Sacre Coeur

[The Exodus]

With its unmistakable domes, the Sacre Coeur Basilica is both a place of worship and a tourist attraction. Pilgrims of both religious and history-buff varieties come to pay homage to this glorious monument.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

The day had started out grey. Natalie knew it when she looked out of the rental flat’s windows that it would be one of those days, where even the City of Lights went a little dimmer. While most people would bemoan the weather and declare it a wasted day, Natalie slid out of bed, made herself a cup of breakfast tea, and spent the day taking advantage of the empty streets and rained-out bistros. She’d spent much of the day, treated like a queen.

Until, of course, she met up with Damien for dinner.

Natalie was not one for guilt. She was too proud, too busy for any of the gloomy side-effects of remorse. But somewhere between the hors d’oeuvres and the main course, a stabbing sensation plunged into Natalie’s breastbone and stayed put, lodging deeper with every breath she drew. Perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so terrible, if the conversation hadn’t turned to Damien’s boyfriend, Toddy St. James.

“That reminds me! You must meet Toddy! He’s wonderful, Mummy!” Damien gushed, lowering his wine glass and grinning like a six year old with a new pack of Crayolas. “He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met! You have no idea how superb he is. He’s so--”

He sighed dreamily, and for a moment, Natalie couldn’t help but wonder and worry what he was imagining. She’d never seen that dreamy look cross her son’s face. And that was saying something, given Damien’s artistic tendencies. There was something distinctly disturbing in talking about your son’s love life over dinner. Natalie coughed a little, trying to dispel her own discomfort. She knew nothing about the man her son described except that he was American, male, and a little older than Damien. None of these facts were particularly awe inspiring; they were things Natalie never expected Damien to require in a lover. She still couldn’t shake her feeble dreams of marrying him off nice-and-proper to a respectable young woman, which Ashton Greene clearly wasn’t. The hope still clung to the insides of Natalie’s brain, in its darkest crevices. She’d pinned all of her hope on her only child; half those hopes were now long gone, vanished gold at the end of Damien’s rainbow.

For a moment, Damien’s face spasmed. He seemed to have caught something of this in Natalie’s eye and the wine glass he held hit the table with a very deliberate “thump”.

“Brave,” Damien said tightly. “He’s brave and kind and supportive. I didn’t mean in bed.”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything!” Natalie insisted. She folded her hands in her lap. “Damien, sweetheart—“

“You didn’t have to,” Damien murmured. “You just gave me that look. Christ, Mum! I’m not you or dad, okay? I take things slow.”

“What was that?” Color rose in Natalie’s cheeks.

“Nothing. Sorry. Just…” Damien sighed. “We make you uncomfortable, don’t we? Me and Toddy?”

“N-“

“We do!” Damien said, a little too loudly. He stood up. “For the love of--! I mean, you’ve never met him… Didn’t even ask… Instead I say three things about him and you’re giving me this look like I’m some diseased stranger or… Forget it. You’ll meet him next weekend at my coming out.”

“Damien Alexandre, don’t take that tone with me!” Natalie hissed. People were staring at them and she wished he would sit down and stop reaching for his wallet.

Damien looked up and for a quiet, hurt moment. He pulled two twenties from his billfold and laid them on the table.

“You know,” he said, standing up. “You could pretend to be happy for me. The old you would have. I miss my mummy, okay? I just want you to like him and…”

Damien cleared his throat hard. Natalie could see tears welling in his blue eyes.

“At least Dad made an effort,” he snapped. His words stung Natalie as if he’d slapped her. “Just give Toddy a chance this weekend. Thanks for dinner, Mum.”

