T H E † PARIAH

The mediocre comment pulls Eli’s lip up in a sneer, but it’s nothing he can pretend to be offended by for very long. It’s been a while since he’s seen a mirror, but it doesn’t matter. He’s been worse, he’s been a wasted, strung out version of himself, and if he carries scars now for a wholly different reason, right now he’s trying to convince himself it’s worth it just for the power.

For the assurance it grants that if anything here does go bad, he won’t just be hoping that he’ll survive it. He’ll claim it with bloodied knuckles and bared teeth.

The joke might be stupid, but it’s a slight distraction from that, from just how desperately he’d like to do exactly that right now. “Heroic my ass. Hot blonde’s the one that gets slaughtered in her underwear in the first ten minutes.” He holds his hands up, happy to surrender the role.

“You want that gig, be my guest.”

“Least I’d go wearin’ something comfortable,” he deadpans back. Honestly, he’s pulling all of this shit right out of his ass. Where shit belongs. 

Wes sighs and rolls his eyes back and — just to be dramatic — his head follows. “Fine you’re fucken right, my hot blonde self would be fucked from the start,” he blinks up at the sky then rolls his head to the side. Shaking his head didn’t shake the bloody images of a massacre in the monastery, and it has him carrying the thought on out loud, “How about I’m the monster? That’d be fun as fuck... right up until the end.”

I don’t belong in places like this.

It was an ominous statement and a serious one, uncharacteristic of the polite goofball she’d come to know. Patty knew Wes had certain…insecurities that didn’t quite match the man he looked to be, but she was beginning to think that general anxiety was just the tip of the iceberg with him. Patty skipped to catch up, feeling slightly shafted by how he seemed to want to keep her behind him. 

“It won’t be forever,” she said, even if part of her was sad about the idea of leaving a place that screamed sanctuary so accurately. Wes slowed enough to walk by her side and she was grateful for it, her fingers coming to curl around the soft inside of his elbow encouragingly. “When everyone’s ready, we’ll keep on. It’s just four walls and a roof until then.”

His request took her by surprise for a second but…then, not. Patty glanced around the hall that surrounded them and the decorations that covered so much of the walls, then back up at him, pausing for a good minute to think. She let go of his arm to head for one of the windows, picking up a candle and dish that had been set out presumably to illuminate the hall. Then, waving, Patty started to examine every door, pulling on the handle to a half-empty maintenance closet…that had a nice metal cross hanging on the inside of the door. 

Patty glanced back at Wes as if looking for disapproval, shrugging her shoulders noncommittally and reaching up to tip the cross off the wood, muttering a quiet apology to it as she walked further inside. She set it on the floor, turning a dry bucket upside down on top of it like a secret, then she stood again, looking carefully around the narrow closet. The surrounding shelves were a bit oppressive, taking up so much of the space. But they started higher up and way in the back, there was one corner empty enough to sit down in without even her taller companion needing to worry about banging his head. She turned back to him for approval once again.

“…feels better, doesn’t it?” Patty tilted her head, already crouching down to push the candle somewhere the flammable materials wouldn’t be threatened. “Kinda like sleeping in the kitchens back at the truck stop.” She set her back against the wall, pulling the end of her dress out to right it and patting the space next to her for him to join. 

The way she slips a hand so casually into the crook of his elbow is nearly alarming. Then, it's nothing but comfortable. He might belong in places like this, but he doesn't feel completely wrong for a few seconds.

It’s just four walls and a roof. That would describe his childhood home, every prison cell he was thrown into, every shitty motel room he called home for far too long Four walls and a roof but sometimes it was better to be outside them.

“I guess,” he says to simply show he’s not ignoring her. Then she shows she’s listening to him too.  Her gaze moves to every religious artifact. Then she’s removing her touch from his arm and busying herself with de-Goding the space.

He watches Patty remove the cross and put it out of sight. A quiet apology makes him scowl but not for long. 

Feels better, doesn’t it?

