[Original Work] Prayer
19 June 2006 20:17![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
argurotoxosTitle: Prayer
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alchemy_hisoka
Fandom: None [original work]
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: There are moments in life where we re-evaluate ourselves -- we see where we came from, who we are now, and where we are going. And sometimes in our self-discovery, we find ourselves in direct contradiction with the person that we used to be.
Note: Mostly unedited, so my apologies for all the typos.
There was a time when he had prayed.
He doesn't know why the thought comes to him now, shoulders hunched and nose scrunched in an unconscious attempt to block out the smells. It was the rubbing alcohol that was the worst, he decided, a scent so distinct and unmistakable; his fingers trailed the vein on the underside of his other arm, flinching when they brushed over the faint bruising left by the last blood test.
"Mister Morganson?"
Straightening up, he nodded to the doctor and stepped forward.
"Your grandmother appears to have suffered only a mild heart attack, but we'd like to keep her a while longer for observation. Do you know if your parents will be arriving soon?"
Biting back a sigh – twenty-four years old and he was still mistaken for a high school student – he replied, "Yes, their flight should arrive in about six hours."
The doctor made a soft hum of acknowledgment. "We'll be moving your grandmother into a new room shortly; I can send one of the nurses down to escort you up if you'd like to see her . . ."
He could feel the doctor's question lingering in the air and slowly nodded. "Thanks." Turning around to go back to his spot against the wall, he paused when he realized the doctor had not moved. He eyed the man in the white coat, who seemed on the verge of saying something else, but closed his mouth at the last moment, mimicked his nod, and left. Shrugging, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and went to lean against the too-white plaster.
In truth, he could guess what it was that had bothered the doctor. He had made no request to see his grandmother, waiting instead for the doctor to offer first, and had given virtually no response to news regarding her present condition. Most people would probably be ecstatic in his position, or at least relieved. But he had never seriously thought that she would die -- he knew that feeling of impending loss and the atmosphere now was completely different -- and worrying wouldn't help anyone.
And, to be perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't sure he would be welcome.
He could leave right now. Get something to eat – though he wasn't sure that he could handle much at the moment – and then wait for his parents at the airport. His grandmother had no qualms with them and would probably greatly prefer their company after her fright to his own. Yet even as he considered it, he knew he couldn't just turn tail and walk away. And so, nose still scrunched, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts take him away.
* * *
There was a time when he had prayed.
It had started out innocently enough, watching his mother as she said her morning prayers and discovering that she would beam at him and shower him with affection -- telling him what a good boy he was and how glad she was that he was her son -- when he copied her actions. He stumbled through the complicated phrases, only half-aware of the meaning behind the words, but it didn't matter; it made his mother happy, and if his mother was happy then he was happy, and that was enough.
As he grew older, Sunday became the day that his mother and grandmother - his mother's mother - would dress him in a suit and tie and bring him to church with them, his little hands clasped in theirs. He would sit on the wooden pews, kicking his feet and trying not to fidget around too much while the old man who stood at the front of the church read from a black book and went on for what felt like hours. Again, the meaning surpassed him, but it made his mother and grandmother happy and that was enough. And even though the old man had a tendency to ramble, he could always become absorbed with the intricately designed windows that sparkled with a hundred different colours in the sunlight.
When they returned home, his father would sometimes shake his head at him in wonder, removing his tie for him and asking how he could stand wearing such uncomfortable clothing. He just smiled and said that mommy liked it.
But one day, it wasn't enough to do it because it made others happy. He was restless at church and not even the sparkling glass windows could calm him. He forgot to say his prayers when his mother wasn't there, or else said them quickly so he could run off to another activity.
It had been his grandmother who had caught on first. He had been playing with his food while his mother was saying the supper prayer, eyes wide open and feet swinging freely under the table. No one seemed to notice and supper when on without incident, but his grandmother had pulled him aside afterward and spoke to him. It wasn't so much what she said, but the way she said it, like he had slighted her in some way by being disrespectful during prayer. But the look in her eyes hit home and he never again fidgeted during supper prayer as long as his grandmother had continued to live with them.
She wasn't a bad person. Far from it. On the whole, she was like the ideal grandmother – sharing stories of the old days and baking the best chocolate chip cookies for after-school snacks. He usually felt as comfortable around her as his own parents, but there were times that she almost scared him. Even in her criticisms, she retained a calm, polite voice, but for him that made them even worse.