Natalie had sat alone in that restaurant for another hour, not eating or drinking or ordering anything. She would have sat there for another several hours, but they needed to close up for the night and eventually, the waiters turned Natalie out onto the wet, cobbled streets. And of course by the time that happened, it was pouring rain and she was slogging through the muddy Pigalle district alone at night. Natalie passed by bars and clubs and the infamous Moulin Rouge, dodging teasing catcalls in unintelligible French. She didn’t understand the neighborhood’s appeal. Its air was foggy and clogged with cigarette smoke; its denizens all looked nightmarish in their streaked eyeliner and revealing club garb. Natalie felt like the last bastion of propriety on this side of Paris tonight, and even still, she couldn’t shake the teary, frustrated glance Damien tossed her way.

I miss my mummy, he’d said. Until Damien actually said it out loud, Natalie hadn’t realized how far gone she was. There had been a time in the not-so-distant past when every little move Damien made was magic in her eyes. He could do no wrong. Every day was a triumph, a blessing. Her pregnancy had been remarkably difficult and left conception even harder. Damien was her only child and would always be. And somewhere along the way, she’d gotten so hung up on making him perfect, that she’d forgotten to let him be human. There were full weeks that Natalie kept him shut up in that gorgeous, Wiltshire McMansion, learning to draw or speak French or play the piano. He was bubble-wrapped, kept safe. Mummy’s dearest treasure. And then Lucian would come home and roughhouse with Damien, take Natalie’s china-doll son and toss him around playing rugby in the yard or feed him foods that were probably made out of congealed fat and wood chips. They’d had rows about this when they were married: big, huge fights about child-rearing practices that never got resolved. And for a long time, Natalie was certain that if anything ruined Damien’s perfection, it was Lucian. But—apparently—now that Damien was waving a rainbow colored flag, it was his father who was making “an effort”, whatever that meant, and Natalie was the bad guy. And at first, tramping through puddles and t fighting with her umbrella, Natalie was cursing her ex-husband for still—still!—being the better loved parent, despite everything Natalie sacrificed for Damien. And then, trying to read a metro map on the side of a building, something shifted in Natalie.

Maybe Damien was onto something when he said “I miss my mummy”. Maybe she could try a little harder, do more right by her son. He was her only child; the only one she’d ever have. And if every time they met, the night ended in tears, then maybe Natalie ought to try another tactic.

If we meet again, Natalie thought with unusual morbidity. She was lost and wet in a foreign country. And wracked with guilt she may have been, it didn’t change the fact that she could fix nothing, standing here and shivering in an autumn thunderstorm.

At the top of the hill, the Sacre Coeur cut the only familiar figure in the area. Natalie had been there once, when Damien was ten, to do the tourist-thing. She remembered little about it, except that it was a church and that she had dozed off in a pew while Lucian and Damien marveled at its architectural features. It was safe and warm and dry in there. If nothing else, there was nowhere as fitting as a church to shed some of her guilt. Natalie trudged towards it and inside its dome for shelter.

The Sacre-Coeur was a distinctly Catholic church. A cathedral of sorts. Natalie knew little of Catholicism, save for the fact that its dogma frowned upon adultery, divorce and homosexuality all; it would have been disastrous if Lucian hadn’t converted a lifetime ago when Natalie told him to. They’d still be married and miserable; Damien would be in the recesses of the closet, next to the Christmas sweaters. And for a moment, Natalie thought that she ought to run away. She was an adulterous divorcee with a gay son. Clearly, she was the last person the Church wanted to extend its help to.

But the icon of Jesus painted high on the dome ceiling had His arms outstretched and welcoming. And for a moment, Natalie wondered what it would be like to fold herself up in the offered embrace. Literally and not metaphysically; she needed to be held and to apologize to someone. Damien, specifically. But the chance that he would answer his phone after their fight, this late at night was slim. She’d take her chances with God.

There were a few others, knelt in worship in front of prayer candles and saint statues, to whom Natalie paid no mind. They were absorbed in devotion and didn’t look her way twice. She combed her eyes over the rows of pews, but saw nowhere that looked inviting. Instead, her eyes latched upon the dark-wooded confessional booth. It looked private and the door hung open as if begging her to step inside. It offered a hiding place where she could be alone with God or her thoughts or whatever. She slipped inside and shut the door. She was now in a cocoon. The slight sounds from outside were muffled. Even the rain and thunder were hard to hear. She shut her eyes and leaned back, relaxing for a moment. But when she opened her eyes, Natalie noticed something she hadn’t seen before.