Wes shrugs, hands going for his pockets before remembering he’s in a towel. Then Wes puts the heel of his foot on the bucket and drags it out the door. Only after the grating, metal sound comes to a stop does he relax. Marginally. It’s a small thing to anyone else but for Wes, it’s nearly a physical weight gone from his chest. He wonders if it’s imagined or if that black rot on his chest makes a difference. He looks at the bucket, a simple solution, then back to Patty. She sits down, adjusting her dress, and it feels wrong he can watch her in a quiet moment like that. Wes joins her anyway.

 Back against the wall, he slides down to join her, towel kind of useless now as he gets comfortable. So he just lets it go, something soft to sit on. His thighs are on show, his boxers cover up the worst of his scarring but not all of it, the most marred strip of it beneath the fabric. He’s too tired to care about the stray lines and gashes. 

“Yeah, it does help,” he answers, finally. Looking up and around the narrow cupboard it’s a sad little place but an average one. No God, no blessings. Even if it’s small it’s not an uncomfortable spot for him. He’s lived in rooms double this size, at the most, for months at a time. Maybe even a solitary cell or two were this exact size.

“Kinda,” he answers with a nod, rolling his head against the wall. He’s only giving tepid answers, nothing strong either way because it doesn’t feel right to exist in this space let alone get any of that feeling out verbally. Looking up at the dusty ceiling, a spiderweb thick with dust in a far corner, a long-abandoned home, he decides to listen to his mother for once in his fucking life:

Shut up.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back to the statue.  With a shrug,“ Well, who am I to judge someone’s art?”    The South was full of religion, and being someone who grew up among it she didn’t particularly like someone dismissing people so readily for having faith.  Usually, it came from a place of of bitterness or misunderstanding when people so readily bashed religion.  Simply commenting on a the statue was a little different.

Her suggestion of his moving on if he didn’t like it there had been one said with sarcasm, as she figured they both knew that wasn’t exactly an option at this point. Hearing his comment she added sweetly,”  Well, if that’s the way you actually feel, perhaps you’ll want to stay once we’ve move on again?”   A choice that was far more viable than her first, but more unlikely given his tone so far.

She looked to where he motioned, glad there was a barrier between them and the outside.  At the very least, it bought them a little time, as far as she was concerned.  Something she assumed he would agree with.

“It might be unsettling,” she said glancing back at him,”  But that doesn’t make it unsafe, nor does it make me feel a need to go out there in that.  I can’t say its anymore unsettling here than it’s been other places, I wouldn’t let it get to you so much…”    It was advice to be taken with a grain of salt, as there was always a reason to be on guard, but she meant more to not let it start creating issues in his head that weren’t there.

Turning her attention back to the statue, mostly because she didn’t want to maintain eye contact with him.  She tilted her head slightly to the side, as she framed the picture in her head.  Showcasing a figure, clearly revered enough to be made a statue and central piece in their garden, that now sported such crude graffiti, seemed a fitting example of what the world had become.

Not looking at him, still avoiding looking him in the eye, “Are you going to freak if I take out my camera?  I’d like a picture,” she paused, then adding quickly,”  of the statue, of course.”

He scoffs at calling the statue ‘art’ but he leaves it at that. Kathryn’s backed down a bit, and if Wes keeps explaining himself he’d not only kill the joke but probably piss her off too. It’s a damn statue and the nuns are all idiots. It shouldn’t matter to him so much. 

From her accent, though, he fucking understands why she cares so much. If his own southern accent hadn’t been so heavily diluted through the years, she’d probably understand why he was so angry about it all. 

“Just fucken leave it,” he growls out, nostrils flared and he is, actually, trying his best not to get any angrier with her than this. Charity wasn’t something he wanted anymore, he needed it in his youth but it’s a bit fucking late for it.

Although he doesn’t leave it. He can’t, really. Not when she goes on telling him to basically get over it. Wes’ lived in unsettling places his entire life but this kicks it up a notch. He gets defensive, arms crossed and he keeps talking, “I can’t wait t’leave cause I just don’t fucken like places like this but I do like the group so I gotta fucken sit and deal with this, all right? Let a man complain.”

Wes goes still at the question. She avoids eye contact with him completely and he doesn’t blame her for that. He’s glad that his outburst stuck with her only because it means she won’t go trying to take another photo of him.

“Go ahead.”