After she had left, he no longer said his prayers. He would still occasionally accompany his mother to church, but the words were still meaningless, empty. His mother never commented on his behaviour and eventually he stopped going all together. Yet even in the silence, he couldn't detect any ill feelings; whether she had accepted it or whether his father had played a helping hand he never knew.
It had been years later when things finally turned sour. He and his parents had gone to visit his grandmother for a week. As it so happened, one of his friends had also moved into the area and they had both leaped at the chance to spend several days together. A Friday evening of reminiscing had turned into a Saturday of bad movies and video games which melted into a lazy Sunday morning.
"Alex, aren't you going?"
He had peered blurrily at his friend, still curled under the warm sheets. "Going? We're not leaving until Tuesday."
"That's not what I meant; aren't you going to church?"
That had provoked him into a more awake state and he sat up, the sheets sliding down to gather around his waist. "Church? You know I haven't been since . . . Oh."
Silence, then a heavy sigh from his friend. "I think she'd like it if you went." No need to say who ‘she' was.
This is what he had been dreading, but he hadn't truly expected his friend to just ignore it. "I know. It's just . . . I don't think I can. I don't think I can go back there." He racked his brain for the right words. "It's like being asked to become a preschooler again after you've graduated high school. You've changed so much that it hurts to think of going back to the way it was before, to losing that much of yourself.
"And the words aren't empty anymore," he whispered, staring at his hands as they pressed together like he mother used to do during prayer. "I didn't understand then, but now they pierce. And I know that I'm not what they want." A shiver wound its way down his spine and he let his hands fall back to the sheets.
A hand brushed over his shoulder and he forced his gaze up to meet his friend's. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you remember."
Alex shook his head, leaning into the touch. "‘Sander, do you want me to go?"
A bark of laughter filled the air and the hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter. "After all that? From the sounds of it, it would be rather like condemning you to Hell."
He had to laugh at that and couldn't help following the irony to its end. "Funny; I though you were supposed to go to places like that to be saved from Hell."
Lysander gave a snort, withdrawing his arm. Bereft of the warmth, Alex felt another chill run down his back, but it wasn't long before fingers coaxed his head upward and a forehead pressed against his own. "In all seriousness, I'd keep you forever if I could. But this isn't about what I want; what do you want?"
A smile spread over Alex's lips. "Staying right here sounds good to me."
[I will whisper my prayers against Thy lips,
I will partake of the sacrament Thou hast given me,
Eat deeply of the moist bread
And drink deeply of the red wine.]
It was just as well they didn't return to his grandmother's until early Tuesday morning. The goodbye kiss Alex received from his friend was enough to make him feel like his world would end. The reaction he received from his grandmother very nearly did end it.
* * *
He had followed the nurse into the elevator, down white corridors, and to the entrance of a room. The nurse cheerfully opened the door, stepping inside and checking the vitals before turning to him and motioning him to come in. He dug his hands further into his pockets as he entered to hide his nervousness and fought the wave of nausea that overcame him when he saw the IV tubes.
"Judy? Is that you?"
Thankful that he was still out of sight and the wince at hearing his mother's name was unnoticed, he gathered his wits and slowly stepped forward. "No, grandma. It's me, Alexander. But mother and father will be here soon."
He could feel her eyes on him, looking him over meticulously. As for himself, he kept his eyes on the ground. He doubted she'd want – or even allow – him to stay long, anyway.
"Why are you here, Alex?"
"I was going to see Ly–a friend when mother called me; she wanted to make sure you were all right." Here, he glanced at the figure in the bed. She looked very small against the sea of white, skin far more wrinkled that he remembered and seeming incredibly fragile. Lysander had been right about one thing (for Alex'd had to call him when he heard the news to let Lysander know he'd be delayed) – even after all that had happened, she was still family.
A moment's silence, then the figure in the bed raised one arm. "Come here, Alex."
Unsure of whether he was being called to be chastised or to offer comfort, he walked slowly, awkwardly taking the offered hand. It felt like autumn leaves, crinkled and rough. It trembled like autumn leaves, too.
"Alex, I'm scared."
