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Post by Storyteller on Sept 1, 2006 10:23:39 GMT
The Church.
You look up at it's stone edifices, and drink in all the memories you already have of it, and all those that are yet to come.
You stand up from the bench, discovering that that last bruise on your leg has all but healed. It doesn't ache any more, at least.
The beatings don't work. Not as he wants them to. He doesn't 'beat' the sin out of you, though could almost forgive him for doing it, because you've seen how strongly he believes it to be true. Almost.
No, they don't work. All they achieve is resentment, and anger, and more 'sins'. If what you've done are sins, you're not so sure you want to be blameless.
((More so than ever before, the background threads are your threads, so if you don't like something, the way that i've taken something, tell me, and we can change it. This is all about character development and roleplaying.
I wasn't sure quite what you meant by 'catches Trey sinning', so, if you can closer define what he's doing, that's where we're headed. -MG))
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 1, 2006 14:56:43 GMT
Looking around the sancturary, I can't help but feel an aching in my chest. All my life I've come here to this place. I've read the Bible, sang the hymns and done my best to be a good Christian. To be a good son. But he doesn't get it.
"How're you guys doing?"
I smile and nod at the elderly couple just entering as I head towards the exit to the church offices. It's part of the job. I've always got to have my game face on, no matter what's going on inside. Sometimes I just want to leave. I want to run away and never come back. He doesn't have the right to hit me. He can't fix me. I'm not so sure if I'm the one who's broken.
The hallway is lined with framed pictures of the church leadership. Ministers, ushers, stewards. All of them are smiling like life is good. I wonder how hard they'd smile if they had my father. I wonder how hard they'd smile if they knew the pastor like I knew the pastor. That's what I call him. He won't even let me call him Dad. It's just Pastor.
With a careless, if not soft, bump against the wall I wince. My leg may not hurt anymore, but my arm still does. It's my fault for not covering my tracks. Sometimes I think I do it on purpose. It's like I want him to hit me or push me. I know he does it because he cares, even if that is a messed up way of showing it. It's the only time he shows me any attention.
I've been waiting two hours for him to finish up whatever he's doing. Still, after last night, he seemed to be in a good mood. That's the only reason I'm going to disturb him while his office door is closed. Maybe he'll let me go and get something to eat. With a bite of my lip, I knock softly.
((I will do though I think this was a great start. As far as catches him sinning, just catches him in the act, either flirting or beyond that, or Trey sees something and wigs out.))
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 3, 2006 21:24:46 GMT
He keeps you waiting for a few minutes, as is his custom. Thankfully though, it is only a few minutes; you have known him keep you far longer, and to express his rage if you were, having knocked, to leave.
His voice is almost offhand.
"Enter."
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 3, 2006 23:58:59 GMT
I open the door slowly and walk into the office. My eyes immediately focus on a picture of the Pastor, myself as toddler and my mom. What would life be like if she hadn't died? I swear it couldn't be worse than this.
"Sorry to bug you but I was wondering if I could go down the street to Popeyes and get something to eat. I can pick you up something too, if you're hungry."
I don't look him in his eyes. The people at church say I'm the spitting image of him. Hearing that, I just want to spit. He's not an unattractive man; several single women from the church have tried to flirt with him. They all get the cold shoulder though. My dad just seems so distant and sad. No matter what he says, I know there's an emptiness in him.
From what I hear, my grandma can read people too. She always knows just what to say to get a positive reaction out of people. Of course, the Pastor barely lets me talk to her. He says she's a witch. That's not true. My grandma's just Catholic. I have her eyes and smile, just like my mother. But there's something else about my gradnma. I just feel like we're kindred spirits.
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 5, 2006 20:26:58 GMT
As your eyes finally pull away from the picture, and the moments reflection that it prompts, they focus on your father, seated behind his desk, reading. He looks up briefly as you enter, and then back down to his book. It's hard to know if he's actually listening to you. When you're finished speaking, he still doesn't look up, but waves a hand, half-dismissively, at you, and speaks, disinterestedly.
"Fine, go ahead. I'm fine, I'll go down later if I need anything."