There’s something liberating about defiling this statue. Something that makes it feel like they aren’t just trapped somewhere with a bunch of God worshiping and God fearing nuns that were enacting rules on them that Alice didn’t want to follow. 

She’s proud of the work they’re doing to the statue and when Wes steps up to add his own flare, she’s grinning and clapping her hands together, pleased with where he’s going with the marks he’s making. 

“Not creative, huh?” she asks when he’s finished and she can see what he’s drawn on the stone. “Now that’s fucking art,” she tells him, coming to stand beside him and rub at her chin like she were viewing some genuine piece of art in a gallery. 

“Ah shit, these sisters aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em.” 

It’s a loud, uninhibited thing. Alice laughing and clapping and Wes feeling incredibly normal for a brief moment. Less trapped, less surrounded by death and God and his fleet of chaste, weird wives in the building behind them. “Thank you, doll. I tried my best.” He flashes a grin, then laughs once more as she stands and appraises it, an idle comment about the sisters comes in time for a heavy, metallic creak.

Wes bolts upright, looking back to follow the sound of a shutting door in the distance. A woman in a black habit has her back turned to them. “Oh shit, one of ‘em’s in the garden.” Wes looks back to Alice. His surprise gives way to a shit-eating grin and ... He bolts. 

He was gonna try and leave quietly but he can’t help the deep belly laugh as he sprints away looking a fool. Crouching low in an attempt to be hidden by the plants, his backpack in hand and dragging along with him, knocking leaves and petals off plants as he takes a sharp turn and ducks out of view. 

If ever there was something Patty was tired of seeing, it was that precise color. Wes peels off his soaked shirt and for a second it feels like she’s staring at prophecy. Unable to enjoy the sight of his chiseled fitness as she expected to, her eyes focus instead on the inky stains on his skin, spread outward from his heart in a sickeningly familiar pattern. He doesn’t even move like it matters. Palming his chest with that towel, her eyes flicker around like she expects the blackness to come off with it. Some kind of mud or slime he incurred in the rain outside. The towel stays as pressed and clean as it always was, and Patty’s left to accept what it is.

Again. They almost taunt her now, marking so many people she’d come to give a damn about. Reminding her again of what they mean. Wes makes no sound as he dries himself thoroughly, so it’s not out of place when she says nothing; just stands there, looking at him, digesting this. Only her body’s response makes her feel like she’s allergic. 

Wes takes the shirt from her silently, lifting it out of her grip before her fingers can loosen enough to drop it. The gesture forces her back down to Earth in time to hear him say something that probably requires a response and she smiles on instinct, more half-heartedly than she planned.

“What would you know, huh?” She laughs back, teasing him. The joke’s on her. If she had a mind to ogle earlier, it isn’t quite in her now. Her mind’s away from the gutter when he drops those pants, wrapping the towel around his waist for privacy he doesn’t know he doesn’t need. When he turns away, satisfied, Patty straightens her back and raises her chin after him, debating what she’s about to do before she does it. 

“Wes,” she calls out. She doesn’t know what she wants, then she does. Taking a few cursory steps forward in pursuit, Patty carefully picks her words. Where are you going? I’m not done with you yet. Come back here, please. “…’you gonna tell me why it took a thunderstorm to get you inside finally?”

His instinctual reaction is to tell her to drop it, say ‘leave me alone’. To beg her to let him be, curl up in his self-hatred and the bone-deep hatred of everything this building stands for and suffer through it. Like sweating out a fever; the only way through it is to wait it out.

But... he doesn’t know if it’d help. Even a second alone with his own thoughts in this building and he can practically feel that black rot’s spread, marring him from the inside out. He’s already ruined but now it’s there for everyone to see. 

Wes. Patty calls out and he slows down, nearly considers stopping when he hears her take a few quick steps to catch up. Instead, he keeps a slow pace. Fast enough he can pretend he doesn’t want her to follow him, that he’s actually trying to leave her presence and find a spot to mope in.

He looks back at Patty and... he doesn’t know what to say. Tens of those reasons were whipped and burned into his flesh. Hundreds more swam through his mind -- every time Ruth hurt him, every time he hurt himself and every time he’d been locked and chained up like a fucking animal. “I don’t belong in places like this.”

