WHO: Lulu, Father Michael. WHAT: Conversations and advice. Being British. WHERE: The chapel. WHEN: Noonish, August 4th. RATING: Medium-ish. Language?
Lulu was frightened.
Or -- not frightened. Not yet. She was nervous. It had started this morning, brushing her teeth in the odd metallic mirror in her room. She'd looked up at herself, smiled, and suddenly felt all the weight -- everyone's stress, everyone's fear -- come crashing down on her shoulders. Lulu was a coward at heart; she blamed it on empathic ability, and an especially strong urge to self-preserve.
Lulu was also nervous, as always, because of Jon.
He existed. Still.
Every day she contended with the fact: a man was walking the earth she'd once called perfect, a man she'd hurt and continually ignored for years, and now here he was. Coming to check on her drunken weeknight antics. Drawing up flashcards for her on a bar top. Answering her texts. Lulu had no idea what to do about any of it, and it made her feel silly. She wasn't the sort of woman to not know. That wasn't who she wanted to be.
So, today -- murderer or no murderer -- Lulu was taking a walk. She dared herself to go out on the grounds, even if all the while it was with taser in hand, and it was a glorious day. So bright outside. Hard to think that anyone had come across a body in the grass; it looked so green, so nice. Then again, it was sometimes hard to think that there really were zombies and infected things out in the world, honestly. She never saw any of them -- only the evidence of their hunger.
Now Lulu meandered along, twirling an umbrella over her head to ward away the sun, until the chapel came into view. That's funny, Lulu thought. I'd forgotten we had one.
It looked shady and nice in there, and it was, once she'd entered. Now I can sit and think about my life and pretend to be a pious church lady.