A silence, which you take for a dismissal.
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 5, 2006 22:35:40 GMT
I don't say another word, quickly closing the door behind me and heading out of the church. The Pastor could change his mind at any moment, so I want to be out of the way when he does. As I exit the church I feel a weight lifted off of me.
New Orleans isn't exactly the greatest city out of there, but it's home and it's been that way for my family for generations. There's something about the history of the place nd the way it's built that just resonates with people. Of course, I wouldn't mind getting rid of the heat.
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 6, 2006 21:44:29 GMT
You sweat quietly as you walk over to Popeye's. Thankfully, it's not far, and you feel a rush of cool air as you enter. Popeye's is a nice, quiet place that you like to come to occaisionally; it allows you to get away, even for the smallest amount of time.
As you walk through the door, a bell chimes, and someone comes through from the back. It's Jolene, who always insists that you call her Jo (which you don't have a problem with, but, of course, you know who will), smiling broadly at you.
"Hey you, what can I do for you?"
She's dark haired, attractive, and, you have more than an inkling that she's 'into you'. You've always tried to stay away, not out of wanting to, but because you know what he would say. Closer to you than God, but all-seeing, and all-judging.
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 7, 2006 0:38:39 GMT
I give Jo a shy smile, though her gaze starts to make me feel a bit warmer so I busy myself in the menu.
"How's it going?" I say asbently. "Oh good, you've got the crawfish back." Turning my attention back to her I smile. "I'll take a #4 then."
I look outside almost expecting Pastor to show up but it's just an old lady walking by.
"So, been a busy day?"
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 11, 2006 18:30:27 GMT
She smiles, and starts preparing your food.
"Nah, you know, same as ever, quite and steady."
She pauses, in speech and action, and grins slightly, almost to herself. She tries to cover it up by biting her lip slightly, and then, after hesitating, speaks again.
"I...er...was wondering...if...you were doing anything later on? I finish my shift in a few hours."
She blushes and stutters, and it feels slightly like you've been hit in the stomach.
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 14, 2006 18:36:52 GMT
I wasn't expecting her to be so...so forward.
"I...um...I..."
I'm not even sure how I'd get away long enough to hang out. Pastor definately wouldn't let me go and sneaking out's a death wish.
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 14, 2006 20:28:20 GMT
She blushes further, and tries to brush it off.
"I shouldn've...sorry...just forget I said anything. Er...I just need to grab something from out back."
Before you can say anything, she's disappeared through the door behind the counter. You're not quite sure whether you've upset her, or, as seems more likely, she's upset herself, but she reappears a moment later, looking more composed, and seemingly detirmined to ignore what just happened. She goes back to preparing your food.
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 15, 2006 15:02:26 GMT
I listen to the music playing softly in the background, trying to remove the ackwardness I felt. If only I could think of something. Anything.
"So...my church is having a revival in a couple of weeks. Maybe you could come? It'd be nice to have someone interesting to sit with."
That could work.
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 25, 2006 17:57:33 GMT
She hesitates once again, then slowly smiles.
"Yeah, that sounds good."
You hear the bell ring behind you as she passes over your wrapped-up order, and turn to see your father come in. The expression on his face is neutral, which is always somewhat of a relief, if not very reassuring. You wonder what he would make of Jolene's forwardness. You don't want to know. You're pretty sure that he would blame you for it, somehow. He has a habit of thinking like that.
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Post by Treyvon Johnson on Sept 26, 2006 16:39:10 GMT
My heart was beating hard again, but at least he wasn't angry.
"Oh...Jolene, this is Pastor Johnson."
I turn to my dad and smile weakly. What did I have to be guilty of and why did he almost make me feel that way?
"I was inviting her to the revival."
He couldn't get mad at me for that, could he?
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Post by Storyteller on Sept 27, 2006 20:56:42 GMT
The Pastor smiles at you, and then at Jolene, and you let escape a silent sigh of relief, coupled with a silent prayer that it's a good smile.
"Pleased to meet you, Jolene."
He turns back to you, looks down at your order, in your hand, and back up to your face.
"I'll see you back at the church."
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