The Church and Its Orbs - Chapter 7
I'm rewriting my Gemma story, which is tentatively titled The Church and Its Orbs. This is the seventh chapter. The previous chapters are linked below.
Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
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All night, I toss and turn. It’s strangely hot and stuffy in my room, though the temperature should be cooling off by this time in the school year. The small fan I have for my room does little, except make a bothersome buzzing noise that helps keep me awake. I need a new air conditioner, but my parents said they wouldn’t bother replacing it this year because “summer’s already over.” Summer may be over, but summer temperatures aren’t.
I push the sheets off me, which doesn’t help. It leaves me feeling strangely exposed, so I pull them back up to my chin. Why can’t I sleep? What’s keeping me up? Strands of my curly red hair stick to my face -- I’m sweating. I stare at the clock, which reveals the time as 2:52AM. It’s going to be a long night yet.
The night is long, indeed. I dozed off at around 4:30AM and got maybe two and a half hours of poor sleep. After I shower and get ready, I head into the kitchen for breakfast. Mom usually makes something for Ruby and me. Dad’s office is so far away that he leaves early enough not to be around. This time, there’s no food, but there is a small sticky note on the table -- it reads Gemma -- I decided to go to work early. Ruby got a ride with her friend. You’ll have to take the bus. Best to hurry. And make sure to lock the door.
I stare at the note in disbelief -- Mom promised me a ride to school today. She said she understood there was trouble with the bus route I need to take, and I believed her. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s already after 7:00AM, and the bus takes over an hour to get to my school.
There’s no way I’m going to make it on time. I press the lever to open the garbage can with my foot, and tear the little note into tiny pieces. They flutter into the garbage can, and I glare at them. I let the lid close.
My eyes fall on the cabinet when the travel mugs are kept -- without quite meaning to, I grab a shiny red metallic one. It looks kind of like the orb I imagine I will get. What am I going to do with it? I glance at the coffee maker and decide to pour myself a mug, even though I’m not supposed to. Well, people aren’t “supposed” to break promises, and my mom broke hers to me.
After I fill up my mug and put the lid on it, I take a sip. The bitter taste is strangely invigorating and fitting for a day that’s started off so well. I don’t bother putting anything in my coffee. Once I grab my backpack, I exit the house -- making sure to lock the door, of course -- and head towards the bus stop.
The electronic poster at the bus stop -- a picture of a glowing purple orb -- says To the Holy Glory of Our Wonderful Church. To be honest, the rest of the bus stop doesn’t look so glorious or wonderful. The paint on the rain shelter is crumbling, and scratches cover the clear plastic roof. The bench is somehow missing the plank in the middle, making it uncomfortable to sit upon.
Instead of trying to sit, I stand. I check the time on my phone. It’s 7:14AM, and the next bus comes at 7:30AM -- if the bus is, in fact, on time.
Another person waits at the bus stop with me -- I can’t see much of him because he’s wearing sunglasses and a large billed cap obscures his face. He’s about as tall as I am, maybe an inch or two taller. For a second, I wonder if I know him, but there’s no way I do. Still, I can’t escape the feeling he’s staring at me, almost like he recognizes me. I shudder and, as quietly as I can, I step to the opposite side of the bus stop.
When the bus finally comes -- at 7:40AM -- I climb on and swipe my card to pay the fare. I let the strange man go ahead of me, so I can see where he sits and choose a seat as far away from him as possible. He sits in the back of the bus, so I sit in the front, taking a seat by the window. I put my bag on the seat next to me. The ride starts out uneventfully -- the day is gray and it’s started drizzling, so the houses outside kind of blend into one another.
The bus skids to a stop, throwing me forward. I crash into the seat in front of me, and my bag falls to the ground. The crash sends pain shooting up my arms. I thank the gods that the lid was closed on my stolen travel mug of coffee. I pick up my bag and put it back on the seat. What is going on? That’s when I hear the shouting. I can’t make out individual words, or even see the sources from this angle, but the voices sound angry.
Whispers break out among the passengers. They’re mostly annoyed mutterings about how we’re all going to be late. My stomach twists -- I was already going to be horribly late. At least a horde of angry voices is kind of a legitimate excuse? What could those voices even be? I know this bus route goes awfully close to some no soul neighborhoods -- is the noise some kind of no soul protest?
“I bet it’s because the Holy Police raided a sed bar near here and shot four of them dead when they resisted arrest,” the woman behind me whispers. “Good riddance, I say. They were headed for oblivion anyway.” She emphasizes “them” with extra disgust.
