Blessing
*****
She stood as coldly as a marble angel, as distant. As unreachable.
Roger Smith folded the old man's dry, papery hands on his chest. He bowed his head, lacing his fingers together. He wasn't even sure what to say. Eternal rest grant upon his soul, dear Lord...
"What are you doing?" the angel's voice rang coldly down from the heavens. "Praying?"
*****
Cemeteries are less for the dead than for the living.
The dead don't care. They don't care that marble angels guards their graves. They don't care that daisies choke in graveyard dirt. They don't hear the footsteps on the ground above them, or the voices that mumble endless prayers.
Roger Smith had passed through the wrought-iron gates unsure of what he was looking for, but he knew it when he found it.
The name was printed in raised metal letters on the reflective marble. "Dorothy Wayneright," and under that, "Beloved daughter. Sadly missed." The letters were damaged by time and weather, the metal bleeding in runnels down the stone.
Timothy Wayneright, the man who had mourned at that stone, who sadly missed her, had devoted the rest of his life to resurrecting her in a metal shell. Perhaps it didn't matter that she wasn't his real daughter...
Roger Smith smiled mirthlessly. With all the Dorothys running around the city, this one was lucky to be in the ground and at peace.
As for the one who'd taken her place...
*****
He watched her stretch her arms towards the thing. It was a monster, repulsive. The love was laid so bare in her face it pained him.
"Perot. You can come with me."
It made a low, pained sound, then turned away from her.
*****
She was sitting out on the balcony as she liked to do, and it was nice for her to have something she liked, so he did not disturb her as he freed his shoulders from the confines of his suspenders and let them dangle at his waist, vaulting up to sit beside her.
"Roger."
She hadn't moved, but he turned to her. "Mm?"
"I need your help."
"With what?"
"I wish to say a prayer. For Perot." Now she looked at her empty lap, then to him. "I do not know how to pray. I ask that you teach me."
He sighed. It was hard to explain prayer to her, when sometimes he doubted its power himself, when he wasn't sure he believed in what he was praying to. Every day, every battle, it became harder to believe in angels who didn't carry guns, in heaven--in a place that was calm and right.
Dorothy slid off the rail to kneel. "Is this right?"
He turned on the rail to look at her as she looked up at him. "Yes, that's fine."
She blinked, as if thinking. "I am unsure of how to proceed."
"Well..." He sighed again. "Why did you want to say the prayer in the first place?"
"Because..." She blinked again. "I want to wish Perot happiness, where he is, wherever he is. I want him to be warm and safe. I want him to be taken care of."
"Then there you go. Prayer is just that, Dorothy--you are asking for a blessing on Perot."
She nodded, then folded her hands and closed her eyes. "I ask for a blessing on Perot, for him to be happy, and out of the rain. I am thankful for the time I spent with him." She opened her eyes and looked at him.
He smiled. "That's lovely."
"I am thankful, too, for Roger Smith, who gives me his protection and has opened his home to me and to Perot. So I ask for a blessing on him as well." She squinted as if unsure how to end, then remembered what it was she wanted to say. "Amen."
Roger blinked at her. He offered her his hands, and she took them to pull herself up to her feet. "Was that all right?" she asked.
"It was...perfect." Much as he hated that word.
"Thank you for helping me." She gracefully vaulted to perch next to him. "It's a fine view from up here," the angel said, her monotone almost languid, looking down over the rail.
Roger couldn't help but smile. "Yes. It is."
*****
I keep seeing religious images in the series, which makes me wonder. That's not what gave me the idea for this story--it was the Victorious One singing "Oh Father" on Blonde Ambition when I watched "Truth or Dare" this week. 4 days left...
I haven't posted in a while--nervous! Review, please!
S.
*****
She stood as coldly as a marble angel, as distant. As unreachable.
Roger Smith folded the old man's dry, papery hands on his chest. He bowed his head, lacing his fingers together. He wasn't even sure what to say. Eternal rest grant upon his soul, dear Lord...
"What are you doing?" the angel's voice rang coldly down from the heavens. "Praying?"
*****
Cemeteries are less for the dead than for the living.
The dead don't care. They don't care that marble angels guards their graves. They don't care that daisies choke in graveyard dirt. They don't hear the footsteps on the ground above them, or the voices that mumble endless prayers.
Roger Smith had passed through the wrought-iron gates unsure of what he was looking for, but he knew it when he found it.
The name was printed in raised metal letters on the reflective marble. "Dorothy Wayneright," and under that, "Beloved daughter. Sadly missed." The letters were damaged by time and weather, the metal bleeding in runnels down the stone.
Timothy Wayneright, the man who had mourned at that stone, who sadly missed her, had devoted the rest of his life to resurrecting her in a metal shell. Perhaps it didn't matter that she wasn't his real daughter...
Roger Smith smiled mirthlessly. With all the Dorothys running around the city, this one was lucky to be in the ground and at peace.
As for the one who'd taken her place...
*****
He watched her stretch her arms towards the thing. It was a monster, repulsive. The love was laid so bare in her face it pained him.
"Perot. You can come with me."
It made a low, pained sound, then turned away from her.
*****
She was sitting out on the balcony as she liked to do, and it was nice for her to have something she liked, so he did not disturb her as he freed his shoulders from the confines of his suspenders and let them dangle at his waist, vaulting up to sit beside her.
"Roger."
She hadn't moved, but he turned to her. "Mm?"
"I need your help."
"With what?"
"I wish to say a prayer. For Perot." Now she looked at her empty lap, then to him. "I do not know how to pray. I ask that you teach me."
He sighed. It was hard to explain prayer to her, when sometimes he doubted its power himself, when he wasn't sure he believed in what he was praying to. Every day, every battle, it became harder to believe in angels who didn't carry guns, in heaven--in a place that was calm and right.
Dorothy slid off the rail to kneel. "Is this right?"
He turned on the rail to look at her as she looked up at him. "Yes, that's fine."
She blinked, as if thinking. "I am unsure of how to proceed."
"Well..." He sighed again. "Why did you want to say the prayer in the first place?"
"Because..." She blinked again. "I want to wish Perot happiness, where he is, wherever he is. I want him to be warm and safe. I want him to be taken care of."
"Then there you go. Prayer is just that, Dorothy--you are asking for a blessing on Perot."
She nodded, then folded her hands and closed her eyes. "I ask for a blessing on Perot, for him to be happy, and out of the rain. I am thankful for the time I spent with him." She opened her eyes and looked at him.
He smiled. "That's lovely."
"I am thankful, too, for Roger Smith, who gives me his protection and has opened his home to me and to Perot. So I ask for a blessing on him as well." She squinted as if unsure how to end, then remembered what it was she wanted to say. "Amen."
Roger blinked at her. He offered her his hands, and she took them to pull herself up to her feet. "Was that all right?" she asked.
"It was...perfect." Much as he hated that word.
"Thank you for helping me." She gracefully vaulted to perch next to him. "It's a fine view from up here," the angel said, her monotone almost languid, looking down over the rail.
Roger couldn't help but smile. "Yes. It is."
*****
I keep seeing religious images in the series, which makes me wonder. That's not what gave me the idea for this story--it was the Victorious One singing "Oh Father" on Blonde Ambition when I watched "Truth or Dare" this week. 4 days left...
I haven't posted in a while--nervous! Review, please!
S.