The poor girl.
Truly.
It started with her name.
A name she could not identify herself with.
Grace gets pregnant and is abandonned.
Her father shames her, as does the congregation, the town.
A son is born and she is trapped in that house, with him and her father.
She stays because of a promise. Of hope.
Staying because in the end it will be worth it. Maybe. Hopefully.
And then that hope is shattered.
No fortune, no oppurtunity to finally be free.
In desperation she searches and nothing comes of it.
Although not nothing. No.
A tale of a harlot whore whose demonic outburst lives on.
Smitten down by god himself for her sins.
Years later, her son keeps on calling her a harlot whore. As do the others.
Her name is not relevant to them.
Wicks is no better than his own father, he left his son behind as well.
The mother? A so called loose woman.
But was she?
And the son? A man filled with hatred who, just like his father, is only interested in furthering his own goals.
But is is different. Of course it is.
Wicks is a man and his mother was a harlot whore.
The rules are different for him. Barely existing.
The poor girl who just wanted a chance to be free.
To not be a mockery, to live.
Grace was not granted grace.
Not in life, not in death.
But, few decades later, a young priest arrives.
He is kind, with a good heart whose congregation is important to him. Their wellbeing.
Murder and deceit happen.
The young girl who had condemned Grace and judged her a sinner, confesses while taking her last breath.
The young priest builds a new cross, replacing the untrue shadow of a tale so wrong yet so ingrained.
The poor girl, whose name was Grace was, finally, granted grace.
By her condemner and a priest.
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