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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Jun 7, 2012 0:49:48 GMT -6
Georgette Duguay
“I know. I should have come in here with a dozen long-stemmed roses. I was this close to getting them.” Santiago teased. She appreciated his humor, dark and melancholic as it was. He was unique, thinking of giving her a human skull instead the over romanticized chocolate bearing plush animals. She laughed, and for a moment, she considered pulling him in by the collar, putting her lips to his. The moment ended, passed her faster than she could catch it; it slipped through her fingers just seconds before her hand clasped around it.
They weren’t dating; she didn’t want to date. Dating meant obligation, surrendering, which, in Georgette’s experience, stifled attraction, sexual drive, lust, desire… The security and stability that established relationships provided weren’t worth the sacrifices made—individuality, freedom.
She pushed Santiago gently, put him at arm’s length. “This,” she motioned to the skull, and then to themselves. “This doesn’t mean we’re dating now, you know.”
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Post by The Exodus on Jun 7, 2012 1:55:34 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
The moment was perfect— if you ignored the fact that Santiago hadn’t called – for a kiss. He couldn’t help but think he deserved one for being a gentleman for all these months and for turning up with a present in tow and an almost-apology. A familiar hunger surged in Santiago’s abdomen and he leaned forward slightly. Of course, he was met with resistance. Instead of melting against him, practically swooning, Georgette pushed Santiago arms-length away from her. He stared at her, not bothering to hide his disappointed confusion.
“This,” Georgette said, motioning to the skull and then between the pair of them. “This doesn’t mean we’re dating now, you know.”
“You’re charming,” Santiago said dryly. Then, pulling her hands gingerly off of his chest and holding them loosely around the wrists, “I didn’t say we were dating, Georgette. I didn’t ask you do be my girlfriend.”
After all, a gift was a gift and a kiss was a kiss. What was so wrong in exchanging one for the other? Santiago couldn’t see a problem, a conflict in interests. He didn’t let go of her wrists.
“So, tell me. What does ‘this’ mean?”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Jun 8, 2012 17:39:04 GMT -6
Georgette Duguay
“You’re charming,” Santiago said, pulling her hands off his chest, sarcastic rolling off his tongue. “I didn’t say we were dating, Georgette. I didn’t ask you do be my girlfriend.”
Oh? So Santiago was calling the shots now? Georgette was not letting that slide quite as easily as she had his neglect to call her. He held to her wrists.
“So, tell me. What does ‘this’ mean?”
“’This’ means,” she said, breaking free from his grasp on her wrists, “that we aren’t dating. But we aren't not dating, either. You don’t have to ask me to be your anything. I want to have my cake and eat it, too.” Georgette said. “I want you without sacrificing my freedom. I’m sure you can respect that, because you deserve that, too.” She ran a gentle hand across his face, feeling the stubbles prickle her fingers as she did so.
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Post by The Exodus on Jun 8, 2012 19:10:45 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
Santiago Ortiz was a man rarely intrigued. Often, he went through life angry or bored or generally melancholic. Whenever he did find himself intrigued, it was usually with a piece of art, a car crash, or a particularly interesting job assignment. But a woman who told him “no” never failed to intrigue Santiago. The allure of the unattainable or something. Santiago was used to rejection. He was also used to overcoming it. He wasn’t particularly patient, but when Santiago wanted something, he would work for it however long it took.
And he wanted Georgette.
Santiago hadn’t had time to come to grips with how much he wanted her. Between leaving the Garnier, Catalina’s funeral, opening the Detective Agency, and taking care of Rachel, he had a full schedule. An oversaturated one. He often told himself, when his thoughts turned to Georgette, that he didn’t have time for a girlfriend. Unfortunately for Santiago, his thoughts turned to Georgette with some frequency. He’d told himself, when he picked up that skull, that he was coming because he missed her. But Santiago hadn’t had Georgette and a man couldn’t miss something he never had in the first place.
But he could desire. And he could want. And he could lust.
Beneath his hands, Georgette’s pulse fluttered like the wings of a pinned butterfly. But unlike a butterfly, which Santiago could catch, pin down, and put behind glass, Georgette said that he couldn’t have her. Besides, pretty though she was, Georgette wasn’t a butterfly. Santiago didn’t want to put her on display in his office. He wanted to touch her. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted to kiss her and explore her, just because he could. And if she didn’t want to be his girlfriend, that was her loss.
