Re: log: cemetery - revenant and misha
"My Christmas pasts ain't been real fine, so I reckon I'd rather not be that." It was real telling that Misha even understood the reference, and that was thanks to all that tutoring for his GED. 'Fore that? He wouldn't have been able to tell you who Dickens was. Aristotle, Plato, them men he would've been able to tell you 'bout. Why Heaven had focused on the classics with him was something Misha never would comprehend, and these days he reckoned it had all been busy work and just something to keep their problem busy at a desk and where he couldn't do no harm.
Misha, he knew who owned the gravestone his butt was perched on. Nathaniel, who hadn't been real special, not to Misha's understanding, and who wasn't here no more, no matter where his bones were resting. Bones were bones, and they mattered to folks left behind and not to the dead themselves. Now, since he wasn't concerned none 'bout Nathaniel, it meant he could focus on the man in front of him. David, he looked real ill, which could be seemed a strange thing to say. In the past, Misha would've just touched him with warmth and healing, reckoning that would make things better, but he'd 'learned that you couldn't just take folks' sorrows away. Folks, they only replaced one hurting with 'nother. "There are so many bad things, things that need helping, and better ways to do it. Ain't you never considered something different than this?"
Misha, he shook his head. "Human minds are capable of real beautiful things, and for that to exist there has to be the potential for real awful things. And, honey, death ain't bad for the dead. It's bad for the living. It's bad for you, who lost, not for her. The fear of death, that's what makes for trembling, but being dead is bad for you, not for her." Misha, he wasn't fool 'nough to think dying was beautiful, and he knew there hadn't been a pretty thing 'bout Molly Mayers' death. He wasn't one of them romantics that reckoned poems written to bones made up for a damn thing, but he knew it was folks left behind that ached.
He glanced at the hand reached out to him, then back up to David's face. "Claire? Claire reckons she knows all Catholicism has to offer, and I reckon she does. But, I am what I am. Satan is my daddy. My momma was an angel that Fell for bedding down with him, and if God's Son is the Christ? Then I'm Satan's, and called what I'm called," he said, prouder than he'd sounded 'bout it 'fore. "And you'd see what I reckoned you should see." He looked on down at David's hand again. "You reckon you want me to touch you?"
He didn't need to look up or 'round to know that presence was still there and waiting.