Of all the things he was expecting, this was not one of them. "Grandma, the doctor said they just want to keep you for observation. They don't think anything's wrong; it's just precautionary. There's nothing to be scared of. Mother will be here in a few hours and then you'll see. Everything will be fine." He had never liked false optimism, but there was little else he could think of to say.
His grandmother gave a wane smile. "Alex, will you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
"Pray for me."
He dropped her hand as if it were a hot iron. No. Anything but that. "Grandma, Mother will be here soon. She'll pray for you."
"Pray for me, Alex. You used to do it so beautifully."
His fists clenched in an attempt to belie the sudden rush of anger. "It was a lie. I just repeated what Mother said."
The figure on the bed gave no sign she had heard him but merely repeated her request. "Pray for me, Alex."
"Just wait for Mother."
And again.
"I can't."
Again.
"No. I will leave now or I will stay here with you if you wish, but I will not pray for you."
She never spoke another word to him, but as he was about to leave, she slowly raised her hand. He stayed by her side long into the night.
Author:
alchemy_hisokaFandom: None [original work]
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: There are moments in life where we re-evaluate ourselves -- we see where we came from, who we are now, and where we are going. And sometimes in our self-discovery, we find ourselves in direct contradiction with the person that we used to be.
Note: Mostly unedited, so my apologies for all the typos.
There was a time when he had prayed.
He doesn't know why the thought comes to him now, shoulders hunched and nose scrunched in an unconscious attempt to block out the smells. It was the rubbing alcohol that was the worst, he decided, a scent so distinct and unmistakable; his fingers trailed the vein on the underside of his other arm, flinching when they brushed over the faint bruising left by the last blood test.
"Mister Morganson?"
Straightening up, he nodded to the doctor and stepped forward.
"Your grandmother appears to have suffered only a mild heart attack, but we'd like to keep her a while longer for observation. Do you know if your parents will be arriving soon?"
Biting back a sigh – twenty-four years old and he was still mistaken for a high school student – he replied, "Yes, their flight should arrive in about six hours."
The doctor made a soft hum of acknowledgment. "We'll be moving your grandmother into a new room shortly; I can send one of the nurses down to escort you up if you'd like to see her . . ."
He could feel the doctor's question lingering in the air and slowly nodded. "Thanks." Turning around to go back to his spot against the wall, he paused when he realized the doctor had not moved. He eyed the man in the white coat, who seemed on the verge of saying something else, but closed his mouth at the last moment, mimicked his nod, and left. Shrugging, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and went to lean against the too-white plaster.
In truth, he could guess what it was that had bothered the doctor. He had made no request to see his grandmother, waiting instead for the doctor to offer first, and had given virtually no response to news regarding her present condition. Most people would probably be ecstatic in his position, or at least relieved. But he had never seriously thought that she would die -- he knew that feeling of impending loss and the atmosphere now was completely different -- and worrying wouldn't help anyone.
And, to be perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't sure he would be welcome.
He could leave right now. Get something to eat – though he wasn't sure that he could handle much at the moment – and then wait for his parents at the airport. His grandmother had no qualms with them and would probably greatly prefer their company after her fright to his own. Yet even as he considered it, he knew he couldn't just turn tail and walk away. And so, nose still scrunched, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts take him away.
* * *
There was a time when he had prayed.
It had started out innocently enough, watching his mother as she said her morning prayers and discovering that she would beam at him and shower him with affection -- telling him what a good boy he was and how glad she was that he was her son -- when he copied her actions. He stumbled through the complicated phrases, only half-aware of the meaning behind the words, but it didn't matter; it made his mother happy, and if his mother was happy then he was happy, and that was enough.
As he grew older, Sunday became the day that his mother and grandmother - his mother's mother - would dress him in a suit and tie and bring him to church with them, his little hands clasped in theirs. He would sit on the wooden pews, kicking his feet and trying not to fidget around too much while the old man who stood at the front of the church read from a black book and went on for what felt like hours. Again, the meaning surpassed him, but it made his mother and grandmother happy and that was enough. And even though the old man had a tendency to ramble, he could always become absorbed with the intricately designed windows that sparkled with a hundred different colours in the sunlight.
When they returned home, his father would sometimes shake his head at him in wonder, removing his tie for him and asking how he could stand wearing such uncomfortable clothing. He just smiled and said that mommy liked it.