It will have to be enough for her, for now. Wes looks around, up high at the ceilings and the sparse decorations around are all holy figures. Hands held palm up to the sky, tears of rapture, halos adorning hypocrites. Wes slows down once more to fall into step with Patty. He doesn’t look her in the eye, doesn’t know how to ask for distraction without explaining why he needs it.

“You know any spot in this goddamn place that doesn't have a dying man watching over you? Or old men with beards pullin’ o-faces at the sky?” Wes tips his head towards one particularly rapturous Saint looking done in by a dove’s appearance. 

Even in the dim light of a flickering candle, she can see the way he coils tighter. Displeasure made obvious by the way his arms constrict tighter across his chest. Stubbornness greeting her in both his words and the lines of his brow.

“Just because we have faith in the Lord’s protection doesn’t mean we should be testing it.” There’s a trace of wry humor in her answer, little to do with him, and more for whatever cliches he might imagine she falls into. Blindness isn’t one of them, just faith and obedience. 

“You should be getting some sleep now anyway. Take advantage of those strong gates and locked doors, hm? It’ll be open for you again in the morning.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, looking up like God himself could see Wes’ annoyance. He doesn’t look back at her, looks past behind her and over the woman. 

This ‘sister’ talks like he’s an idiot and maybe he is or maybe he’s too stuck in this spiraling anger and shame to really listen. You should be getting some sleep now anyway. That is what makes him snap. Wes practically growls with disgust.

“Fuck you.” The words are spat out before he can think any better. He steps back, arms dropping to his side in tight fists. There’s no logical train of thought just those two words on repeat interrupted by the occasional ‘get out’. He points a finger her way, makes his final demand, “Don’t lock the garden till I get outside. I’ll sleep under the fucking bushes if I have to.”

“Aren’t all our fucks desperate now?” Justin just smirks as Wes likens what he said to ‘his taste’. It was probably just an extension of his own joke. But even if it wasn’t, Justin had never felt the urge to leap and correct someone else’s assumptions. Maybe it was pride or maybe it was just how little he cared about any of it. Even now, prompted in part by Wes and in part by himself, Justin tries to imagine how that might go. Strange. New. Probably a great deal less satisfying than what he was used to. But that was the beginning and the end of his thoughts about it. And the saint. 

“’Selfish’ is a human emotion. How could ‘His will’ be described by mortal terminology?” Justin just hums about all of it, stories with hints of truth or not, none of it really mattered to him. The day he finally swallowed what’d happened to his friends, his family, his life, was the day his expectations hollowed out with regards to any God and what he thought. But he had to admit, he’d never seen such a convincing display of faith. 

Justin crossed his arms, blinking near the statue’s base instead. “Though, maybe He’s feeling remorse for the state of the planet. Maybe this is where He starts taking an active role in our salvation, starting now. We just have to stay put. Forever.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wes scoffs. He’s never exactly had a problem with long dry spells, but he knows how much fun it is to wind up other guys about it seeing as he has no personal stakes in it,“Those sounds like the words of a man who’s given up.”

Justin continues speaking and Wes narrows his eyes. He listens in silence, watching Justin far more intently than he has before.

“ ‘you actually religious or just thinkin’ out loud?” The question comes out harsher than he means too. It’s difficult to keep his emotions in check, always has been round religious artifacts. Ruth-May woulda called that a sign of an unpure spirit in him. Maybe she was right all along.

“Cause if ya are, fuck you, if you aren’t: Any God who’d describe himself 'above’ the fuckin’ people he made is just a cunt with a power problem.” He huffs angrily as he sits back, pressing against a sturdy-ish bush behind him, arms crossed like a petulant kid.

The more Justin speaks, the more wound up Wes gets. There was too much debate about God in his mind. People spending their lives searching for ways to sugarcoat their bastard Father up in the sky.

“Too little too late and out of fucken character for Him if ya ask me,” Wes squints around the garden then back at Justin, part of him wanting his conversation to escalate into a fight. Something to take the edge off, “ Besides, God never saves His people. He drowns 'em or burns 'em or take all their firstborns. This –” Wes gestures to the idyllic garden, Eden before the snake offered people the Truth, “ – ain’t his style.”

