equivoke (![]() ![]() @ 2017-09-26 07:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | #september 2017 |
Who: Nicole Thornton and Father James
When: Sunday, September 3. Evening.
Where: St. Dismas
Status: Complete
Warning: Mentions of domestic violence.
Nicole wasn't church-going by nature. She'd migrated from Dallas to Point Pleasant once before, shedding skin along the way, remaking herself into someone who wasn't sure what she believed beyond a fundamental mistrust of authority. But that was better than two decades back. The woman she had since become kept a much tighter lid on her intractability. She didn't need to be told to toe the line; she had already committed to doing so.
And then something like last night's emergency happened and her carefully crafted control deserted her.
Having spent hours patching up Margaret Rogan, Nicole had driven home in a daze and slept late into the afternoon. She had woken, groggy and confused - and most of all, angry. Breathing exercises didn't help. Scrubbing her kitchen counters until they gleamed failed to curb her mounting fury. Gardening, which normally had a calming effect on Nicole, only served to fuel her rage. In a fit of pique, she eventually ripped off her gloves and dumped her hoe, defeated by a bunch of weeds.
She dressed up and put her game face on before leaving the house - her version of storming out - and wasn't sure where her feet would take her until she stalked through the church door into the cool, silent interior.
The last time she had been in there, it had been to attend her aunt's funeral. Phyllis had left precise instructions for the ceremony, reducing Nicole's role to that of a mere supervisor.
There were no black-clad attendees in the pews today. No elegant casket, or somber-faced priest. Nicole made her way down the aisle to a pew near the front. Tea lights danced in a metal frame. She thought about lighting one but couldn't help think her aunt wouldn't be impressed. She sat instead, waiting for divine inspiration or calm, willing her restless, impotent rage to abate. Her palms were hot when she pressed them against the seat.