literature

Forgiveness Economics

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Daily Deviation

Daily Deviation

September 11, 2012
Forgiveness Economics by *brassteeth
Featured by thorns
Suggested by LiliWrites
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Literature Text

Genesis

But for the small purple stain on its border, the banknote was non-descript.

It had a value but men value things in different ways and by different means. It had a value, but its value is not it's story.

It landed on the church plate face up, coming to rest softly on the flat silver base amongst the loose change like it was tossed to the cloth of a gambling table, soundless but with a small sense of resignation. A man paying for luck, a man asking his God for a favor.

It came from the wallet of a small sad man, who feared the Good Lord daily. The banknote was the weekly price of his penance, the bill of sale for those half-remembered crimes of a misspent youth and other things unmentionable.

The small sad man's hands were fat and white and callouses sat on his thumb and forefingers, the scars of a bank teller, a money counter, a man who knew about value. The hair on his head was grey and his eyes were blue below his wrinkled forehead and tonight would be the last time he paid with money for his crimes.

The church plate passed to other hands amongst the rows of calm believers, along the isles of fidgety sinners, and the candles burned and the choirs sang and the sinners knelt whilst the church bells rang.

Exodus

Back from locking the Church doors, Father Eoman returned to the counting table in the alcove and sat with a huff.  The last of his flock had walked out into the cool night air an hour ago but he had his late night ritual.  He always left the door open for another hour after Mass. Experience had taught him that sometimes a churchgoer would return a little later, his sins too great, his guilt too heavy around his shoulders.

Father?
They would sometimes call from the stones steps of the church doors.
Can we talk?
Of course my son. He would always say, What can the good Lord do for you tonight?

At times they would want to speak in the confession box behind the curtain, for its own ritual, or just to avoid their confessor eye. Father Eoman knew that to confess a crime was an act of courage, to whisper the name of an elicit lover, to admit to thoughts of violence or lust, these things are no easy task for a man, especially a good man.  
Sometimes they would not confess at all, but just cry and shake in his arms by the altar, rocking their heads back and forth whilst suppressing the highest pitches of their cries.

That was the way of the men, always the men.

The women were different. They would hardly knock at all, sometimes the Priest would look up from his counting table in the alcove and there they would be, sitting across from him silent and forlorn, their hands half reaching across the table towards his, asking if he needed help counting the days offerings. The talk would begin as idle chitchat but always progress to something else; a lack of love for a husband, the sobs of a new mother struggling to cope, a nurse who had seen too much.

He was happy to help, happy to unburden them, to see them released of sorts, from their thoughts and so called crimes, if only for a short time, if only till another sin, another transgression invaded their conscience. He forgave easily and judged little, for every man has a secret and no man should judge himself or others to harshly.

Tonight, with the church door securely locked the church was all but darkness. Father Eoman had blown out all of the candles from the walls on the way back and hit the master switch by the altar before coming to the alcove, where now only two candles lit the wooden table and the collection of coins and notes that sat splayed across it.

With a local children's painting of the Ninth Station of the Cross behind him Father Eoman opened this counting table's wooden drawer and pulled out the flat silver serving plate and held it high to the candlelight before placing it in front of him on the table. This was his ritual.

From his gown's green inner pocket, he pulled out a small plastic bag of white powder and carefully tipped the fine talc onto the silver plate and then using two paper drink coasters taken from the same drawer and with the ease of an expert, he pushed and stretched the powder in two straight, pure lines.

He always loved this time of night, silence, expectation and sin.

Looking across the table, he reached for a banknote amongst the day's offerings. He carefully selected one with a purple stain around its edges, rolled it tightly into a thin pipe and placed it to his nose.

And then good Father Eoman welcomed himself to his own private Heaven.

Revelations

He saw her coming every Wednesday and thought she was an Angel. She was a woman of God but he never did believe in all that stuff, not after his disease, not after his wife left, not after the house was taken. How could a man believe?

She would walk down the alley in the same way every week, patting the heads of the homeless, squatting in her frumpy blue jeans to talk to the men she knew so well. They always sat up from their makeshift beds of cardboard and rags to greet her, always turned to welcome her around their huddled glowing drumfires.