Eli laughs again, more because he can’t argue. They are dumbasses, and no small part of him is waiting for this to turn into the Exorcist. The rest is bothered enough by the oppressive piousness inherent in the building behind them. Bitterness rising in his throat every time they swore God had kept them safe, like God wasn’t already dead. The most he could offer was to keep his mouth shut, something that wasn’t easy for him even on his best days.

All in all, this place was uncomfortable either way, but at least if it turns into a more blatant version of a horror movie he’ll have something to fight. 

“Hey, as long as I’m the final girl.“

Part of Wes likes entertaining this idea. A big part, actually. The satisfaction of him being right about such a religious place being wrong and evil would be worth it all. He’s picturing a bloodbath inside and the mere thought of it has him feeling better about...  everything.

The concern, the judgment, for that thought hits him immediately. Wes shakes his head, like it’ll knock that thought out of mine. Eli’s comment is enough to ignore it for a second. “The mediocre lookin’ brunette always makes it to the end. So you can have that.”

“Hot blonde?” he says, pointing at himself, mockingly, “Gets all the good lines and the cool fucking heroic death moment. Better than the final girl.”

Alice laughs heartily at the comment about being holier than thou. She can’t say she fully agrees with the sentiment, but she doesn’t disagree with it either. Her run ins with religious types hadn’t been all that bad, most of it had been in her own mind, telling her just how they’d judge her for who she was and what she chose to do with her life. 

She grins as he laughs, calls her an artist and then tells her that the statue’s back is looking a little bare. “You’re absolutely fucking right,” she tells him, swinging around the statue to stand at it’s back. She trusts Wes to watch their surroundings so they won’t be pinned for this heinous deed. 

There’s something familiar about the vandalism that feels like home. Though her and Niko’s own works of art had never been something so blasphemous before, but this felt familiar. Like it always did, like just two people making their mark on a world that was no longer theirs in the hopes that even just a little corner of it could be claimed by them. 

After drawing the words, “Free Admission” with a big arrow pointing down to the statue’s butt, she gives the statue a nice slap on the buttocks before laughing and hopping back over to Wes excitedly. “Okay, your turn,” she tells him, handing him the sharpie. 

Her laughter’s enough of an agreement. Even if she doesn’t say as much, that’s better than a bad reaction. She’s all right. Even if her little fortune telling trick had terrified them both. She’s grinning and playing along and that’s more than he could’ve asked for right now. 

Alice flips the statue around and puts the first ruinous mark on it’s back. And it’s fucking hilarious. Wes busts out laughing when she slaps it’s ‘ass’ and hops back: over the moon with herself.  “Goddamit, doll. I’m not creative enough to do anything better than that...”

Wes takes the sharpie, stands up and looks at the statue’s back like this is the most important thing he’s ever done. He goes in. Wes draws two curves: a voluptuous pair of cheeks ready for admissions. Then, the piece de la resistance: a shit. Just a pile of shit with flies and stink lines.

No-one. Never had anyone to help out. Guess I turn to my... bad habits.

That the piece of art that is the graffitied statue in the garden isn’t my handiwork. Tough lie to keep up... just so damn proud of my work.

Wes’ body language spoke volumes. It was just her, and yet Wes was bound up tighter than a spring, trying to hide it as he palmed the rain out of his hair and dodged her eyes. After so long driving together, even being closer than this, she would have thought he was as used to her as she was to him. But something was really, really bothering him. Patty stayed still like Wes was an animal she was trying not to exacerbate, knitting her brows together when he says he needs clothes. 

She pushes her back off the wall and looks over towards the door he’d come in. What–he’d had his stuff out there with him, too?

“Híjole,” Patty sighs, a warm smile bleeding through her exasperation. “Alright, gimme a sec.” 

Walking straight past him, Patty picks up the pace once she’s out of sight, jogging in the direction of her own things in search of something he could wear. While she’d mostly gotten rid of the hand-me-downs she started out with, she’d kept quite a few oversized tees to use as sleep dresses. At least one of them had to fit him, for now. She returned with the biggest one in her pack, slowing as she approached Wes again and unfolding it to hold it out, and size up whether it would fit him by eye. 