On the other side of the latticed partition was the silhouette of a man.

“Jesus Christ!” she swore, pressing her hand to her chest. Then, laughing apologetically added, “You scared me.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Alexis Beauchamps

Jesus. It had been a long time since Alexis had stepped inside of a church. He got married in a church, but that had been thirteen years ago, an unlucky number. He had baptized his son in a church, but that had been six years ago, which, when paired with two more sixes was unholy. Alexis was set up for disaster from the moment he stepped onto the hallowed grounds of the Sacre Coeure, but it was a question that followed him around every time he stepped outside, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard he tried. It was a question only a priest could answer; only a priest could assuage him. And a priest couldn’t tell anyone what Alexis said, there was a confidentiality that stayed locked inside the church walls, never spoken of again, but always remembered, if not by Alexis, if not by the priest, then by God.

The church was empty save for a few zealous, devoted Catholics who sat in the pews praying, as if that alone would get them a one-way ticket to sainthood. But he wasn’t here to join them. Not today. Today, he had his eyes not on the hymnals and rosaries, but on the confessional. He had a sitter for tonight to keep Blaise entertained and safe, and he was going to take advantage of the temporary caregiver to save his conflicted soul from the recent trouble he’d come across.

His a careful knuckle, he rapped on the heavy wooden door, clearing his throat nervously. “Pardon me? Is this one open?”

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

Maurice still hadn’t gotten used to the Sacre Coeur. He knew, in his heart of hearts, he never really would. He still expected to wake up to the sound of village roosters crowing outside or an anxious deacon wondering aloud why he was still asleep when there was work to be done. He was used to the most meager of living situations—a cot, a bare or dirt floor, maybe a tent and a sleeping bag. It had been hard enough, living in his sister’s home while his ribs healed; his Paris apartment was utterly foreign. And when it came to sermonizing or hearing confession, everything about the Sacre Coeur seemed so impersonal and huge. Maurice wondered how any of his parishioners expected to feel close to God here, when God was best witnessed out in the world and in the lowliest of places. Too often, he felt that those who came to him for confession came merely because therapy was too expensive or commitment-oriented. One woman, who had been frequenting his confessional since his the first time he offered reconciliation had detailed her entire psychological history for Maurice. He usually told her to pray five rosaries and to take some time merely to walk along the river and clear her head. And yet, Maurice was beginning to think it didn’t matter how many Hail Marys she said or how long she spent clearing her head. The woman would always be back with a new set of neuroses and perceived sins. Another man told him in lurid detail about his extra-marital affairs, to the point where Maurice didn’t think the man was very sorry at all. Still, he offered them each God’s forgiveness and a penance, hoping that maybe he was serving his new community as it needed.

Maurice had spent much of the morning hearing confessions. He was due for his lunch break after the next parishioner and he couldn’t help but feel a tad restless. Many times, he cleared his own mind, became Father Maurice instead of just Maurice. It wasn’t a persona, per se. But it was the only way Maurice could separate the personal and the spiritual here. He hadn’t had that problem in Uganda or Romania or India or Kyrgyzstan. Every missionary church he’d been a part of, Maurice felt invested in his people’s problems. But in Paris, everything sounded so trivial that he simply could not be just Maurice. If he was, he feared he would withhold divine pardon from so many just because he was astonished by the shallow pettiness of it all. Stealing from a business partner. Cheating on a spouse. Swearing in traffic. Or—the real kicker—“impure thoughts”. Who hadn’t had an impure thought before? Maurice missed face-to-face conversations. He missed listening to real problems, not self-imposed ones. He missed actually making a difference. Now all he did was hear the same voices through a screen complaining about the same things. Maurice knew it was not his place to refuse forgiveness. And sometimes, knowing that God would be the real judge was the only way Maurice could say “I absolve you from your sins” without lying.

