== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2016-02-18 18:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, cris martin |
Narrative: Cris M
Who: Cris Martin
What: narrative
Where: Repose
When: recently
Warnings/Rating: assault/rape allusions, some swears, religious themes
Was there such a thing as too much? Yeah, he thought there was. There had to be. 'Cause a person could only take so much, huh? He didn't buy into the idea that God only gave you as much as you could handle. Nah, that was bullshit. Cris had faith, he believed life meant something, he believed he'd pull through, his people would. But, he didn't think anybody had a plan for him. Maybe that was just justification, trying to rationalize free will with religion, but the philosophy behind it didn't matter much to the guy. He didn't split hairs 'bout what he knew in his gut, and he knew that. He knew the stuff was random, it was bad luck or it was karma or somebody had looked at him wrong and he hadn't done what he shoulda to ward against it, or it was stuff he decided to do. But, that was it. Nobody had a plan for him. Even the almost tangible beama light cascading down through glass stained indigo ocean—Saragasso Sea strained, poured at his feet, wasn't enough to sway him. Some woulda called that cynical, or, worse, sacrilegious. But, to him, it made more sense his way. God could still be benevolent, caught in the heart-chambersa his creations, without dirtying his hands with things that were best thoughta as senseless acts.—For some, the worthlessness, like that, was more terrifying. It put them in a world they couldn't garner nothing from, huh? If it wasn't a trial from God, then… why? They'd rather frame the stuff that happened to them as given meaning. On the other hand, Cris found some solace in the fact that no God would do that, but more than that—, huh? God wasn't like the orichás, who were more human in their way, fallible, equal parts cruel and compassionate, vindictive and forgiving—a fact that drew the guy to them, that earned his respect. They were complex. They weren't just good. They weren't just bad. They were real. God mighta been benevolent, but He was impassive. What meaning was there to be found in that? In the impersonal? Nah, see, Cris liked it bloody. He'd rather be bruised than feeling nothing at all. Honey on his fingers, he sat, with a rope knotted, counted, moving in garlandsa amber between fingertips. He watched the few midday churchgoers around him. He watched them try to talk to somebody who didn't listen real good, please, God, please; I am yours, it's me. A Dios no le importa. La Caridad was warm 'round his neck, like she bled too, like she heard and she felt. She was touchable. A God, who created man, in all his goodness and all his evil, but who hadn't endured nonea the trials he put his people through—a God who made a woman, who would later take a boy, rob hima whatever few gray, worn tendrilsa innocence he had left, leaving him with nothing but dirty knees—a God who would do that, without ever knowing anything but that innocence, what good was He when it came down to dealing with that stuff? None, huh? Cris had burnt a white candle at home, next to Ochún's altar. It wasn't for her. He said the words, he wrote others down and watched them turn to ashes. He found the ritual calming in the quieta the apartment. Even as Repose fell apart all around in purple, poisoning breath, he looked at himself in the mirror, at the black scrub on his jaw, his promesa, and he tried not to hate the guy behind it. He tried not to hate how weak he'd become—it was like his skeleton had been pulled outta him, gory, dripping, and he was nothing but flesh and viscera and organs rolling loose, nothing that could stand on its own. He tried not to hate the apartment, too open around him, too quiet without Sam, without Teresa or Joey or Ted. He tried not to resent anybody who couldn't help him. He tried not to hate whoever it was on the forums, making a game outta his beliefs, like a kid saying words like they got no meaning. There was no denying the fact that the guy wanted to just go get a drink, huh? Bad. He didn't thinka himself as a drinker (he wasn't, not regular), but he couldn't stop the want in his belly. His mouth felt parched, even after he sucked water from the faucet, splashed it on burning eyes like they were cinders he could put out.—But, he didn't let himself. He'd be a good father, huh? He just needed time. He wouldn't be his own father. He just needed time. Apenas necesitó tiempo. Apenas necesitó tiempo. In the pew, back in the church, he had a real sensea revulsion. For himself. And as he walked over to the confessional, latticework and small—smaller than anything at home—he knew he'd be known right away, huh? He knew whatever he said, there was no anonymity here. If he trusted shrinks, he mighta done that instead, but he didn't. Tendría que aguantar. There was the standard beginning, words exchanged like strangers. At home, Cris' priest had known him since he was a kid—he didn't know everything, but he knew Cris. Maybe he didn't always give advice Cris listened to, but he got pretty good at getting to him, knowing how to talk so he heard. The guy missed that—people knowing him, not having to constantly hedge and explain. This was like sitting down to a blind date, knowing it was gonna turn out bad. He sucked on his thumb, sweet as it was, quiet brief before he began. He remembered the clean flamea the white candle, how it burned without smoke, and he wished his heart could do the same. But, what could he say? The priest spoke, words too big to fit through fine fretwork, holy as they were. And Cris, his mouth was dry and his tongue didn't wanna move. The words he'd put to paper didn't wanna come, now that they'd burned away. He clutched La Caridad, imprinted her into his palm. All he could get out was Spanish. "Lo siento." When had he started crying? He didn't remember. He stood and he pushed through the heavy curtain, back into the blue spilla light. Passing underneath it, it was warm, and Cris knew whose work that was. There was no plan for him, nah, but he could have guidance, help. He wasn't going in alone. He needed to remember that. He promised he would. It wasn't a weight offa his chest. Nah, he was still drowning. He was breathless and his lungs felt ready to burst like twin balloons. But, a boat passed over that self-contained sea in a shadow, threw a rope. It'd be a bitch to climb, but wasn't it a relief? To not be alone? He hadta get outta the water himself before he could help anybody else in it. Even if there was such a thing as too much, nobody was gonna change that for him, huh? But maybe, just maybe, he could make it, if he really put his back into and stopped floundering. |