It took a spell, but the grating eventually opened, and he recognized the face on the other side. The angel 'cross the grating, he was one of them that spanned religions, and there weren't a whole lot of them. Misha, he reckoned that meant something, that this was the one who'd come. Misha, he talked, and he talked, and he didn't quit 'til he'd told the whole tale, and he knew it was a tale that was already known. Course Heaven would know when one of theirs did something selfish, something for himself, and Misha didn't lie 'bout the things he'd been willing to do, that he would've done had he needed to. Once, he'd thought there were stopgaps that would keep him from doing what he wasn't meant to do, but in the last year he'd learned those were the kinds of barriers folks lied 'bout to their children, meaning to keep them in line with their own belief there wasn't a way to do wrong. It took an hour, all told, and then, after it was all done, Misha sat and listened to last service of the day. He didn't take communion, but he did put his last bit of money into the basket when it was passed, and he sang every hymn loud as the folks to his left and right. This wasn't the church of his childhood, but it was the church of his preference, and he lingered some little bit longer. By the time he left, hands pushed real deep into the pockets of his jeans and headed toward the hospital, he was feeling calmer for having done the right thing. He didn't feel better any, but he felt calmer, and he felt easier for it, and he reckoned better would come with time. |