My jaw drops. I didn’t hear about this on the news. I turn around to face the woman. “What? Were the...seds armed or something?” I say.
I had heard rumors that seds would gather at their own bars, but nobody had even spoken this...vehemently about it. I feel slightly nauseated -- shooting people, even deviant ones, for resisting arrest? Is that supposed to be some kind of wonderful news? What does “resisting arrest” even mean in this case?
She looks thoughtful. “From what I heard, no. They just said out loud that they weren’t doing anything wrong and shouldn’t be arrested,” the woman says. “It’s not that uncommon for stuff like this to happen. The scum shouldn’t be protesting over it.”
“I suppose not,” I murmur, feeling a strange fear creep up my spine. Is there going to be more shooting now?
“You suppose not?” the woman snorts. “They should know their place, obviously.” She shakes her head.
I nod and turn away from her -- I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
When I look out the window, I see members of the Holy Police -- in what looks like riot gear. My heart starts to speed up. They look like they expect the protest I can’t see to result in violence from the protesters. I clutch the edges of my seat and try to take deep breaths. They don’t help much. The whispers among the passengers get louder and more agitated -- to my ears, some of them even sound excited at the idea of a protest being met with riot police. I hear several people say “good riddance.”
An announcement crackles over the bus’ speaker system. We are being delayed because of unexpected activity. We will take an alternate route. Thank you for your patience.
What, no mention of how there might be an actual protest going on? No mention of the riot police right outside our bus? The whispers among the passengers only get louder and louder as the bus starts up again on its new route. I take a sip of my coffee, though I don’t need it to be awake -- there’s enough adrenaline in my body for that. My heart thumps now, and I feel something I can’t quite describe.
Protests happen -- I know that. They’re often enough met with riot police, because activity against the government and the Church needs to be quelled so the sin won’t spread. Still, I don’t have to like the idea of people’s getting shot.
Is it heresy to feel some manner of sympathy for the protesters? I know I’m not supposed to care about their fate if they’re defying the law. Yet, if they’re angry because their fellows were shot, is it terrible to sort of understand that anger? The ones who died -- according to rumor, anyway -- may have been deviant, but even deviants have feelings.
Why am I thinking that?
Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
---------
All night, I toss and turn. It’s strangely hot and stuffy in my room, though the temperature should be cooling off by this time in the school year. The small fan I have for my room does little, except make a bothersome buzzing noise that helps keep me awake. I need a new air conditioner, but my parents said they wouldn’t bother replacing it this year because “summer’s already over.” Summer may be over, but summer temperatures aren’t.
I push the sheets off me, which doesn’t help. It leaves me feeling strangely exposed, so I pull them back up to my chin. Why can’t I sleep? What’s keeping me up? Strands of my curly red hair stick to my face -- I’m sweating. I stare at the clock, which reveals the time as 2:52AM. It’s going to be a long night yet.
The night is long, indeed. I dozed off at around 4:30AM and got maybe two and a half hours of poor sleep. After I shower and get ready, I head into the kitchen for breakfast. Mom usually makes something for Ruby and me. Dad’s office is so far away that he leaves early enough not to be around. This time, there’s no food, but there is a small sticky note on the table -- it reads Gemma -- I decided to go to work early. Ruby got a ride with her friend. You’ll have to take the bus. Best to hurry. And make sure to lock the door.
I stare at the note in disbelief -- Mom promised me a ride to school today. She said she understood there was trouble with the bus route I need to take, and I believed her. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s already after 7:00AM, and the bus takes over an hour to get to my school.
There’s no way I’m going to make it on time. I press the lever to open the garbage can with my foot, and tear the little note into tiny pieces. They flutter into the garbage can, and I glare at them. I let the lid close.
My eyes fall on the cabinet when the travel mugs are kept -- without quite meaning to, I grab a shiny red metallic one. It looks kind of like the orb I imagine I will get. What am I going to do with it? I glance at the coffee maker and decide to pour myself a mug, even though I’m not supposed to. Well, people aren’t “supposed” to break promises, and my mom broke hers to me.
After I fill up my mug and put the lid on it, I take a sip. The bitter taste is strangely invigorating and fitting for a day that’s started off so well. I don’t bother putting anything in my coffee. Once I grab my backpack, I exit the house -- making sure to lock the door, of course -- and head towards the bus stop.
