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Mad Poster
Original Poster
#1 Old 8th Feb 2009 at 2:22 AM
Default Faith
This came faster than the majority of my stories do, but I rather like it. It's not finished yet, but the text posted in this first entry is about 40% of the entire story, by my estimation. I promise that it becomes more optimistic, from this point on, but I sincerely hoe you enjoy it thus far. I'd love to hear what you think... it'll make me churn out the rest faster .


Faith
By: Rabid



He meets her at a support group for the terminally ill, and even though he’d rather be anywhere but discussing his impending death in that stuffy, clinical church basement, her unassuming radiance lights up the cement cellar like a lighthouse on the rocky shore of a storm-tossed sea.


He first takes notice of her while the members of the group file in and boo-hoo about their incessant aches, medications, and insecurities. Her thin flaxen hair lies in sparse, whipped curls about her sweet face like buttercream frosting, luminous blue eyes sparkling from beneath narrow brows. The petite, heart-shaped features of a jazz era actress give way to the contradictorily emaciated body of an invalid, bony and fragile beneath shapely clothing that might once have fit well. He can’t hear her voice from across the room due to the weary complaints of the cancer patient that has him sidelined, but good judgment bespeaks of it being just as lovely as the rest of her.


The leader of the organization calls for order, and the conversing members of the crowd rotely lower themselves into a circle of folding chairs with stiff limbs and halfheartedly concealed winces. Something about this woman is extraordinarily incandescent, and he takes care to place himself next to her. A sly sideways glance reveals the straight slope of her nose, the high planes of her cheekbones, and the long curvature of her dark lashes. She watches the leader with rapt attention as the perfunctory sympathetic monologue is launched, and he watches her with equal captivation.


The session passes as usual, what with the group wearing its collective heart on its sleeve and him doing his damndest to remain as clipped and private as possible. It ends with a prayer, and when the leader calls for hands to be joined, he relishes in the touch of her smooth, warm skin and slim fingers. Despite the pleasant sensation, the prayer is uncomfortable. The honeyed words are loaded, untrue promises of a salvation that never comes, whimsically fictional pledges of a brighter tomorrow that isn’t guaranteed to anyone, much less terminal patients.


How can he believe in this mysterious ‘God’ figure? He can’t honestly wrap his mind around the notion that anyone could believe in such a foolish notion when a plethora of rational evidence contributes to the contrary, can’t place his trust in a deity that sits back and allows genocide and poverty to fester. He’s only participating in this group of woebegone, self-centered invalids because his sister threatened to drag him there herself if he didn’t attend. How can he have faith in a sadistic greater power that allowed a fatal congenital heart defect to remain unnoticed for twenty-four years?


Before any more venomous thoughts can cross his mind, a murmured “amen” resonates throughout the basement and the members of the group rise from their chairs. He slowly levers himself to his feet, biting his lip at the tearing pain in his chest like molten, broken glass and the dizzy, breathless sensation pervading his every waking hour.


“Are you alright?” The cadence of the question is sweet and mellifluous. Startled, he looks up to find that the silky voice belongs to the beautiful woman previously seated next to him, her azure eyes peering worriedly at him from beneath narrowed brows.


A breathless beat passes, his jaw steeled and his eyes clenched shut, one hand gripping the fabric of the jacket above his failing heart as though to rip it from his chest. “Fine,” he responds on the tail end of a winded pant that sounds more like a sob.


“The prayer was particularly meaningful tonight,” she observes somewhat awkwardly, chancing a small smile that curves lush rosebud lips into the sweet shape of a bow.


“Yeah, it was really special,” he agrees in passing, sure to include an emphasis of honesty and interest in his voice. This woman is beautiful, lovely, magnificent, and he’s bound and determined to use whatever charm is left in his dying arsenal to know her.


Her short, musical laugh and sympathetic eyes are an obvious sign of his failure. “You’re not a believer, are you?” she questions. “Forgive me if I seem forward, but you just seem like a skeptic.”


“I guess you could say that God hasn’t ever done much for me,” he responds in a clipped tone, gripping the padded back of a chair to steady himself. His chest aches fiercely and he feels lightheaded, and suddenly he knows that he should have taken his pain medication before coming if only to prevent the outcome of him fainting at her feet. It’s coming for him, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, but he’s not ready. There’s too much to say, too much to do, and he doesn’t have any answers.


“How can you say that?” she wonders aloud, curious and perhaps fractionally affronted at his naivety. “God works in mysterious ways.”


“Hopefully it’ll come to me before I die,” he replies rashly in a heartbeat, instantly wishing that his answer wasn’t so callous and unemotional. He wants nothing more than to lie in bed to ease the pain and wallow in his own self-pity, but he won’t walk away from such a lovely creature; not here, not now, not ever. Not when his days are numbered and he has so few opportunities to be met with such radiance yet.


