#sparrowsfall

@sparrowsfall​ said: “ you will always be worth fighting for. ”

         SHE HADN’T CRIED when the teacher had scolded her earlier in the day, but she came close. every word is still fresh in her mind like newly budding welts on her psyche -- she’s a big girl now, 7 years old, but she’s still forgetting her lunch in the classroom, she’s still forgetting her jacket in the gym, and she’s still can’t even write her name legibly. getting up to throw away a piece of paper without the teacher’s permission had been the straw that broke this teacher’s back, and nahia had simply sat through it, brown eyes glassy and distant.

          she wasn’t supposed to see her father ( her father! ) argue with them. but nahia walks very softly and breathes very quietly, a true professional in observation when she wants to be. she’s standing in front of him now, fidgeting with her hands, her tears growing big and hot in her eyes. john will know that she’s not feeling sad, necessarily -- she’s simply feeling.

The gift was left on Nico's desk: something thin and flat, wrapped in the gold and white gift paper that caught his eye at the store ( celebration colors on a celebratory day ). Inside she'll find an autographed copy of both Pete Seeger's vinyl God Bless The Grass and a tour poster, along with a folded note:

" Got these autographed at his live Berkeley performance back in '68 - I was able to bring some vinyls with me off Crockett, but obviously not the record player. Figured someone should get to enjoy these properly. Buon compleanno, Nico! - Msgr. Succhiasangue. "

Two espressos and a cigarette had been her birthday gift to herself early this morning. So busy with her nose in her files and keeping her peers in order, Nico is content to forget this date’s significance after that. Simply another year closer to eternity, to her it’s not much to celebrate.

 Still she’s only human, she cannot help the curiosity that overtakes her at the sight of a nearly wrapped parcel on her desk.  Nor can she help the way her heart pounds with childlike excitement as her fingers gently tear through the metallic paper. Dark eyes widen and her breath catches in her throat at the sight of her idol’s signatures. She holds these small treasure up like sainted relics, and a disbelieving, ecstatic laugh escapes from her lips. 

His note is the next thing she finds. As her dark eyes scan it, she shakes her head with a smile on her face, snorts as she always does at the ease of which he’d adopted her once cutting nickname as his personal moniker. Pruitt. He’d remembered. Perhaps it had been hard to forget. She’d played one of Seeger’s disks on repeat in her car the first time she’d dragged him out on assignment.

Here is a land full of power and glory Beauty that words cannot recall Oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom Her glory shall rest on us all 

The previously neglected record player, nestled in the corner of her office, spins. Music of hope and struggle carries itself out of the crack in her door and down the halls. It seems to follow her footsteps as they carry themselves with purpose down the ornate halls to find him. 

❝ Monsignor? ❞ 

Nico appears at his office door, still clutching his message in her hand. She hadn’t meant to for this to carry so much weight, had meant this as a simple thank you, followed by a bit of their usual banter. Nico rolls her shoulders back, tries to keep a joking smile on her face, but whatever casual thanks or clever comment she had planned turns to dust in her hands. A series of half-formed thoughts tumble out from between her lips instead.

❝ I just wanted to thank you, for your gifts- I love them. I really love a lot. I mean, I know I talked your ear off about Seeger in those early days and I... thank you, for remembering and all. I mean, no one really... ❞ 

She looks at him, and a long, contemplative silence follows. Before she can stop it, her collected expression crumbles, followed by tears that sting and redden her eyes before falling down her cheeks.

❝ Father John. ❞

 His name comes out thickly and stripped of formalities. It’s the only thing that she can manage. In the next moment she’s stepped forward and has her arms around his tall frame, her features buried in his shoulder. For a time there is nothing else she needs to say, embracing him tightly, unapologetically, and praying her tears do not stain his black clerics.

What wonders in God’s plan. She’d hated this man half a year ago, then reluctantly turned to him when there was no one else left. Now he’s resurrected a feeling long buried, the fear that comes with having someone else to lose. The impenetrable walls of Babylon that previously incased her ribs have fallen, and she allows herself to feel it all, lets its flames scorch the inside of her chest in all of its triumphant agony. 

@sparrowsfall​ asked 📖!!!

[ Originally written in Italian ]

27/08/22

“Only the man who has had to face despair is really convinced that he needs mercy. Those who do not want mercy never seek it.” 

These are Thomas Merton’s words, not my own. And yet what better words can describe Monsignor John Pruitt, a creature man I found still trying so desperately to claw his way towards something resembling absolution? 

The path of mercy I have taken on Father Pruitt’s behalf has been a lonely one. I’ve spent the last few Saturday nights at the trattoria on my own. Most of the people I called my friends turned their backs on me the moment news of Tribunal’s sentence reached their ears; “Service to the Order of St. George under extensive supervision.” 

No execution. No excommunication. No laicization. Not so much as a canonical sanction against him. He’ll be able to start administering the Sacraments soon if the Vatican wishes him to do so. What a grave miscarriage of justice in their eyes, and all because of me, the hypocrite who loudly preached of fighting corruption in the Church. 

Perhaps all my constant philosophizing over Pruitt is just a way for me to further justify all of this. To lie and attach more meaning where there is none, because some emotional part of my mind unsatisfied with the fact that all he is is an asset. That the only reason he’s alive now is because he is more useful to the Church alive than he is dead, not because he came to our doors with a penitent heart and blood on his lips. That any other vampire he infected that we could ask for assistance would likely spit on us.

I don’t forget what he did to them. I’ll never forget the smell of Father Santos’ blood as they carried him out of the confessional. I can still feel the anger boiling in my chest at that memory.

And yet here I am, still trying to fool myself into believing that I can save whatever’s left of his soul. That’s something he and I have in common, isn’t it? Always trying to explain to ourselves how we were trying to do the right thing.

I suppose that’s all that we can do, now that our actions have left the pair of us completely isolated. I wonder if he realizes that- I’m just as alone as he is now. 

It’s a Saturday. Roma is playing Juventus this evening and I do not wish to watch another game on my own. Pruitt’s done well these past few weeks, despite his stubbornness and attitude. So, maybe instead of a lesson, I will ask him what he knows about soccer. 

Perhaps he will surprise me about that, too. 

{ @sparrowsfall ;;