Let he without sin cast the first stone.

Maurice rested his head against the carved back of his chair. A decorative fluerette fitted at the notched base of his skull and he stared up at the ceiling, hoping for the strength to get through one more confession before resuming his more worldly state.

A knock on the door made Maurice sit upright.

“Pardon me? Is this one open?” an unfamiliar male voice said.

“Of course,” Maurice said placidly. “The Church is always open to those in need. Please, come in.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Alexis Beauchamps

When Alexis thought of priests and other such holy professions, he always thought of a mystic, mysterious man with a Mr. Miyagi wisdom and an inner telephone that had God Himself on speed dial. It made taking church seriously a difficult task, but it made losing his faith just as painful. His faith in what, he didn’t know. His faith in everything being “all right”? His faith in some higher being sorting things out for him? His faith in happy endings, maybe? Whatever it was, it left Alexis feeling lost and confused, suspended in some uncertainty, concerned about the current status of his soul and seat in Heaven.

“Of course.” came a calm, welcoming voice from a shadowy latticed window. ”The Church is always open to those in need. Please, come in.”

Alexis slid the door closed, his idea of priests in no way disputed as he approached the kneeler. As he did so, he couldn’t help but feel much how Alexis imagined an accused man approached the bench.

“Hi,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t really know how to do this, Father… I don’t really have a confession,” Alexis said, though he could think of many, “more of a question, if you will…” It seemed silly, didn’t it, that Alexis was asking a priest, a presumably celibate man, for relationship advice? But, alas, here he was, on bended knee, spilling out his borderline adulterous thoughts to a man he barely knew, all because that man wore a robe and probably had the Bible memorized. Alexis didn’t know whether to call it desperation or overly cautious clarification.

“My wife and I have been estranged for two years. She’s…” explaining it had always been difficult. People made unfair judgments, and even now, after two years, the words still tasted weird in his mouth. “She doesn’t realize it, Father, she’s… she lives in a hospital, assisted living. And I was wondering when, or even if, it was acceptable by God for me to date again. I have a son and he deserves a mother who can give him everything she can’t.” Alexis felt his eyes sting and he pressed his fingers to them to alleviate the prickling pressure. “I know it’s wrong to cheat, believe you me, I know. But how can it be wrong if it’ll make more people happy in the long run?”

[The Exodus]

OOC: I hope you appreciate this. Because I wrote this while listening to Gaga. And am probably going to Hell on that very account. BIC:

Father Maurice Mowbray

The door clicked shut and Maurice made himself more comfortable. He heard the other man settle on the other side of the latticed partition. But instead of hearing the typical “Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession”, Maurice heard:

“Hi. I don’t really know how to do this, Father… I don’t really have a confession; more of a question, if you will…”

“Of course,” Maurice said evenly. “How can I help you?”


“My wife and I have been estranged for two years. She’s… She doesn’t realize it, Father, she’s… she lives in a hospital, assisted living. And I was wondering when, or even if, it was acceptable by God for me to date again. I have a son and he deserves a mother who can give him everything she can’t. I know it’s wrong to cheat, believe you me, I know. But how can it be wrong if it’ll make more people happy in the long run?”

Maurice sucked in a breath and was quiet for a very long moment. The unseen man on the other side of the lattice sounded so desperate, Maurice could feel his own heart aching for him. He exhaled slowly.

“The Church is very clear when it comes to the sanctity of marriage, sir,” Maurice said cautiously. “ ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’.”

He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“However,” he said. “Your intention is admirable. It’s natural to seek human companionship and right to put your son’s needs before and above your own. It is only companionship you seek, is it not?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Alexis Beauchamps

“The Church is very clear when it comes to the sanctity of marriage, sir. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’.”

Right. Alexis remembered that, and his face twitched with an upset at the familiar news, and a sudden wave of gratitude washed over him for the obscure view the latticed partition provided the priest on the other side. He felt safe in the anonymity, despite how stupid he convinced himself he was for even asking in the first place. He should have known his answer, and should have, long before he stepped foot in the Sacre Couer, resigned himself to the life of a single father.

