Entry tags:

mina harker

WHO: Helena Kelly
WHAT: Dead people equates to Helena-in-church narratives apparently
WHERE: A church somewhere in walking distance to Bellum (add to le list?)
WHEN: Wednesday morning
WARNINGS: None!
NOTES: I’m having a light work week so I apologize for all the Helena posting.

“Troubled?” Helena looked up from her pew to the eyes of the concerned priest standing in the aisle. “You’ve been sitting here for quite some time.” She hadn’t been paying attention to her watch but she didn’t doubt it. After morning mass she had prayed and cried for what seemed like hours. Her eyes hurt, dry and rubbed raw, but even at his question she thought she would cry a river once more. She weakly held up a small stack of papers, a laminated picture of St. Peter on the top, prayers for the dead underneath. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She nodded her thanks.

“At least she went in her sleep.” That’s what she should be thankful for, right? Gently, quietly, peacefully. “Last night I hoped to see her. Just once, I guess, one last time. But that wasn’t how it worked with her? She won’t be there now that she’s...”

“You might. Our minds sometimes replay our memories, letting us relieve moments. See our loved ones again.” His voice was soft and should have been soothing but she shook her head.

“No, I mean—she used to be there. Not all the time. But I’d see her.” Her voice was a harsh whisper in the quiet of the church. “We’d talk and she seemed better there. Different, maybe. More carefree. And not just for me. Others sometimes talked about seeing her.” She remembered when if first started happening people talking about seeing the pretty teacher walking through their dreams. She didn’t think to ask about it. She never thought to ask Theresa for more explanations. She assumed they’d have all the time in the world to share secrets.

“Others?”

“In the building. Our apartment complex.”

“She must have been quite special, for so many to dream of her as well.” The smile he gave her was small, warm, and placating. She felt small under his gaze. She sounded crazy. A woman who was letting her grief run away with her. She felt silly for even bringing it up.

“She is special.” A beat. “Was.” She gave the priest a nod and excused herself. She didn’t have the energy to correct him. To explain the strange things that went on at her building, nor talk about the people there. She wasn’t even sure where to begin. Instead she made her way to the row of candles to wrap up her business here at the church.

She dropped her coins into the box, more than her normal amount, more coins and prayers and pleas than any one person should be dropping at once. One for Theresa, a tall white candle who’s smoke carried her prayers upward. Then smaller red candles. One for whoever was on the first floor. The police tape was still up when she passed through and considering the building, she wouldn’t be overreacting to assume the worst. A candle for the gentleman that the landlord had taken, the reasons for how and why still confusing her but her remorse was still the same. One for Emil - she hadn’t forgotten - and after a moment, three more, just like he did months ago.

She took a step back and surveyed her candles. She wondered, not for the first time but the first in a long time, if God really had any answers for her. About life. About death. Whatever she couldn’t explain before, she let her faith carry her past them. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if there were things, about herself, about that building, that even God couldn’t explain away.