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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After that, she paused, her breathing heavy. The last thing she'd intended to happen that day was to get into an argument with her brother, and she was going to end it now, if she had any say in the matter. "And I'd do anything for you, Max," she sighed, her voice dropping considerably. "Anything, for you to be happy. And if that means letting you go..." She threw her hands up, in a gesture of defeat. "Well, it'll be better for the two of you without me around."
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