“This should work, yeah?” Patty looked him over again. I can’t help with the jeans but you still shouldn’t stay in them. You’ll get sick.” A pause. “Don’t worry. I’ll be a total gentlewoman.”

Patty to the rescue. There’s no chance for him to stop her -- he doesn’t even try. Patty’s the sort who’d insist she help him out. The warm smile isn’t reflected back, he just keeps on  

She walks past him, out of sight, and he takes that moment alone to run his hands across his face. Massage his eyes, poke at his temples, like he can work himself down from the ever-mounting tension and growing rage. It’s a black, poisonous hate in his chest. The sort of thing Ruth-May accused him of harboring. He’s starting to think she wasn’t being metaphorical.

It’s useless to try while he’s in this damn building, though. Even if Patty’s here, probably the best distraction he could ask for. He kicks off his shoes and peels of his socks with wet slaps. He’d try to stay out there for far too long. Wes lets the towel hang over his shoulders, waiting for Patty.  She arrives quickly, holding a comically oversized shirt for herself. It’d be a dress on her, maybe even big on himself.

“Yeah, should fit,” he answers with a flat affect he can’t quite lift.  It’s been a year. Everyone’s seen something. Wes can’t help but look back behind them. It’s dark enough. She won’t see too much, he thinks. He doesn’t take it just yet. First, he peels off his wet shirt. Saying fuck it to his usual anxieties about being seen. Maybe it’s some of that prison attitude sinking in: hold himself tall, make himself look intimidating. He wasn’t allowed to shrink out of shame or discomfort. Weakness only made things worse. Not to mention: there’s no longer a safe spot. 

Wes dries his torso off then takes the shirt from Patty with a nod. He doesn’t meet her gaze despite it all. His back shows why he’s uncomfortable here with the long thin scars and that black rot just keeps on growing over his chest. Wes holds the dry shirt in one hand and pats himself dry with the other. Even if he doesn’t try to hide he keeps his gaze down and expression serious. The shirt fits loosely. 

“You? A gentlewoman?” he begins, a joke delivered in too serious a deadpan to carry any light-heartedness to it, even if it’s said in good faith, “Don’t believe it.”

He does pause though at the mention of his jeans, even with the joke. Wes pops the button and pulls down the zipper. Everything feeling crude and dirty in this building. He’s not sure if he likes it for that reason. It’s too tangled a thought to work through. Jeans are dropped, the towel wrapped around his waist and he’s decent. Enough.

“Oh, I-” The finger he holds up in the air effectively stops her words, but her uncertainty lingers in the silence all the same. It’s not that she has anything against vandalism, of course, given her long history with the practice. This just… might not be the place for it. All the same, she eyes the marker, tempted by the lighthearted curl of his smile.

“Yeah,” she concedes, then, taking the sharpie with a good-natured smile of her own and a laugh that sounds nearly like a sigh. “Right, I’ve heard that before.” It’s not something she ever had to try, skilled enough at disappearing at the first sign of trouble. But she’s seen plenty of it from a distance, those first few years in the city when she ran with that kind of crowd.

Marker in hand, she peers at the statue for a moment, then leans forward. “Better not pin this on me if we get caught,” she murmurs, an attempt at playfulness in her softened tone as she sketches. “Pretty sure rule number one in all this is ‘no snitching’.”

Wes smiles to himself, leaning to the side, trying to peer round to watch her expression. She leans forward, concentrating intently on the statue. He doesn’t even pay attention to what she’s drawing, only notices the chemical smell that fills the air again as she works at it.

She manages a light, playful tone. Wes smiles to himself, she’s oh so serious that he appreciates any time she loosens up. Those times are further and further apart, Wes having decided it was best to keep his distance. Even a haircut felt like too much coming from Violet.

He doesn’t know what it is about her but he can’t help feeling like he should keep away. She’s too...  Fragile implies she’s breakable. Delicate implies someone out of touch. He’ll make do with keeping her a mystery within reach.

“I see that.”

Amusement colors her answer, despite the way the man looks at her. Cold and closed off, and she can only speculate whether that’s simply his way or if it’s something more personal. Faith was a shaky thing these days. Even those who’d held it tightly before had let it been stripped from them. She’d met plenty already, passing through their gates briefly before they were gone, never to be seen again. 