“Thank you, Father for your time.” Alexis stood, taking a step backwards towards the door, unsure if turning your back towards a priest, regardless of how well he could see you, was a sin or not.

But the gentle voice rang out once again, stopping Alexis in his tracks. “However,” he said. “Your intention is admirable. It’s natural to seek human companionship and right to put your son’s needs before and above your own. It is only companionship you seek, is it not?”

Alexis returned to his kneeling position and thought. He appreciated the response, but Alexis couldn’t help but wonder how much truth there was to the man’s statement. How did a man create a relationship based on companionship alone? A healthy romance had trust, lust, love, and respect all bundled into one. It was what he and Carine had had before… well, up until six years ago. There was a selfish part to him, as there was, he was sure, in every person, that told him he deserved to be happy, no matter what his priest said. But that part was silenced by a larger slice of himself, that told him in a calm voice that he was happy: he was the father to a brilliant, beautiful son, had a wonderful job, and had some great friends. Really, what more could he ask for?

Companionship. Yes. Companionship would be a nice bonus.

“Yes, of course,” Alexis said, not quite convinced. “So if I went on a date, found a woman who loved me and loved my son, would it be an unforgivable sin of some sort, Father?”

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

“Yes, of course,” the man said. Maurice resisted the urge to sigh. Clearly, his supposedly penitent friend hadn’t heard exactly what he wanted to hear. Maurice didn’t exist to tell people what they wanted to hear. He often was forced to help his community face difficult truths.“So if I went on a date, found a woman who loved me and loved my son, would it be an unforgivable sin of some sort, Father?”

“No sin is unforgivable,” Maurice said hesitantly.

He sighed this time and shook his head. He suddenly had the urge to get up and pace as he deliberated his next choice of words. Maurice’s eyes shut and he imagined what Father Albert would say. The older man would likely chastise this poor young father, tell him to pray his lust away, and that he should be ashamed for not caring for his sick wife. Maurice didn’t believe in chastising when he could avoid it. People really did like honey better than vinegar. Just because Maurice’s job was to help people confront uncomfortable realities, he didn’t like doing it harshly.

“I wonder, monsieur,” he said tentatively. “How far gone her mind truly is. I’m not about to promise you anything, but, if she lives in an assisted living facility, perhaps you may have grounds for…”

Maurice stopped himself. He cleared his throat. An annulment. The man may have had grounds for an annulment. Maurice hated suggesting such a thing and suddenly, his heart went out to the woman living alone in a hospital, still blindly unaware of the world progressing without her. It was very Jane Eyre, wasn’t it? He was telling Mr. Rochester he could lock his wife away in an attic if it was Church sanctioned. He pressed his hands to his temples.

“How far gone is she, monsieur, if I may be so bold?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: It's.... bad. But it's here. BiC:

Alexis Beauchamps

“No sin is unforgivable,” the priest said from the shadows, which were reassuring words, but there was something taut in his tone that ate at the back of Alexis’s mind. Even if no sin was unforgivable, it didn’t mean it was a sin worth committing.

There was a moment, a long, immobile silence that stretched the atmosphere out thin. Alexis found himself breathless, reaching for air.

“I wonder, monsieur,” the priest said at long last. “How far gone her mind truly is. I’m not about to promise you anything, but, if she lives in an assisted living facility, perhaps you may have grounds for…”

Alexis’s head perked, listening. Grounds for what? The priest spoke again, “How far gone is she, monsieur, if I may be so bold?”

Alexis let out a stream of hot air in thought. That was a very good question. “I-I don’t know… She has episodes of being nonverbal, and being violently angry. She doesn’t recognize our friends, her former co-workers… Only me. I don’t know what that tells you, but it’s all I have.” Alexis sighed. “I see her as often as I can, though, make sure she’s not alone. I don’t… love her anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her,” he said, as if it alone could save his soul, save his conscience, if not his marriage. "How can you help me, Father?"