The electronic poster at the bus stop -- a picture of a glowing purple orb -- says To the Holy Glory of Our Wonderful Church. To be honest, the rest of the bus stop doesn’t look so glorious or wonderful. The paint on the rain shelter is crumbling, and scratches cover the clear plastic roof. The bench is somehow missing the plank in the middle, making it uncomfortable to sit upon.
Instead of trying to sit, I stand. I check the time on my phone. It’s 7:14AM, and the next bus comes at 7:30AM -- if the bus is, in fact, on time.
Another person waits at the bus stop with me -- I can’t see much of him because he’s wearing sunglasses and a large billed cap obscures his face. He’s about as tall as I am, maybe an inch or two taller. For a second, I wonder if I know him, but there’s no way I do. Still, I can’t escape the feeling he’s staring at me, almost like he recognizes me. I shudder and, as quietly as I can, I step to the opposite side of the bus stop.
When the bus finally comes -- at 7:40AM -- I climb on and swipe my card to pay the fare. I let the strange man go ahead of me, so I can see where he sits and choose a seat as far away from him as possible. He sits in the back of the bus, so I sit in the front, taking a seat by the window. I put my bag on the seat next to me. The ride starts out uneventfully -- the day is gray and it’s started drizzling, so the houses outside kind of blend into one another.
The bus skids to a stop, throwing me forward. I crash into the seat in front of me, and my bag falls to the ground. The crash sends pain shooting up my arms. I thank the gods that the lid was closed on my stolen travel mug of coffee. I pick up my bag and put it back on the seat. What is going on? That’s when I hear the shouting. I can’t make out individual words, or even see the sources from this angle, but the voices sound angry.
Whispers break out among the passengers. They’re mostly annoyed mutterings about how we’re all going to be late. My stomach twists -- I was already going to be horribly late. At least a horde of angry voices is kind of a legitimate excuse? What could those voices even be? I know this bus route goes awfully close to some no soul neighborhoods -- is the noise some kind of no soul protest?
“I bet it’s because the Holy Police raided a sed bar near here and shot four of them dead when they resisted arrest,” the woman behind me whispers. “Good riddance, I say. They were headed for oblivion anyway.” She emphasizes “them” with extra disgust.
My jaw drops. I didn’t hear about this on the news. I turn around to face the woman. “What? Were the...seds armed or something?” I say.
I had heard rumors that seds would gather at their own bars, but nobody had even spoken this...vehemently about it. I feel slightly nauseated -- shooting people, even deviant ones, for resisting arrest? Is that supposed to be some kind of wonderful news? What does “resisting arrest” even mean in this case?
She looks thoughtful. “From what I heard, no. They just said out loud that they weren’t doing anything wrong and shouldn’t be arrested,” the woman says. “It’s not that uncommon for stuff like this to happen. The scum shouldn’t be protesting over it.”
“I suppose not,” I murmur, feeling a strange fear creep up my spine. Is there going to be more shooting now?
“You suppose not?” the woman snorts. “They should know their place, obviously.” She shakes her head.
I nod and turn away from her -- I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
When I look out the window, I see members of the Holy Police -- in what looks like riot gear. My heart starts to speed up. They look like they expect the protest I can’t see to result in violence from the protesters. I clutch the edges of my seat and try to take deep breaths. They don’t help much. The whispers among the passengers get louder and more agitated -- to my ears, some of them even sound excited at the idea of a protest being met with riot police. I hear several people say “good riddance.”
An announcement crackles over the bus’ speaker system. We are being delayed because of unexpected activity. We will take an alternate route. Thank you for your patience.
What, no mention of how there might be an actual protest going on? No mention of the riot police right outside our bus? The whispers among the passengers only get louder and louder as the bus starts up again on its new route. I take a sip of my coffee, though I don’t need it to be awake -- there’s enough adrenaline in my body for that. My heart thumps now, and I feel something I can’t quite describe.
Protests happen -- I know that. They’re often enough met with riot police, because activity against the government and the Church needs to be quelled so the sin won’t spread. Still, I don’t have to like the idea of people’s getting shot.
Is it heresy to feel some manner of sympathy for the protesters? I know I’m not supposed to care about their fate if they’re defying the law. Yet, if they’re angry because their fellows were shot, is it terrible to sort of understand that anger? The ones who died -- according to rumor, anyway -- may have been deviant, but even deviants have feelings.
Why am I thinking that?