Or at least, that’s what Santiago told himself.
Truthfully, he knew he was a bad boyfriend. You could ask Rachel. He was temperamental, inconsistent, work-obsessed, and selfish. He was private, bossy, and sullen. Santiago didn’t share well with others, but he was worse at sharing his life. It was no surprise Georgette told him she didn’t want to date him.
But Santiago was more than all that. He was fiercely loyal. He was smarter than the men Georgette worked with and hated. And he’d show her one hell of a time in the bedroom if she ever let him get that far.
So, maybe it really was her loss if she said “no”. He could find someone else. He would.
But he didn’t want to.
Georgette was gorgeous. She was the sort of woman who you could dress down and salivate over or dress up and take to stuffy Opera House Galas while talking under your champagne-tainted breath about dealing in death without anyone thinking she was anything but perfection. She was smart, too. Smarter than Santiago, at least scientifically. He learned something when he talked to her about decomposing bodies or about the preservation of the deceased.
There was no reason she wouldn’t be good for him. Mentally, of course. But also physically. Santiago wanted to find out just how good they could be for each other.
But instead, Georgette was saying ‘no’, which made her even more desirable.
“’This’ means,” she said, breaking free from his grasp on her wrists, “that we aren’t dating. But we aren't not dating, either. You don’t have to ask me to be your anything. I want to have my cake and eat it, too.”
Santiago stared at her with a single, lifted eyebrow. He rested on his palms again, which fell to Georgette’s sides and landed on the table. She was talking in riddles. “Fortune Cookie” talk, as Rachel called it when Santiago did it. He hadn’t realized how annoying “Fortune Cookie” talk was until someone used it on him. But if he was hearing Georgette right, her “no” might actually be a “yes”. He cocked his head and waited for elaboration.
“I want you without sacrificing my freedom. I’m sure you can respect that, because you deserve that, too,” she finished.
“So, what you’re saying,” Santiago said, leaning into her palm with his cheek as Georgette stroked it. His lips brushed a little against her skin. “Is that you—let me guess—don’t believe in labels?”
He lifted one of his hands, which went up to the base of Georgette’s skull and reeled her in closer and made her look up at him. He lowered his own head, so that his lips were barely brushing hers.
“That’s fine. I don’t care what you call us,” Santiago murmured. “As long as there is an ‘us’, one way or another.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Jun 18, 2012 21:04:13 GMT -6
Georgette Duguay
For a moment, the world was hushed, like a blanket of her patient’s ashes, a heavy vacivity in the air as Santiago’s face slowly morphed into a veteratorian confusion. Either he didn’t approve of her decision or he didn’t understand the words pressing through her lips persistently.
“So, what you’re saying,” Santiago said at long last, his lips brushing against her anxious palm, sending trails of pinpricks down her spine that seemed to rattle her bones as they coursed through her. “Is that you—let me guess—don’t believe in labels?”
Georgette gave a low smile, darkly humored. She believed in labels. They were important when they came in the form of toe tags and certificates of death. But when it came to life, relationships, things that sat in shades of grey unseen by the naked eye, things so case specific no label had yet been made, how could she?
“That’s fine. I don’t care what you call us,” Santiago murmured. “As long as there is an ‘us’, one way or another.”
“Santiago,” Georgette said, placing her hands on his shoulders, “are you demanding that there’s an us, or are you suggesting? I don’t take orders, you know.” It was a teasing tone she gave, but a seriousness outlined her words in hard, bolded tones. Georgette didn’t get pushed around, told what to do. It wasn’t a man’s job to yell at orders, nor was it a woman’s station to obey. Those rules did not get bent because Santiago Ortiz was in her city, and their malleability was exceptionally nonexistent in her workplace.
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Post by The Exodus on Jun 29, 2012 15:51:00 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
Santiago caught a glimpse of Georgette’s smile. It seemed vaguely sinister, which delighted him. Maybe later, he’d wonder why “sinister” and “delight” went hand in hand for him, but for now, Santiago only focused on the pulsing sensation below his ribcage. The “whys” didn’t matter so much if he felt good.
“Santiago,” Georgette said. Her French—Parisian—accent picked up the sibilance and gently caressed the “S”. He heard French speakers say his name all the time, but never in that low purr. It sounded good and his lips stretched wide. Georgette’s nimble hands rested on his shoulders. “Are you demanding that there’s an us, or are you suggesting? I don’t take orders, you know.”
“Que lastima.,” he said, nuzzling her ear with his nose, lips, and a quick brush of teeth. “A pity, since I don’t give suggestions.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Jul 5, 2012 15:55:40 GMT -6
Georgette Duguay
“Que lastima,” Santiago said, his Spanish words purring deep and low in Georgette’s ear. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she closed her eyes and leaned into its sultry sound. She wanted to feel the word across her skin, fill her up. “A pity, since I don’t give suggestions.”
“Well, then, mon cherie,” Georgette said with a wicked smirk stretching her lips until her pearly teeth glistened beneath them. “It seems that we are at an impasse. Maybe we can slip,” Georgette said, sliding Santiago’s hand up the length of her thigh, the gentle fabric of her skirt gliding smoothly across his skin as it draped over it, “passed it.”
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Post by The Exodus on Jul 19, 2012 8:28:27 GMT -6
Santiago Ortiz
Santiago was not a patient man by nature. However, the years had taught him that anything worth having was worth working towards. He’d wait this little flirtation game out, if Georgette wanted him to, but he was already imagining spreading her out on the table. A flash of her skin, the scratch of her nails into his back.
“Well, then, mon cherie,” Georgette said, smirking “It seems that we are at an impasse. Maybe we can slip past it.”
As she spoke, Georgette slid Santiago’s hand up her skirt. There were no tights in the way, just skin and cotton. Santiago grinned and gently began stroking up her thigh.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe we can just pretend we compromised and do what we both really want to…”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Jul 26, 2012 8:47:05 GMT -6
Georgette Duguay
As Santiago's hand, rough and calloused like eager sandpaper, slid up her leg, Georgette could feel little pin-pricks of lust that made evanescent tracks on her alabaster skin. She could taste his cigarette and coffee breath on her teeth, burning her nose and filling her lungs gloriouslyq. The essence running through her bloodstream until Santiago Ortiz was, in many ways, under her skin. With each brush of his fingers, Georgette could feel that familiar, pulsating, rythmic ache swell inside her, intensifying as Santiago inchd his curious, intrepid way up her thigh, lulling her into an irresistable desire. She gripped the table until her knuckled gleaned white; it was all she could do to keep from crying out in ecstacy. It felt so good and she leaned her head back, enjoying Santiago's touch in the moment. But when she let her head finally loll back, her eyes fell on the certification on the wall. 'Georgette Duguay' it read, 'Medical Examiner'. Just below it on the cool, stainless steel table, a gerriatric patient lay, his eyes open, mouth agape, staring with his dead, cold eyes right at them. For the first time, she was being caught red-handed breaking an office regulation, and she was being caught by a dead man with a toe tag. Here she was, having worked so hard to reach this ripe, fruitfl peak of her career, and she was about to risk it all on a couple of stolen, brackish kisses and a fiery touch. A few hours of something that hid in the ambiguous shades of grey of romance wasn't worth losing what look her years to establish.
So when Santiago, his hot fingers branding her skin, said "Maybe," with that handsome, crocadilian smile "or maybe we can just pretend we compromised and do what we both really want to," Georgette had to muster any vistage of self control left in her to slide off the table.
"You're absolutely right. And you know what I want to do? I mean really want to do?" Georgette asked, slipping her hand down his waist until she could grasp hold of his belt loops. In truth, she wanted to explore every hidden inch of him right here, right now, but there was no denying the shackles around her wrists that bound her to her obligations here. They would have their fervid embrace some other time, but at her place of work-- that was practically holy ground. She crossed to the other side of the room and poured herself some coffee into a cheap cardboard cup. "I want coffee," she lied, putting the steaming sludge to her lips. "Hot, dark, strong, mysterious coffee. Want some?" Though coffee was very rarely 'mysterious', the old standby pick up line of liking your men the way you like your coffee usually didn't ring true for Georgette but she was intruigued and intoxicated by the new Spanish belnd, and she was always open to trying new things, and she just new that once she got a taste for Santiago, she'd come back, thirsty for more.
Ooc: I did this on my phone, so forgive any typeos, I will fix them later. Bic:
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Post by plantnerd92 on Jan 10, 2013 0:32:05 GMT -6
Amorette Cheuvront
A couple of days had passed since she was admitted to the hospital for her attempted suicide. Amorette was vaguely aware that Wes had come to see her, and even her mother, Paulette was there to take care of her along with the nurse that was a constant around her, always within arm's length, as required with a patient on suicide watch. However, they kept her so sedated on tranquilizers, it was hard to really notice these things because all she ever did was sleep, eat, and use the bathroom. They were pumping her full of fluids and sugars from the blood loss, even though she had been given a blood transfusion. The nurse finally helped her to wash the blood out of her pale hair, still always keeping a sharp eye and ear on her, never letting her get further than arm's reach. Amorette hated that she had to use the bathroom in front of her.
She was a little more awake and alert today, her mother sitting on her bedside, and encouraging her to eat the bland, rubbery hospital food and soda they brought her. A home cooked meal would be so wonderful right about now! Amorette reluctantly picked at it. They only gave her plastic dinnerware for the fear of her trying to use it as a weapon, and her food was all cut up into little bite-sized pieces like she was four years old. Amorette wanted to scream with frustration. She tried to divert her attention. The vase of flowers her mother had brought her from her own florist shop was a lovely touch to the room.
They had sorted out her medicine, and begun giving her a cocktail that was working better for her now, and her moods had started to improve, even if it was still a little early for that to be saying much yet. Even so, they still kept her sedated, if not as heavily as she had been. Amorette set her fork down, and laid back against the pillows, not wanting to eat her disgusting hospital food, and needed a distraction.
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Jan 10, 2013 1:10:52 GMT -6
Wes Harlow
Wes had been coming to see Amorette basically everyday since she had been admitted. Mostly she had been out cold aside from a number of times she had opened her eyes. He'd just sit by her bed and hold her hand, talk to her and tell her all about life at the Opera House. It's what Reese Cordova, Amorette's friend, had suggested he do. He'd seen Reese there several times as well and he had no doubt she'd been there other times he hadn't been as well.
He came to visit now, his guitar flung over his back. He gave a polite smile and nod to Amorette's mother who he had gotten to know in the times he spent sitting with Amorette. His smile brightened when he saw Amorette sitting up and looking much more alert than she had in days. It was wonderful to see she was making some progress.
He leaned and placed a soft, brief kiss to her lips, stroking some hair from her face, careful of the injury to her forehead. "Hello, love," he with a smile, taking his usual seat beside her bed. "It's great to see your beautiful eyes again..." He met her gaze with a tender smile before bringing her hand to his lips in a loving kiss.
"Oh! And I have something for you!" He gave a mischievous grin before digging into his messenger bag and pulling out a bag of potato chips. He gave an innocent smile to the nurse and said," For nutrition..."
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Post by plantnerd92 on Jan 10, 2013 2:38:11 GMT -6
Amorette Cheuvront
Amorette brightened when a new presence came into her room, specifically, her boyfriend... Better yet, it was her boyfriend and his guitar. He flashed a heart-warming smile at her, before leaning in to kiss her softly, carefully brushing away some of her pale, newly-washed hair from her face. Amorette was still a little shy of the kissing business, but she responded just enough to let him know she appreciated it.
"Hello, love," he greeted with a smile as he sat beside her bed. She smiled back as she took his hand. "It's great to see your beautiful eyes again..." Wes' expression became more tender at that as he lovingly kissed her hand. Amorette smiled.
"Bonjour, mon chere. It's nice to see you too..." she told him, still having no idea that he was the one that found her in the bathroom. Amorette was happy to see him, though.
"Oh! And I have something for you!" Wes said with an adorable grin as he dug around into his bag and came out victorious with a bag of potato chips, and smiled innocently at her nurse. "For nutrition..." Amorette could have cried with joy. Instead she just started rambling about her undying love to him.
"Oh! Mon héros, Je t'aime pour toujours!" she exclaimed, taking the bag of potato chips and opening them, pulling out a huge handful, and putting them on her plate, before mashing them down into her food, hoping to give it a little more flavor. Paulette smiled in amusement, shaking her head, before looking at Wes.
"Merci, Wes. I've been trying to get her to eat for the last hour and a half," her mother explained. Amorette just huffed.
"That wouldn't be such a problem if this wretched place actually had chefs that actually knew how to cook," she grumbled, starting to eat her food. It was still left to be desired, but the chips helped make it palatable.
Paulette just laughed and shook her head. "Amorette, ma petit, I called the Church. One of the priests is coming to visit soon," she informed her, making Amorette nod as she continued to eat.
"Merci, Maman." she managed to get out. Who knew she'd be such a sucker for potato chips?
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Jan 10, 2013 18:19:26 GMT -6
Wes Harlow
On a certain level, Wes could understand what Amorette was going through. Not so much what she had been going through with the suicide attempt, but what she must be dealing with and would be dealing with now that it was done. He knew what it was like to have people look at you pityingly, to have them treat you so differently because of what you did. His own self-destructive habits had nearly killed him and no one, save Logan, had ever treated him the same after that. It was part of why he'd left. But he wanted Amorette to know she wasn't alone....that he understood.
He smiled as her beautiful face lit up when he pulled out the potato chips. "Oh! Mon héros, Je t'aime pour toujours!" she cried out in French. He didn't quite catch everything but he heard "I love you" and she seemed completely thrilled so he figured he had done well. She took the chips and began to mash them up into her food, probably hoping to improve the taste somewhat.
"Merci, Wes. I've been trying to get her to eat for the last hour and a half," her mother said with a fond smile and shake of her head.
"That wouldn't be such a problem if this wretched place actually had chefs that actually knew how to cook," Amorette protested as she began to eat, making Wes laugh.
"If I had known things were so bad, I would have tried to smuggle in something more than just a bag of chips," he teased. "I know the taste is nothing to be desired, love, but is meant to help you get back your strength. The sooner that happens, the sooner you can get out of here and I can take you on a date and get you some real food!"
"Amorette, ma petit, I called the Church. One of the priests is coming to visit soon," her mother suddenly mentioned.
Wes looked a little confused. "Why is a priest coming here," he asked, not sure what it was all about. The record company hadn't exactly had a priest come to visit him after his overdose happened.
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Post by The Exodus on Jan 11, 2013 0:45:35 GMT -6
OOC: Sorry it's so long!! Let me know if I need to add/subtract anything! BIC:
Father Maurice Mowbray
“You know, of course, that committing suicide is a grave sin. The gravest.”
Maurice knelt in a pew of the almost-empty Sacre Coeur, joined only by Father Gasteau. Gasteau was the pastor of the Sacre Coeur and had been for the last ten years. Tending towards corpulent, Gasteau filled a room with his booming voice, which needed no microphone to be heard during homilies. Maurice, meanwhile, was a tall, slender man, quiet by nature and much less given to fire-and-brimstone speeches when presiding the mass. Dressed in his plain, black street clothes and collarino, Maurice could easily be mistaken for a mourner or parishioner from behind. He’d been praying—or, rather, meditating—about a young woman he was due to visit today. He had been, at any rate, until Gasteau’s interruption. Maurice pressed his palms together harder and didn’t look up.
“Read your catechism, Father,” Maurice said. “I think you will find—“
“I have read my catechism, Father.” Gasteau knelt down in the pew behind Maurice. This only made his voice seem louder as it ricocheted off the vaulted walls and flew directly into Maurice’s ear. “Life is a gift from God and is not ours to take.”
“ ’We should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to him alone, God can provide the opportunity for salutary repentance. The Church prays for persons who have taken their own lives,’” Maurice quoted. "’Grave psychological disturbances, anguish, or grave fear of hardship, suffering, or torture can diminish the responsibility of the one committing suicide.’ Number 2283. Look it up, if you’d like."
“You sound like a schoolboy, reciting lines,” Gasteau said. “But how do you expect to comfort the girl’s family?”
“Leave that to the grief counselors,” Maurice said. “My concern is for the girl. There’s a reason she survived that suicide attempt and she needs to know that neither God nor the Church will abandon her.”
“You seem to have that backwards, Maurice,” Gasteau said, dropping his voice down low.
Maurice’s spine tensed at his given name; a sign of familiarity from friends, on Gasteau’s lips, it was an insult. He opened his blue eyes and trained them on the cross at the altar. Keep me from hating him, Lord.
“The grief counselors determine whether Mademoiselle Cheuvront suffers from ‘grave psychological disturbances’. It’s your job to provide comfort to the family and friends.”
“It’s my calling to provide comfort to any in need,” Maurice said, rising to his feet. He shuffled out of the pew and bowed to wards the altar. “And since this is my job, I suggest you let me do it. Father.”
While Maurice had been so confident in the safe walls of his Church, standing in the stale-smelling hospital lobby, his confidence faltered. There was something truly hopeless about white, linoleum floors and white, fluorescent lighting. So much white; a sickly—if not downright ghostly—pallor cast about the hallway. Hell would undoubtedly be this. This cold, unfeeling place that smelled of antiseptic and decay. This place, where people talked in hushed tones and averted their eyes. And a place such as this—hospital or Hell—was no place for a young woman, who ought to be full of life.
Ought to. Amorette Cheuvront, however, had only days ago attempted to take her own life. Clearly, something had drained from her. Joy, zest for life, contentment, peace. Or maybe none of that had been there to begin with.
And if that was the case, what could Maurice actually say or do to help her? Praying was all well and good, but Maurice didn’t know Amorette, didn’t know if she would reject his prayers and the prayers of the parish. He didn’t know if there was something else—something tangible—he could offer her. His experience with suicide was limited and until now, he’d been thankful for that.
When Maurice was in seminary school, another seminarian had killed himself. It had been a different time then. The death was hushed up, the priests-in-training made to spend the day in silent reflection and prayer. The young man who’d found the body told what he saw on a spiritual retreat: the victim sprawled out on the concrete floor, rope around his neck. Purple marks and blue ringing around, splinters from the broken rafter stuck in one, catawampus arm. A tipped-over chair a foot away. After the retreat, no one spoke of it. No one expressed grief outwardly at the loss of their classmate. Nowadays, there would have been counseling—a psychologist, maybe, or a priest like Maurice who worked as a spiritual counselor—and a diagnosis of mental illness. There would have been lawsuits and paramedics and open discussions. The world had changed. Science and religion shaped each other the way water and a mountainside shaped a river, chipping away, smoothing each other out, and blurring the original, harsh dividing lines. Another wave of Enlightenment had come to Rome.
But it was a different world and Maurice, tugging at his collarino and waiting for the elevator looked like a relic of times long past compared to the men and women rushing by in their crisp labcoats and scrubs. They moved quickly, darting about, while he walked with calm, careful purpose.
But on the inside, Maurice’s mind darted as fast as any nurse on call, just as desperate for prognosis and diagnosis as any of them. But while they talked to each other of bodies and disease, Maurice thought only of spirits and disarray. Mademoiselle Cheuvront was out-of-sorts and it didn’t matter what pill cocktails the doctors concocted for her; what she needed most of all was a place to take shelter. The doctors had their chance and from what Madame Cheuvront said on the phone, they’d failed her daughter once already. Maurice didn’t think Amorette Cheuvront would last very long if both medicine and the Church failed her. He could not let her down.
The elevator doors opened and Maurice stepped out onto the floor where Mademoiselle Cheuvront was staying. He walked down the hallways of the hospital, passing rooms with shut doors. Behind some, he heard televisions droning, behind others monitors beeped. He reached the room with the name “Cheuvront” written on a dry-erase placard outside it.
For a moment, Maurice thought about leaving. Maybe Gasteau was onto something. Leave this to the experts, to the psychologists and to the doctors.
But what if no one else came? What if Maurice was the expert, sent to Mademoiselle Cheuvront when she most needed someone. He took a deep breath. Maybe this was what it meant to be an instrument of the Lord, from inconsequential parish priests like Maurice to great prophets of the Old Testament. Uncertainties, hope, and anxieties were his burden to hand over now, before walking through that door. And in return, maybe he’d say the right thing; do right by Mademoiselle Cheuvront and her family. All by the grace of God.
Maurice exhaled and knocked on the door.
"Why is a priest coming here?" a young man’s voice said. It was muffled through the door and if the rest of the hall hadn’t been so eerily silent, Maurice was sure he wouldn’t have heard.
“Because,” a woman’s voice—a more familiar voice, one Maurice recognized as belonging to Madame Cheuvront—said. It grew louder, nearer, as she spoke. “During times of… When someone we love is…”
Maurice could hear Madame Cheuvront’s voice catch in her throat. Maurice didn’t know the Cheuvront family and he strained to imagine who must have been on the other side of the door.
“You see,” the woman began again. The doorknob rattled as she must have grabbed it from the other side. “The Church provides guidance and support when… well. During times like this.”
She pulled open the door. Maurice took half a step backwards to avoid bumping into the woman standing on the threshold. She was a petite woman, slender and pretty, with fine, blond hair and blue eyes framed by tired lines and sleepless circles. Maurice offered her a warm smile.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Madame,” he said, walking in when Madame Cheuvront gestured for him to do so. He took her hand and held it—not quite a handshake, but more of a friendly grasp. “Father Maurice Mowbray, from the Sacre Coeur. A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
And then his eyes alighted on the girl who could only be Amorette. Like her mother, she was thin and fair, with tired eyes. However, hers were not lined and instead, the weight of years and emotions seemed welled up just behind them. She grasped a bag of potato chips and wore a paisley hospital gown. Maurice kept his small smile in place and walked over to her.
“And you must be Amorette,” he said. “How are you, mademoiselle?”
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Post by plantnerd92 on Jan 11, 2013 16:24:15 GMT -6
OOC: Whoa. I was wiped out after work yesterday, so I passed out before I saw the edit and post. WONDERFUL! I'm going to post now, my lovelies. ^____^ BIC:
Amorette Cheuvront
Amorette wished she could just pull the blankets up over her head as her mother struggled to explain to Wes why a priest was coming to bring comfort to one of the lost lambs in his fold. Her own mother couldn't just come out and say it, and tried to find a way around the unspeakable taboo. She wanted to get up and scream and tear her hair. Just say it! I have sinned! I tried to commit suicide, and no doubt some self-righteous priest like Father Gasteau is going to come in and tell me that I'll be speedily thrust down to Hell for my actions!
Amorette hadn't been going to Mass for a while, too afraid of Father Gasteau and his fire and brimstone sermons that left no leeway for compassion and understanding. Wasn't that what the Lord Jesus had taught on His earthly mission? What did it say in the Gospel of Luke? Judge not that ye be not judged, condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned? She couldn't remember all of it off the top of her head word for word, but there was something about forgiveness in there too. Either way, she dreaded whatever the priest coming would say to her. Not only that, but no one, not even her own mother would treat her the same way again, afraid that she was a psychotic time bomb about to go on a violent rampage or something like that. Or, that she was just some drama queen looking for attention, and that was equally bad. A sick, seductive voice in her mind said she wished she would have succeeded, and then she wouldn't have to deal with all of this.
When her mother opened the door, Amorette felt a stroke of relieved surprise when she saw a different priest standing there, even though she was still uncomfortable about having to find out what he would do or say to her, having this nagging, irrational fear that he'd break the Holy Water out and douse her with it while holding a Crucifix to her stitched-up forehead.
“Father Maurice Mowbray, from the Sacre Coeur. A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.” he introduced himself, grasping her mother's hand in greeting. Something about him seemed kinder than Father Gasteau. His blue eyes landed on Amorette, and it was all she could do to keep herself from shrinking under the covers, a little comforted that Wes was sitting next to her. She held very still as Father Mowbray approached, starting to break into a nervous sweat.
"And you must be Amorette," he said with a gentle smile. "How are you, mademoiselle?" he asked. Amorette studied him for a moment, before speaking timidly.
"... You... You're not Father Gasteau..." Amorette realized the rudeness of her statement, and flushed a pretty shade of pink clear to the roots of her pale hair, and she averted her teal eyes. "Pardonnez-moi, Père... That was rude of me..." Great. Another sin to add to her ever growing list.
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