What little hardness exists in her face visibly softens into the pity that he so passionately avoids with a ten-foot-pole, her eyes empathetic and sincere. “I hope so, too,” she echoes wholeheartedly, fervent and rock solid and true. “Maybe I could show you sometime.”


The responding smile is thin and pained, but hopefully sincere. “I’d like that.”


An expression of pleasure flickers across her chiseled face, and even in this dank basement, he sees past her tarnished, emaciated surface to the absolute belief she clings to. She fumbles for a piece of stationery in her purse and scrawls a number on it, using her palm as a solid base. “I’m Sophia, by the way,” she says without looking up.


“Rowan,” he introduces breathlessly, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grimacing at the sharp twinge throbbing beneath his ribcage.


Another resplendent smile, and the paper is transferred to his waiting hand. “Nice to meet you, Rowan. Be sure to call me.” With that, she turns on the heel of one satin ballet flat and ratchets up the staircase, grinding the heel of one hand into her temple as she leaves.


As soon as her footsteps fade away, he seizes the orange bottle of prescription painkillers from his pocket and dry-swallows three of them.


PAGEBREAK


He calls her without hesitation around noon of the next day, and the phone call leaves him breathless and giddy before they arrange to meet in the city park. A year ago, he would have agonized over the phone call for at least three days before finally making an awkward conversation over the line, but today could be his last, and he’s not about to waste it worrying about being too eager. It’s chilling, in a way, knowing that he shouldn’t order that book off the Internet because he might not be here to see it arrive, much less read it. He thinks that his patio might look nice if he plants a tree near it, but the thin sand of the hourglass is slipping through his fingers before he can turn it over, and he doesn’t want to stare out the window at a sapling knowing that he’ll never see it grow tall.


It’s a warm spring day of sixty-five degrees, cloudless skies, and sun-baked pavement, but he still clutches his canvas jacket close to his torso as he walks from the cab to their designated meeting place at the pond. He’s always had cold hands and been the first to curl up with a blanket, but he never knew that his poor circulation was a sign of something darker. His every waking moment and most of his sleeping ones are pervaded by a bone-deep ache, but he drugged himself as close to the gills as possible without being out of his mind to prevent being fawned over.


He treads lightly to prevent jarring the dormant monster in his chest and slows when he spots Sophia leaning on the rail of the bridge over the winding pond littered with water lilies. Her forearms are pillowed on the broad surface of the marble, one sandaled foot casually crossed behind the other while the thin, white fabric of her eyelet sundress flutters in the gentle breeze. The skin of her lean, bare arms and shoulders is sparingly freckled, yet otherwise unblemished beneath the steady sunlight. As he watches, she raises one hand to cup her forehead in her palm, lush lips turned down in a grimace of pain.


He mounts the bridge to lay a nervous hand on her jutting, pronounced shoulder-blade. “Are you okay?” he questions, kicking himself for the stupidity of the query.


Her face contorts into an expression of even deeper agony, prominent grooves manifesting between her brows before she recovers with a sunny smile and his hand drops from her back. “Fine,” she answers, turning to face him. “Just got dizzy for a second.”


A pregnant pause ensues, and he can’t help but think how inherently sad this dwindling dance of death is. He saw it in the hospital and sees it at each meeting of the support group- terminal patients nervously foot the subject of their illness, dancing around their death unless they can find common ground upon which to complain. It’s eerie, having this uncomfortable elephant between himself and whomever he speaks with.


She must sense his curiosity. “Brain tumor,” she rattles off, an uncharacteristic look of shyness and embarrassment at her body’s weakness playing across her face. It occurs to him that insecurity does not become her


“Congenital heart defect,” he sympathizes.


"A fine pair, we are. Want to take a walk?” she deftly changes the subject, hooking a thumb over her shoulder in the direction away from which he came.


“Sure,” he responds, waiting for her to snatch a slouchy royal blue bag from at her feet and continue ahead. Hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket to felicitate warmth, he walks at her side as they descend the bridge and wander aimlessly onto the winding path through the many-hued rose gardens.


“So, tell me why you don’t believe,” she says directly, loose waves of sparse, short golden hair blowing behind her in the seemingly chilly breeze. “And don’t say because it’s illogical, either. That one is so cliché.”


“I guess because God is a mean kid sitting on an anthill with a magnifying glass. How can I believe in something that’s going to let me die before I turn twenty-five?” he responds indignantly, and suddenly a nauseating wave of all-too familiar doubt and fear washes over him. He hasn’t been in denial, but somehow confirming aloud that death is lying in wait for him makes the future all the more frightening and surreal. It’s not just an idea lingering on the horizon, anymore. He’s said it out loud- he’s going to die, no matter what anyone can do to stop it.


“It’s all part of God’s plan,” she says soothingly. “He challenges those that He loves most.”