They smiled and joked and she talked to them and listened with her eyes, always watching, always keen on understanding their plight. The men smoked and laughed and before leaving each one, she would hand them some money; her knowing they would buy smokes or booze with it, the homeless men knowing she would be back next week with more.

This Nun in woman's clothes, this Angel, he thought again, a real Angel.

He realized it had become a weekly event, this. Watching her come down the alley, waiting for her, imaging her smile before he saw it. Hoping she would be happy again this week. Running his mind over ideas for little conversations to keep her close to him when she arrived, for just a while longer.

He realized back in winter that he had fallen for her and almost scoffed at his own surprise. It was the money, he told himself, she always brought some money for him and that was what he loved.

But he knew this wasn't true, he never cared much about the money, he always got by on cigarette butts and bin food anyway, what he waited for was simply her and with her came that little spark of hope and goodness.

So he had sneered at the thought of a Nun, all frumpy and soft middle aged and he, with pox marks across his skin and liver spots strewn across his oily face, every being together. He was homeless, jobless and human-less. He had laughed at the thought of them together but still the feeling gnawed at him like an alley rat.

Now how is Dale today?
She touches his face as he stands to greet her, her eyes on his.
Good thank you Sister. He knows this will make her smile and it does.
Dale, call me Wendy.
Sure thing Sister.

He smiles back at her awkwardly.  Yes, this is a ritual.

How are you feeling, are you still coughing those specks of blood? Concern grows in her voice.
No, it's been a good week Sister, real good. Haven't seen those for a while now.
His eyes shift from her to the sky above the alley;
Starting to warm up Sister.
It is Dale, isn't it? Her eyes never leave his, such compassion.
Here dear, this is for you this week.
She hands him a banknote with a purple mark on its edges and after he accepts it, she raises her hand to stroke his hair.
Look after yourself Dale.


Reincarnation

It was late at night. The small sad man's hands were fat and white and callouses sat on his thumb and forefingers, they gripped the steel cable of the bridge and his feet teetered and rocked at the edge of the ledge.

His heart raced. He couldn't believe it hadn't exploded yet. He was afraid of losing consciousness and dropping to the water below by accident, instead of lucidly, instead of by choice.

All he could think of was pain, the pain that might await his body at the bottom if he jumped, and the pain that would still be in his life if he didn't.

One teetering thought, one act of courage either way.

Dale was restless and needed a hot coffee. He was almost upon the small sad man when he saw him. He had been in a daze himself, thinking about the Nun, about those eyes, about the chance of them ever being together. If he had no home, no job and his health was fading, he still had his dreams still had the hope of her.

He looked up to see the small sad man on the edge of the bridge, slowly swaying, all wide-eyed and pasty. He was panting and puffing and his body faced away from Dale, towards the water below. It took Dale a moment to register the situation; he had seen it before, life amongst the homeless.

Hey buddy, need hand? Dale was loud and instinctive as if to scare the man to attention.

The small sad man turned to face him, still swaying as Dale edged closer, hoping to grab him if he needed to.
I've done some bad things.  the small sad man says softly, as if looking right through Dale, talking almost to himself.
Bad things, stolen from my job, lied and oh…oh what a mess.
He turned back again to face the water and Dale could see his feet shuffle closer to the edge as if this statement had reminded him of all the reasons he was at the bridge this night.

If he ever intended to jump he will never know. Dale reached him before he had a chance and pulled him down towards the pavement, the pair sprawling across the bridge before coming to rest beside each other.

Dale was the first to rise; he stood tall over the small sad man and extended him a hand.

Come, my friend lets talk, looks like you could do with a coffee.

The small sad man took Dales hand and raised himself up to stand beside him.
Dale patted him gently on the back before taking a purple stained banknote from his otherwise empty jean pocket and waving it in front of him.

It's Ok, he says with a smile. It's my shout.
Submitted for DLD's Summer contest:[link]

"Use an object to connect the lives of two or more otherwise unrelated characters"

Dialogue Grammar is intentional.

Word Count: 1818

:wow: First Prize, wonderful, thank you.

And A D.D.

I personally want to thank all who took the time to read!
© 2012 - 2024 brassteeth
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LiliWrites's avatar
I've used your brilliant piece in a title poem, found here: liliwrites.deviantart.com/art/…

I hope you don't mind! :heart: