#narrative.starter

Ches would be lying if she said she hadn’t felt the shift in the air when Pastor North went missing. The tension as people waited for news with baited breath, the mixture of fear and relief, grief and joy as the weeks drone on. Uncomfortable, a bit overwhelming as she was never quite sure how she should react. It was no secret to anyone who paid attention to Ches that her own emotions were conflicted as well. Should she be relieved? After all, she was starting to find freedom from the cult to be relieved? Should she be mournful for a man she’d once followed? What if she was both? Relieved he could never chew anyone up to spit them back out the first time they breathed the wrong way, while mourning for the pain his family was undoubtedly going through?

So, maybe Ches didn’t like Pastor North, and maybe she was relieved at the concept of never risking running into him again, but at the same time she did care for the North children, and she wanted Grace, Hal, and Sav to be okay. And how could they be when they were trapped in the middle of all of this?

“So...” Ches starts, eyeing the person in front of her as she twirls a red curl around her fingertip. “I know everyone is upset about Pastor North, and I mean I get it completely. Man goes missing in the woods, you don’t even need to know him to be concerned about him, and with them ending the search parties.... it’s been a lot for everyone but I was thinking, maybe we should do something to get our minds off of it for a bit?” It’s a thought she’s actually wary to voice; uncertainty clear in her tone as anxious green eyes carefully watch the expression and body language of the person she’s talking to. “It’s not healthy for anyone to hyperfixate on it, and with the case being closed, well, I don’t know about you but I’d up for doing something. Come on, you lead, I follow! Look, even Clover approves.” She glances over to the dog, her happy go-lucky girl, as if the dog would actually confirm that she did approve.

the morning air felt still, unsettled, as if it was anticipating the arguments that surly the afternoon will bring. men always had a way of trying to make themselves the loudest in the room, even when no one else is talking. at least, that’s what she has noticed from her own father. unlike him, sevda liked the silence, the quiet. the moments when no one is talking. perhaps that’s why she dreads the mornings as they lead up to the violent behaviors ahead. at night, even if it’s only an hour, the sounds die out and she’s left with nothing more than her own thoughts. however, this can never last long. especially in the morning. 

wavy hair held back from her face in a tight bow, sevda stood on the church’s step, busy doing her daily church duties, ones that she had not picked out for herself as her father had the hand in whatever she does. but sev would never complain. not out loud, and especially not when the internal battles within the church is starting up as many argue over who will take place of someone who only so recently disappeared. 

"hey sugar.” she mentions towards birdie. a face she’s happy to see towards the end of the day. taking a few steps down from her porch she gently wraps the light blanket around her form. the sunset offers light between the two. it was her favorite time of the day. time to unwind and settle before silence of the night. birdie was anything but sugar and she had every right to be.

the two women were cursed by this place. it had robbed them greatly and in the end it was the only thing that could possibly unite them. this was the usual meeting place. outside of the cohle estate. such a lonely place. 

leona offers a soft smile. “your mama decided she wanted to go to sleep early. I saved a slice of pecan pie for you in the fridge.” a soft breeze moves a blonde lock from her face. “she had a bad day today.. just thought you should know.” 

She slips her head through the black slip dress , tucks it neatly into place around her body. In her head , an image , so clear she can hardly tell if it’s a vision or her imagination. It is her Father’s body , ravaged by wolves ; torn to pieces by the chaos of karma. Psalm 40 : 1 — I waited patiently for the Lord ; he inclined to me and heard my cry. Dim morning light filters through flimsy curtains and washes her in a milky glow , pale skin emerging from dark fabric. The tears she will perform are ready in the wings , lip already beginning to quiver and hands trembling as they tie her hair into a low knot. 

The walk across town is a timely warm-up , head bowed with grief and features appropriately sorrowful. Her journey carries her past faces , familiar and strange , eyes she avoids and condolences she hears murmured in her awake. Let them pity her. As she walks , slow and sure , she hums beneath her breath. The familiar tune , amazing Grace , a mantra tethering her to her purpose , reminding her to remain soft. 

It doesn’t take long for her to reach her destination — a memorial, erected at the edge of the woods. A large wooden cross draped with rosaries and scraps of cloth, candles flickering among the grass and photographs of Pastor North pinned to the oak. Face to face with him , she feels his stare boring into her soul even through the flimsy photo-paper plastic. It flickers in the breeze and her arms dot with sudden goosebumps. Knees meet Earth beneath the linen of her dress , hands find comfort in each other as her fingers interlace with a desperation.