Lucy Carrigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
radicalize) wrote2008-05-26 01:01 am
radicalize) wrote2008-05-26 01:01 am
And in my hour of darkness, there is still a light that shines on me.
It had been a long, long time since Lucy Carrigan set foot in a church. Certainly not in the six months and some-odd days that she'd been on the island, and there hadn't been time in New York, not between juggling protests and her waitressing job. No, she remembered the day exactly, and every detail of the circumstances.
Daniel's funeral. What would have been almost a year and a half ago, were she still back home. She could still picture all of it, feel the warm spring rain and hear the customary gunshots as they lowered his casket; in a way, it was what had kept her away from churches in the time that followed. They were all marked, as it were, with the memory of his death.
She found it oddly fitting, then, that what brought her back into one was the realization that it was Memorial Day. The exact reasoning behind it, she couldn't quite put her finger on, but it felt fitting, for the first time since then. And maybe she needed it, now. It wasn't as if things had been going especially well over the past few weeks, and she'd done a bunch of things she wasn't particularly proud of. She wouldn't count on it, but there was still that off chance it could do her some good.
It wasn't just Daniel she prayed for once she was on her knees in the church, speaking in a voice so hushed it was hardly recognizable as her own, though he was a big part of it -- sweet Daniel, who she'd moved past so quickly, after what people called a perfect relationship. It was Daniel and all the boys who'd died, ones she'd heard about and known peripherally and seen on TV and not. After them came Paco, who she'd been missing more and more since she ended things with Jude; she still didn't know what had happened to him after the riot, or whether or not Jude's story about the bomb was to be believed, but in a way, if it was, it would have made him a casualty of sorts, too, which fit him in with the rest of the list. From there, she'd reached the point of not thinking about what she said, and she moved on to her family back home, and the people she'd known who disappeared, and then, finally, her brother. Max, and everything that had gone wrong over the past few months. She may have hardly been speaking to him anymore, but that didn't change the fact that there was nothing she would have done for him, that she would put his well-being over hers no matter what, that she was still harboring all sorts of guilt about the incident with the morphine.
Before she realized it, she was brushing away tears that were rolling down her cheeks, sniffling gently. It was hardly infrequently that she wished things could have gone back to the way they were when it was all simpler, before the war tore everything apart, but she couldn't remember a time she wanted it more than she did in that moment.
[Find her in the church, or outside it, following the post.]
Daniel's funeral. What would have been almost a year and a half ago, were she still back home. She could still picture all of it, feel the warm spring rain and hear the customary gunshots as they lowered his casket; in a way, it was what had kept her away from churches in the time that followed. They were all marked, as it were, with the memory of his death.
She found it oddly fitting, then, that what brought her back into one was the realization that it was Memorial Day. The exact reasoning behind it, she couldn't quite put her finger on, but it felt fitting, for the first time since then. And maybe she needed it, now. It wasn't as if things had been going especially well over the past few weeks, and she'd done a bunch of things she wasn't particularly proud of. She wouldn't count on it, but there was still that off chance it could do her some good.
It wasn't just Daniel she prayed for once she was on her knees in the church, speaking in a voice so hushed it was hardly recognizable as her own, though he was a big part of it -- sweet Daniel, who she'd moved past so quickly, after what people called a perfect relationship. It was Daniel and all the boys who'd died, ones she'd heard about and known peripherally and seen on TV and not. After them came Paco, who she'd been missing more and more since she ended things with Jude; she still didn't know what had happened to him after the riot, or whether or not Jude's story about the bomb was to be believed, but in a way, if it was, it would have made him a casualty of sorts, too, which fit him in with the rest of the list. From there, she'd reached the point of not thinking about what she said, and she moved on to her family back home, and the people she'd known who disappeared, and then, finally, her brother. Max, and everything that had gone wrong over the past few months. She may have hardly been speaking to him anymore, but that didn't change the fact that there was nothing she would have done for him, that she would put his well-being over hers no matter what, that she was still harboring all sorts of guilt about the incident with the morphine.
Before she realized it, she was brushing away tears that were rolling down her cheeks, sniffling gently. It was hardly infrequently that she wished things could have gone back to the way they were when it was all simpler, before the war tore everything apart, but she couldn't remember a time she wanted it more than she did in that moment.
[Find her in the church, or outside it, following the post.]
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"Oh, uh, not long," he lied. He had been standing there for at least 10 minutes just trying to work up the courage to say something.
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"Well, I was walking by and noticed you in here. Seeing what day it is, I thought you uh, well..." now that he thought about it, he was probably the last face she wanted to see on Memorial Day, "well, I thought you might want someone to talk to or something." Taking a hand out of his pocket, he gestured his thumb behind him, "But I can just go if..."
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As they began to walk, he remained silent, not sure if she wanted him to just be there or distract her with funny stories, although he really had none, or anything. But Jude stayed to his normal tactic and walked forward with his hands in his pockets and his head watching the ground while occasionally glancing up at Lucy to see what she would do.
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"You mind if I smoke?" she asked, cautious without realizing it. She'd been smoking too much lately, and she knew it, but she was beginning to see why people like Jude and her brother did so often. It was a hard habit to break, and an odd comfort.
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"So, uh, what have you been up to?" the question was forced out of awkwardness, but he didn't want to bring anything else up.
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"So...how are you, really?" she asked hesitantly. They were getting along well enough that she could ask something more serious. At least, that was what she hoped.
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He had considered hiding in their hut, keeping himself shut off, but he knew he would have to face the island at some point. "Getting beat up has become my new favorite pasttime, though, yeah?"
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Which wasn't to say she hadn't been tempted, especially back when they'd found Max high on morphine. That was a detail, though, that she thought it best to keep to herself.
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Still, he tried to push his boundaries a bit, because he couldn't really think of how else things could go wrong. What was the harm? "So are you doing okay, Luce? Really, I mean." His voice was unsure, but sincere and his concern was noticeable, albeit suppressed. He didn't want to care as much as he did... he wanted to be able to move on from her and from what he did to her, like he did with all the other women. Unfortunately, Lucy hadn't been like Molly or any other girl he had met, and while he loved Max, he couldn't help but care about Lucy.
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