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

Maurice planned to attend confession himself tonight. He suddenly felt very guilty for thinking what he was thinking and for saying what he was saying. He was suggesting a man leave his sick wife and a part of him instinctively knew something was wrong with that. A lot of things were wrong with that, actually. He told himself he was not blaspheming. Annulments weren’t unheard of and reserved for the most extreme of cases. It was a weighty decision. Couples who did it cited more than “irreconcilable differences”—that vague, blanket term so often used to protect privacy and make excuses. Annulment rendered the marriage invalid; said that it had been made under false pretenses. It was sanctioned by the Church and as such, much more difficult to obtain than the average divorce. Maurice hated seeing couples annul their vows. It made him wonder why people even bothered with the “til death do us part” portion of their vows, if they had no intention of taking them seriously.

And yet the man on the other side of his screen sounded so desperate. Maurice wondered if maybe the man was desperate enough to claim that the vows had been empty ones.

“I-I don’t know…” said the man. “She has episodes of being nonverbal, and being violently angry. She doesn’t recognize our friends, her former co-workers… Only me. I don’t know what that tells you, but it’s all I have.”

No, Maurice thought sadly. You’re all she has.

The poor woman only recognized her husband. As painful as things were for the man, Maurice’s sympathy shifted to the wife who was surrounded daily by strangers and still tragically in love with a man who would lock her away rather than deal with her illness.

“I see her as often as I can, though, make sure she’s not alone,” the man assured him. “I don’t… love her anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. How can you help me, Father?"

Maurice shook his head.

“If you are resolute to end your marriage, monsieur, you might look into obtaining an annulment. The Church states that if the marriage is contracted under false pretenses. If either of you entered into it without intent to keep your vows sacred, the marriage could be voided. But it’s a serious action, monsieur. As serious as marriage itself. Something to consider.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Alexis Beauchamps

“If you are resolute to end your marriage, monsieur, you might look into obtaining an annulment. The Church states that if the marriage is contracted under false pretenses. If either of you entered into it without intent to keep your vows sacred, the marriage could be voided. But it’s a serious action, monsieur. As serious as marriage itself. Something to consider.”

Unless Alexis was mistaken, he had asked for help. An annulment, a claim that the marriage never happened would be an insult to the good times he and Carine did have together, a slap in the face to the beautiful memories and moments they had shared together. To invalidate their vows, to erase any trace of a marriage existing, would be cruel to the delicate days Alexis treasured. Those days were fragile and translucent, only visible if the light caught them just right, but they were dear and beautiful. An annulment was fire that turned those memories into embers, gasping for air and giving one lackluster flicker before dying forever. He had already locked Carine away; he couldn’t snuff her out, too.

“Sorry, Father.” Alexis said, running a hand down his face. “But no. It’s not something to consider. I swear to you sending her there was the hardest decision I have ever had to make. If we didn’t have Blaise—our son—I would have stayed by her side, and we would have worked on our marriage, we would go back to being… us. But I couldn’t raise a child—my child—around her. A mother who throws vases in raging fits, or stares blankly and won’t acknowledge you, or hallucinates and has mood swings is not something any child should grow up knowing. A child should have a loving, nurturing mother figure, wouldn’t you agree?” Alexis asked before giving another sigh. “Besides, how can it be fair to her if the church nullifies our marriage and I move on? She’d be unaware. Completely unaware. Thank you, Father, but I don’t think its marital help I’m after. I believe its spiritual guidance I seek. Could we maybe focus more on that?”

Alexis hadn’t meant to monologue at the priest. He hadn’t meant to ramble on and on. But there had been no one to listen, no one to tell this to since it happened. There was his family, yes, but he didn’t want to burden them; there was Carine’s loved ones, sure, but they were bitter. But this priest, was an outsider, unbiased, oddly calming. Alexis may not be getting the answers he wanted to hear, but he was getting this off his chest. And just maybe that was what he needed most of all.

