Ficlet
Yes, I wrote something. It's weird. I had wanted to do a stream of consciousness, but I think it turned into a choppy rapid waterfall of consciousness. The italics are supposed to represent what is 'too real' and 'too harsh' - the thoughts the protagonist (Kiernan) is trying to push back. At the same time, he is sort of forcing himself to realize what is true. Because, let's face it, even if the story had a happy ending, it probably would have not worked out. I've only seen it the once, but it was one of those 'burrow into my head' sort of movies.
And now look.
Title: ...Not entirely sure. This is what happens when I save something by using the protagonist's name. Ideas, anyone?
Fandom: The movie Stigmata.
Description: Short, angsty, unrequited feelings-type piece. Two old friends catch up. Somewhat Kiernan/Frankie.
Rating: PG for tiny bit of language.
Disclaimer: If I owned Gabriel Byrne and/or a film company, my life would be a lot happier. Sadly, I do not.
Andrew Kiernan had never meant to keep count. But as each day had folded in and crumbled out - passing over him with all the force and fluidity of tame water - he had been unable to help it. He had expected them all to blur together, as if his awareness was glazed over and melting with alcoholic influence. This happened here, he did this there. But it was not to be so easy.
Although Catholic priests supposedly saw little value in material possessions - sans the representative white collar that stood as a symbol as powerful as the cross itself and the millions in artifacts, gold and treasure the Church had amassed over the years but that was neither here nor there - the brown book was one thing that went everywhere with him. It was a cheap thing, purchased… he couldn’t remember. Money had changed hands and it had fallen in his possession, the pages crisp and white and waiting for his words. For the longest time, it had sat on top of his dresser, lying in wait.
He had governed his life, no longer by the laws and ordains of the clergy, but by a much simpler focus - the calendar. As October became November and November became December and December slipped into the New Year, he did not miss a day.
And it wasn’t until he had received the phone call did he truly learn why.
He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until he ran out of air.
Two years. Seven Months. Nineteen days.
The flight back to Pittsburgh from Brazil had become immaterial in his mind. The memory itself, unimportant and unremembered, had slipped through the cracks. He had vague notions of being instructed to buckle his seat belt, of chewing on the tasteless roll and the lukewarm carrots of his meal, of watching a movie and unable to recall whether it had been in English or not five minutes after it had ended. The airport, equally so. He had been almost transparent in passing through customs, acquiring his luggage. The noise of the people around him, ranging from laughter to whispers of love to announcements over the intercom, didn’t register any more than the drop of a pin. He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he?
He had returned to his dark, dingy apartment, finding it the same as before. The drawers of the dresser had barely been used; the phone line was still not turned on.
He had owned it for almost three years.
The red glow on the answering machine, usually solid, was flickering. The number above it, also a scarlet glow, read 1. One new message. One person was aware of his existence. One person had given him a thought that lingered. His reach no longer spread any farther.
He was no longer Father Kiernan.
He had placed the brown book back onto the dresser. It was heavier, filled with the weight of introspection, the lies, and the truth. Every single day had been dated and filed away in the brown book, untouched. He never flipped back a page, he never read over a sentence a second time, even as he moved on to write the one following it.
He had reached over and pressed the button. He had listened to the voice of the one person that, for whatever reason, still contemplated him as a human being. What he knew he wasn’t.
The apartment had burst to life with the sound of a voice.
“Hey, Father Kier- oh, shit, I mean, uh… Kie- Andrew. It’s Frankie. Page. I, uh, last I heard you were in Brazil, and probably still are, but, um, I’m in town for a few days, visiting some friends, and I thought, if you were around, we could… get coffee or something. Talk, you know. Um, gimme a call.”
Click.
He had heard her voice, and the days had stopped filing themselves.
*
Now, she fiddles with her napkin as she talks. Her hands need something to do, twisting over and around through her fingers and into different formations. He listens, but his gaze is fleeting. Sometimes, her eyes keep his attention. Other times, her lips. Occasionally, her hands. He nods and answers her questions and returns her chuckles. But his eyes drift.
He is memorizing her, and he is not sure why. Her hair is a bit longer, her expression unsettled. Selfishness no longer sits behind her eyes, but there is enlightenment there. Her hands are more chopped and the veins more prominent.
After she had been released from Almeida, it was like she had been afraid of him. He had wanted to be there for her, to help her ease back into life and the opportunities of the world. He had been dismissed from the priesthood and had all the time in the world. But she had chosen the one thing he could not assist on, at least not in the way he had wanted. To go off alone, searching for peace.
He wants to ask, ‘did you find it?’
He wants her to reply, ‘yes, I did.’
He wants her to tell him that her departure was in vain. He wants her to admit that the days she had been gone had been unfulfilled and she was right to return. He wants her to decide to stay. He knows he is being selfish. He knows she is a young girl, with her whole life in front of her. He knows that without the fear of death and the wounds, she can be patient. She has her forever to make a decision, to stop wandering, to settle.