It does little to disturb that smile on her lips. Unflinching, even if he claims an imposing figure standing over her. There’s no fear that he’ll do her any harm, and it isn’t faith placed in the group they’ve let through their doors. Only the Lord that watches over them.

There’s a brief lifting of her brow at the request, even if she hadn’t had any real expectations whether he would even answer her at all. And while she did her best to be as accommodating as possible for those less fortunate, it’s nothing she has any intention of.

“Of course,” she agrees easily. “During the day.” 

She barely reacts. In fact, she seems entertained by him. He hates it. She’s unknowingly playing this game of chicken and the bitch is winning. Wes bites down, arms crossed tighter because of the mental effort it takes to stay upright, strong in the face of this woman. 

It’s shameful. It’s embarrassing. His only relief is that she doesn’t resemble Ruth-May in any other way despite her apparent dedication to God. And rules. Gotta keep the doors locked. If she can’t give him a good reason, maybe he’ll start finding more similarities.

“At night too,” Wes answers back attempting to match her determination, “Why d'ya have to lock it? I like some space, we all like some space. Ya gates look strong enough.”

Justin grins at that hypothesis. As farfetched as it seemed, it was fun to picture. He steps up beside him and playfully shoves his shoulder into Wes’, squinting and grinning lewdly. “Sounds like an opportunity to me…duty calls, if you will.”

He chuckles and stands on his own again, staring back up at that statue and the childish defacement like it was a certified restoration in an art gallery. 

“This monastery was established to spread the teachings of St. Benedict, a ‘prophet’ who evangelized pagans across Europe.” Justin recounts it like an actual guide, paraphrasing what he’d heard from one of the sisters earlier. “Like other saints, he made miracles happen. If you count things as finding unlikely sources of water for starving followers, thereby saving their lives, as miracles. He saw the future, saw the destruction of his first monastery approaching, and was instructed by God to save all his fellow monks and sisters.”

Justin looked at Wes with brows raised high. “Creepy, huh? Maybe the sisters are right, and Sir Benedict is still kicking up there, trying to save his last monastery now.” A glance back up at the statue. “’Guess vandalism is a little out of his bounds.”

Wes laughs, an unexpected bark of it as Justin plays around. “You got... interesting taste, man. If you're desperate enough, guess even a nun would do. I hear they’re all married t’Jesus though.” He shakes his head like it’ll knock the mental image out of his mind. He doesn’t even like entertaining the idea.

He listens more intently than he let on. Wes screws up his face at the word ‘prophet’. The expression stays, growing sour and the frown of Wes deep, deep in thought. A Saint predicting all of this. Wes wonders if anyone would’ve believed the crackpot if he told others. He leans forward as Justin tells him the story, hands held tightly together. Not in prayer, but in anger.

Predicting is the wrong word. God decided that one guy -- out of billions -- was the guy worth telling. “Fuckin’ selfish, ey? Only looking after one building with what five nuns wandering about the place? Think God would tell someone who could do more than keep one building standing...” Assuming it’s all true. That the nuns really have made it this long by nothing but divine protection.

There was nothing comforting about this place. Maybe some others would disagree, but the only thing Eli had learned since this started, the only lesson he’d taken to heart from any of this, was that the only thing monsters didn’t fuck with were other monsters. The fact that this place is kept whole and unmarred by the world around them only screams that there must be something worse buried here than there is out there.

If he’s biased, he’ll accept that. It doesn’t make his laugh any quieter when he walks out into the garden and sees what’s been left there like some childish retribution. He can only assume Wes is responsible, but that only makes it funnier.

“Then what the fuck does that make us?“

“Dumb assess,” he answers without missing a beat. He looks up to Eli, wags a finger in his direction as though imparting some sage wisdom and not talking whatever shit pops into his mind, “The dumb asses who walk into the creepy fucken building that we’d be yelling at if we saw us on TV.”

The fake seriousness doesn’t last long though. Wes is easily pleased -- and getting someone to laugh at how he’d been entertaining himself in the garden? The easiest way to make him happy.