[The Exodus]

Father Maurice Mowbray

Maurice felt like a criminal accomplice. He shut his eyes, but knew he couldn’t shut out the man’s desperate pleas for help and guidance. Usually, things on his side of the confessional were more clear cut. Typically, when a penitent came to him with worries over a failing marriage, he could recommend counseling. But if this man’s wife was really as far gone as suggested, there was little even the best counselors could do. In that instant, Maurice knew he’d be praying for all of them-- the man, his wife, and their little boy—tonight.

“Sorry, Father,” said the man. “But no. It’s not something to consider. I swear to you sending her there was the hardest decision I have ever had to make.”

Maurice’s lips curved into a small, fractured smile. He didn’t think the man would know how much more at ease he was to hear that.

“If we didn’t have Blaise—our son—I would have stayed by her side, and we would have worked on our marriage, we would go back to being… us. But I couldn’t raise a child—my child—around her. A mother who throws vases in raging fits, or stares blankly and won’t acknowledge you, or hallucinates and has mood swings is not something any child should grow up knowing. A child should have a loving, nurturing mother figure, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“Besides, how can it be fair to her if the church nullifies our marriage and I move on? She’d be unaware. Completely unaware. Thank you, Father, but I don’t think its marital help I’m after. I believe its spiritual guidance I seek. Could we maybe focus more on that?”

“Certainly,” Maurice said. This was much more within his comfort zone than talk of a broken, irreparable marriage. “What sort of spiritual guidance do you seek?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Alexis Beauchamps

“Certainly,” the priest said, and Alexis was put at ease once more, his shoulders rolling into place as he felt tension melt away, leaving his joints, his veins seeping back into his skin until they disappeared completely once more. “What sort of spiritual guidance do you seek?”

Alexis took in another deep breath. He would need to be home soon to relieve his sitter and get Balise some dinner. Parmesan chicken with broccoli and cheese on the side. Like every night. His sitter flat out refused to cook, mostly because the stove was temperamental and it wasn’t in her contract. He checked his watch. Did he really have time for this?

“Everything I’ve told you, Father,” Alexis said slowly. “Does it make me a bad person?” The minute he asked, he realized how juvenile it sounded—like a teenager caught red handed for cheating on a test. “What I mean is,” he said, backing his thoughts up like a car in reverse, “I can tell myself all I want that she’s in good hands, that I made the right decision, but telling myself that is biased; of course I’m going to tell myself that. But does it, from an objective, outside view, make me a terrible person?”

Alexis shook his head. Thirty-five years old and he couldn’t even make his own honest opinion on himself without a stranger’s affirmation. It was sad. Maybe these past two years had been harder on him than he thought, than he pretended they had been. He caught sight of his face in the reflection of the doorknob. He looked older than he should have. He could see, feel, count, the lines around his eyes and that etched themselves into his forehead. Even if the priest helped him out spiritually, he couldn’t rewind the clock.

[blueeyeddevil]

OOC: For Riss and Kenneth!

Wes Harlow

Wes had never exactly been religious. Growing up, his father had never taken him to church. Ian had taken him to services a few times, usually Easter or Christmas. But after he'd died, Wes had stopped attending altogether. In fact, the last time he could remember being in a church was for his brother's funeral service....closed casket...Ian was too messed up from the accident. Church had never been a constant in his life.

But he was here now...and he had really no idea what he was doing. The priest from this church had come to visit Amorette and she and her mother obviously took comfort in the church. He had figured what harm could there be giving it a shot. He was on board with anything that would help his girlfriend through this rough time. At the very least, he hoped she would be touched by the gesture and it would let her know he cared.

He went to the front of the church and sort of mimicked what the others were doing. He lit one of the candles and knelt down. He felt very out of place and odd as he bowed his head and clasped his hands in prayers. He thought the words, trusting whatever higher power there was to hear them.

"God, I know I have no right to ask you for anything. Honestly, I don't even know what to do here...I just want Amorette to be okay. She's all I have left! I can't lose her too. Please, you've taken so much from me already! Don't take her too! Please, just help her get through this. I need her to get through this..."

His internal pleading led to tears, streaming down his face. All he could think about was how she'd looked laying there on the floor of the bathroom, covered in blood and white as snow. Wes stumbled his way over to on of the pews, sitting there and watching the others as brushed the tears away and tried to calm himself down.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

A year ago today, Kenneth’s theology class had been interrupted by the rude, shrill ring of his cellphone. Glad to be free of the tedious note taking about the origins of heaven, he said it was important and left the class to answer it, thankful for the distraction, ready to kiss the ground at his caller’s feet. Surely a conversation with someone—anyone—would beat the day he was having so far.

On the other end of the phone, a woman spoke in crisp sympathies. “Kenneth Dahl?”
“Yes? This is he?”
“Hello, Kenneth. I’m Sergeant Anders. Kenneth, do you know a Timothy Stauton?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, his chest expanding as if his heart where made of helium. The sound of Timothy’s name filled him with pride and love. “He’s my… well, he’s my boyfriend.”
“I see.” she said, and Kenneth could hear her voice tighten as she spoke through uncomfortable, pursed lips. “Well, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Kenneth. But he was found dead this morning.”
Kenneth let out a laugh. Timothy, always the prankster, probably set up one of his friends in the Theatre department to call him to get him out of class. Surely, Timothy would walk around the corner any minute with a bag full of Chinese food and together, they’d walk down to the quad and eat in the grass. But Timothy was nowhere in sight and Kenneth started to think that maybe this was no practical joke. “You’re not kidding, are you? I swore this was some kind of prank, officer.”
“This is no prank, officer. He was found hanging by the neck in a Starbucks bathroom. We found in his pockets, a letter to you if you would like to come down and claim it.”
The balloon in his chest popped and Kenneth suddenly felt cold. “Timothy’s… dead?” he managed to say, his throat parched and sore. “My Timothy? No. I have to see him.” Kenneth slid down the wall beside him, weeping into his knees. On the other line, Sergeant Anders spoke, but Kenneth couldn’t hear her above the buzzing that had filled his ears. How could he live when Timothy wasn’t?

Though Kenneth got the letter from Timothy, written in his lovely cursive and folded ever so carefully to fit into his vest pocket, he never got to see him. He wasn’t allowed to the funeral. He never got to kiss that stone-cold face or run his fingers through those ebony curls the way he did every night. And sitting here, now in the pew of this church, Kenneth wished he had paid more attention in Theology that day. Though Kenneth remained relatively ambivalent about religion, he found himself pondering it with reverence, anger, and curiosity. He refused to believe that Timothy, despite what Mr. and Mrs. Stauton said, was anywhere but Heaven. Kenneth had walked past protests and signs exclaiming how God hated the gays. He had seen his friends beaten up out of bars for holding hands with their boyfriends or girlfriends, had heard the awful slurs thrown at them all. But how could God hate a young man who built houses for the homeless the way Timothy did? How could God hate a man who made others laugh, even when they wanted to cry? How could He hate a man who loved so fiercely, so wholly that it would transcend all the hate in the world and not have a shelf-life? How could he hate a man who would rather die than be told how to love?

“Timothy,” he mumbled under his breath, it’s been a year. If you can hear me up there, know that I love you and I miss you every day.” His brain drew a blank. Why couldn’t he say all the things he wanted to say at the funeral. “We’ll talk later.”

He slid back into the pew and looked around. The church was actually not how he had envisioned it in books. For a place as legendary as the Sacre Coeur, it was eerily empty, as if the building expected the grace and presence of God to fill its entire volume. Just a few devout parishioners bowed their heads to pray. But just a few rows down from him sat a man whose shoulders shook as he wiped loose tears from his pale face. With his hand, Kenneth wiped away his own and stood, sniffling, as he approached him. From his breast pocket, he withdrew a tissue.

“Excuse me,” he said, bending low to him. “You look like you could use this.”