And he sits on the bench, just like the day she was released, watching from afar.
He knows that now.
And now look.
Title: ...Not entirely sure. This is what happens when I save something by using the protagonist's name. Ideas, anyone?
Fandom: The movie Stigmata.
Description: Short, angsty, unrequited feelings-type piece. Two old friends catch up. Somewhat Kiernan/Frankie.
Rating: PG for tiny bit of language.
Disclaimer: If I owned Gabriel Byrne and/or a film company, my life would be a lot happier. Sadly, I do not.
Andrew Kiernan had never meant to keep count. But as each day had folded in and crumbled out - passing over him with all the force and fluidity of tame water - he had been unable to help it. He had expected them all to blur together, as if his awareness was glazed over and melting with alcoholic influence. This happened here, he did this there. But it was not to be so easy.
Although Catholic priests supposedly saw little value in material possessions - sans the representative white collar that stood as a symbol as powerful as the cross itself and the millions in artifacts, gold and treasure the Church had amassed over the years but that was neither here nor there - the brown book was one thing that went everywhere with him. It was a cheap thing, purchased… he couldn’t remember. Money had changed hands and it had fallen in his possession, the pages crisp and white and waiting for his words. For the longest time, it had sat on top of his dresser, lying in wait.
He had governed his life, no longer by the laws and ordains of the clergy, but by a much simpler focus - the calendar. As October became November and November became December and December slipped into the New Year, he did not miss a day.
And it wasn’t until he had received the phone call did he truly learn why.
He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until he ran out of air.
Two years. Seven Months. Nineteen days.
The flight back to Pittsburgh from Brazil had become immaterial in his mind. The memory itself, unimportant and unremembered, had slipped through the cracks. He had vague notions of being instructed to buckle his seat belt, of chewing on the tasteless roll and the lukewarm carrots of his meal, of watching a movie and unable to recall whether it had been in English or not five minutes after it had ended. The airport, equally so. He had been almost transparent in passing through customs, acquiring his luggage. The noise of the people around him, ranging from laughter to whispers of love to announcements over the intercom, didn’t register any more than the drop of a pin. He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he?
He had returned to his dark, dingy apartment, finding it the same as before. The drawers of the dresser had barely been used; the phone line was still not turned on.
He had owned it for almost three years.
The red glow on the answering machine, usually solid, was flickering. The number above it, also a scarlet glow, read 1. One new message. One person was aware of his existence. One person had given him a thought that lingered. His reach no longer spread any farther.
He was no longer Father Kiernan.
He had placed the brown book back onto the dresser. It was heavier, filled with the weight of introspection, the lies, and the truth. Every single day had been dated and filed away in the brown book, untouched. He never flipped back a page, he never read over a sentence a second time, even as he moved on to write the one following it.
He had reached over and pressed the button. He had listened to the voice of the one person that, for whatever reason, still contemplated him as a human being. What he knew he wasn’t.
The apartment had burst to life with the sound of a voice.
“Hey, Father Kier- oh, shit, I mean, uh… Kie- Andrew. It’s Frankie. Page. I, uh, last I heard you were in Brazil, and probably still are, but, um, I’m in town for a few days, visiting some friends, and I thought, if you were around, we could… get coffee or something. Talk, you know. Um, gimme a call.”
Click.
He had heard her voice, and the days had stopped filing themselves.
*
Now, she fiddles with her napkin as she talks. Her hands need something to do, twisting over and around through her fingers and into different formations. He listens, but his gaze is fleeting. Sometimes, her eyes keep his attention. Other times, her lips. Occasionally, her hands. He nods and answers her questions and returns her chuckles. But his eyes drift.
He is memorizing her, and he is not sure why. Her hair is a bit longer, her expression unsettled. Selfishness no longer sits behind her eyes, but there is enlightenment there. Her hands are more chopped and the veins more prominent.
After she had been released from Almeida, it was like she had been afraid of him. He had wanted to be there for her, to help her ease back into life and the opportunities of the world. He had been dismissed from the priesthood and had all the time in the world. But she had chosen the one thing he could not assist on, at least not in the way he had wanted. To go off alone, searching for peace.
He wants to ask, ‘did you find it?’
He wants her to reply, ‘yes, I did.’
He wants her to tell him that her departure was in vain. He wants her to admit that the days she had been gone had been unfulfilled and she was right to return. He wants her to decide to stay. He knows he is being selfish. He knows she is a young girl, with her whole life in front of her. He knows that without the fear of death and the wounds, she can be patient. She has her forever to make a decision, to stop wandering, to settle.
And he sits on the bench, just like the day she was released, watching from afar.
He knows that now.