“What kind of twisted logic is that?” he snaps back, and instantly feels like a horrific human being at the look of irritation that crosses her lovely face, presumably due to his callous response. He sees that she isn’t offended by his lack of faith, merely curious, but he also sees what belief is for her. God is black and white- hard, sharp edges of certainty in a world where living is indefinite and she could die at any moment. For her, God is stability, dependence, certitude.


“He’s teaching humanity a lesson, even if we’re not meant to understand it. Your heart is screwed up because He wants you to learn from it,” she responds as though her logic is the most clear-cut, self-explanatory directive in the world.


“So, he’s like some giant teacher in the sky?” he questions wryly, biting his lip at the surfacing ache in his chest. They come to a stop as she kneels to pluck a white rose from the ground, carefully removing it of thorns and tying it around the handle of her bag. “That’s what they mean when they talk about God’s work?”


“I guess you could say that,” she laughs, de-thorning another rose to tuck behind her ear. “It’s all about showing you how to become a better person, but passively letting you make your own choice whether to grow or not.”


She rises to her feet, guiding him out of the gardens and onto the loose sand of the playground. “This,” she says, gesturing to the children scampering across brightly colored equipment, pleasant breeze rustling in the dogwood trees, “is God’s work.”


“Children?” he ventures skeptically, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. The late afternoon sunshine illuminates her fair features, but more than anything causes the absolute faith in her words to be lit up like the strands of bulbs on a Christmas tree. Something in the radiant daylight elucidates an adulation in her as she watches the children, a veiled sadness that communicates a yearning for a child of her own. His stomach plummets when he remembers that, like him, her time is running out. She doesn’t have time to feel her baby kick or to smile down at her child, breathless and dizzy with joy, as she holds it in her arms for the first time.


“Children,” she answers firmly, a poignant smile curving up her lips. “They don’t question anything about the world, they just… accept it for what God made it. It’s beautiful.”


“Yeah,” he echoes softly, pressing a hand to his stomach when it rumbles ominously. It takes nothing more than a deep breath and a reminder of now or never to say, “You want to get dinner with me?”


“I’d like that,” she says sweetly after a beat, warm fingers sliding into his frigid palm.


The walk in the park hasn’t converted him into a believer just yet, but at least she convinced him that the idea of God wasn’t quite so repugnant, after all.


PAGEBREAK



They share a riveting conversation over pasta at a downtown Italian eatery with soft, ambient lighting and romantic music that seems oddly jarring and out of place. It ends when she bids him goodnight with a soft kiss on the cheek before lowering herself into a taxi, waving coyly as the yellow vehicle speeds away into the city lights.


When Sophia disappears into chemotherapy, he doesn’t hear from her for a week. The wooden chair next to him at the support group is vacant, and he laments the hollow emptiness that her absence leaves. The week progresses at the speed of molasses, and he spends it alternately sitting on a bench at the playground or reading a book in the privacy of his living room. He thinks about the tree every time he looks out the patio door, but doubt dogs him to such an extent that he has to push it from his mind.


As the days go by, the pain in his chest intensifies and he feels death creep a little to him, driving his heart to grow weaker and weaker. It’s eerie, in a way. He knows that man’s allotted span is only allotted for so long, but it’s like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. He can’t outrun it anymore, and he would never admit it, but he’s scared. He showers faster than ever to ensure that he doesn’t die naked, and when he retires to bed at night, he lays awake for as long as possible for fear that he won’t wake up in the morning. The terror nestles in his gut and arrests his breath, lying dormant to catch him in a moment of weakness.


When he lies in bed, it gets so bad that he sends up a desperate, heartfelt prayer for it not to be tonight, for it to hold off just a little while longer. With a wry smile, he thinks that Sophia might have gotten to him, after all.


She sounds exhausted when she finally calls, but not unhappy. She asks him to meet her downtown at 32 Broadway, and he willingly agrees with a shred of curiosity. He knows the city like the back of his hand, so why wouldn’t she tell him the building rather than the address? Still, he wanders Broadway looking for number thirty-two with one hand clutched to his chest until he pulls up short.


It’s a cathedral.


He mounts the stone steps laboriously, pushing open the tall wooden doors and wandering past the bowl of holy water into the bowels of the church. He observes that it’s exactly what a church should be, characterized by soaring marble columns and long frescoes of Renaissance-esque artwork, lit by the brilliant sunshine streaming through intricately detailed stained glass windows. The endless rows of dark wooden pews at first seem empty, but he spots the loose blonde knot of Sophia’s head in the second pew and saunters in her direction.


"Hey,” he ventures, feeling vile when she startles and turns wild, panicked sapphire eyes in his direction.


"Oh, Rowan,” she breathes a sigh of relief. “You scared me.”


As he slides into the pew next to her, he notices the change in her appearance. Her hair was always thin, but today there seems to be even less of it as a result of the chemotherapy, patches of bare scalp covered by carefully draped locks of remaining hair. Her face is thinner, fair skin reduced to an ashen, pale sheen of sickness and stripped of color, wrists and elbows jutting from beneath her skin not unlike the wizened arms of an old woman. Her eyes, although still considerably bright, are duller than before, previously red lips stripped of their stain to be left a cracked, pastel white.


She seems to notice his scrutiny and hastily fumbles in her bag for a brightly patterned green scarf, tying it around the loose bun of her hair. “So, how was your week?” she begins, skeletal hands folded tamely in her lap.


"Nothing to write home about,” he responds, venturing out to clasp her bony fingers and subtly inch closer to her. Much to his relief, she permits his advances, and they sit closely enough that the only barrier remaining between them is the colliding flesh of their upper arms. He can feel her warmth due to the proximity, constant and loving.


She responds with a short, brusque laugh. “I bet mine was worse than yours.”


"I’m willing to wager on that,” he says wryly. A brief moment of companionable silence passes before he ventures, “Sophia, why are we here?”


She shrugs, giving his hand a short squeeze. “Sitting in a church always makes me feel better. I thought it might do the same for you.”


"Oh,” he replies, but a question is building inside of him. He doesn’t understand how she can be so oddly resigned to the idea of her impending fate, can’t comprehend why she’s sitting in a church doing nothing rather than skydiving or crying or railing against this with all of her might. How can she just let this cosmic injustice pass her by? How can she continue to be so unswervingly faithful when the deity she worships is the very one and the same that’s killing her?


"How can you be so at peace with this?” It leaks out before he can stop it, a half-dead prayer for the same conviction slipping into the brilliant light.


She seems startled from her reverie, eyes torn from the Madonna to face him questioningly. “With what?”


"Death.” Again, he could kick himself. How insensitive.


"You think I’m okay with this?!” she begins indignantly, backing fractionally away from him, melodious voice low in tone but amplified by the soaring architecture as it carries into the rafters and back. “You think I just let it happen? It’s not okay, and it’s not fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve been fighting it for months and there’s nothing I can do. I just can’t fight anymore.”


Heartbroken tears glisten in frightened cerulean eyes, and before his mind registers the movement, he gathers her tenderly in his arms and pulls her toward his chest. Silent sobs shake her emaciated frame, ricocheting off the marble, face pressed to the unsteady, erratic beat of his heart. He strokes her back affectionately, each broad brush of his hand caressing vertebrae so pronounced that they seem almost mountainous. He feels vile and low to have driven her to tears, his chest burns with something more than the usual intensity, but somehow the notion of her wasted frame in his arms feels real, welcome, right.


"I’m sorry,” he ventures sincerely when her tears are spent.


"Not your fault,” she sniffs, running the flat of her hand across damp eyes. “I’m all over the place lately.”


Silence ensues for a protracted moment before he speaks once more. “What’s going to happen to us?”


"God will provide,” she whispers explicitly, closing her eyes in what he thinks is a prayer.


And oh, how wrong it feels not to in this spectacular, gilded manifestation of heaven on earth, but he wishes from the bottom of his heart that he could believe her.


TO BE CONTINUED

Do I dare disturb the universe?
.
| tumblr | My TS3 Photos |
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Mad Poster
#2 Old 8th Feb 2009 at 2:35 AM
Similar to all of your stories, I loved it!
Once again, your use of imagery is fantastic, and I could picture everything that happened. The way you describe both of their views on religion and the existence of God is very well done. It is sensitive, yet the point gets across to the reader.
I'm looking forward to the next part!
Mad Poster
Original Poster
#3 Old 8th Feb 2009 at 7:29 PM
Thank you so much :D! This was rather experimental for me to write, because as an atheist, portraying a character who depends so wholly on religion was difficult. I hope it's believable.

Do I dare disturb the universe?
.
| tumblr | My TS3 Photos |
Lab Assistant
#4 Old 8th Feb 2009 at 7:50 PM
That was amazing Rabid. (:
PixCii is right, your so amazing at making a simple story seem like a movie in the mind.

I can't wait to read the rest of it! :D

Sims3King
Lots, photography, and machinima...
Coming soon

The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad;
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down!
Its all in your mind!"
#5 Old 11th Feb 2009 at 7:16 PM
You're going to make it big some day, Rabid, I can guarantee you that. ;]
Mad Poster
Original Poster
#6 Old 16th Feb 2009 at 1:27 AM
Aww, thanks so much to both of you . I think I'm blushing.

I've got a few pages of the second half written. Not much, but it's coming along. I keep getting distracted by other projects... damn my limited attention span .

Do I dare disturb the universe?
.
| tumblr | My TS3 Photos |
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