But one day, it wasn't enough to do it because it made others happy. He was restless at church and not even the sparkling glass windows could calm him. He forgot to say his prayers when his mother wasn't there, or else said them quickly so he could run off to another activity.
It had been his grandmother who had caught on first. He had been playing with his food while his mother was saying the supper prayer, eyes wide open and feet swinging freely under the table. No one seemed to notice and supper when on without incident, but his grandmother had pulled him aside afterward and spoke to him. It wasn't so much what she said, but the way she said it, like he had slighted her in some way by being disrespectful during prayer. But the look in her eyes hit home and he never again fidgeted during supper prayer as long as his grandmother had continued to live with them.
She wasn't a bad person. Far from it. On the whole, she was like the ideal grandmother – sharing stories of the old days and baking the best chocolate chip cookies for after-school snacks. He usually felt as comfortable around her as his own parents, but there were times that she almost scared him. Even in her criticisms, she retained a calm, polite voice, but for him that made them even worse.
After she had left, he no longer said his prayers. He would still occasionally accompany his mother to church, but the words were still meaningless, empty. His mother never commented on his behaviour and eventually he stopped going all together. Yet even in the silence, he couldn't detect any ill feelings; whether she had accepted it or whether his father had played a helping hand he never knew.
It had been years later when things finally turned sour. He and his parents had gone to visit his grandmother for a week. As it so happened, one of his friends had also moved into the area and they had both leaped at the chance to spend several days together. A Friday evening of reminiscing had turned into a Saturday of bad movies and video games which melted into a lazy Sunday morning.
"Alex, aren't you going?"
He had peered blurrily at his friend, still curled under the warm sheets. "Going? We're not leaving until Tuesday."
"That's not what I meant; aren't you going to church?"
That had provoked him into a more awake state and he sat up, the sheets sliding down to gather around his waist. "Church? You know I haven't been since . . . Oh."
Silence, then a heavy sigh from his friend. "I think she'd like it if you went." No need to say who ‘she' was.
This is what he had been dreading, but he hadn't truly expected his friend to just ignore it. "I know. It's just . . . I don't think I can. I don't think I can go back there." He racked his brain for the right words. "It's like being asked to become a preschooler again after you've graduated high school. You've changed so much that it hurts to think of going back to the way it was before, to losing that much of yourself.
"And the words aren't empty anymore," he whispered, staring at his hands as they pressed together like he mother used to do during prayer. "I didn't understand then, but now they pierce. And I know that I'm not what they want." A shiver wound its way down his spine and he let his hands fall back to the sheets.
A hand brushed over his shoulder and he forced his gaze up to meet his friend's. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you remember."
Alex shook his head, leaning into the touch. "‘Sander, do you want me to go?"
A bark of laughter filled the air and the hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter. "After all that? From the sounds of it, it would be rather like condemning you to Hell."
He had to laugh at that and couldn't help following the irony to its end. "Funny; I though you were supposed to go to places like that to be saved from Hell."
Lysander gave a snort, withdrawing his arm. Bereft of the warmth, Alex felt another chill run down his back, but it wasn't long before fingers coaxed his head upward and a forehead pressed against his own. "In all seriousness, I'd keep you forever if I could. But this isn't about what I want; what do you want?"
A smile spread over Alex's lips. "Staying right here sounds good to me."
[I will whisper my prayers against Thy lips,
I will partake of the sacrament Thou hast given me,
Eat deeply of the moist bread
And drink deeply of the red wine.]
It was just as well they didn't return to his grandmother's until early Tuesday morning. The goodbye kiss Alex received from his friend was enough to make him feel like his world would end. The reaction he received from his grandmother very nearly did end it.
* * *
He had followed the nurse into the elevator, down white corridors, and to the entrance of a room. The nurse cheerfully opened the door, stepping inside and checking the vitals before turning to him and motioning him to come in. He dug his hands further into his pockets as he entered to hide his nervousness and fought the wave of nausea that overcame him when he saw the IV tubes.
"Judy? Is that you?"
Thankful that he was still out of sight and the wince at hearing his mother's name was unnoticed, he gathered his wits and slowly stepped forward. "No, grandma. It's me, Alexander. But mother and father will be here soon."
He could feel her eyes on him, looking him over meticulously. As for himself, he kept his eyes on the ground. He doubted she'd want – or even allow – him to stay long, anyway.
"Why are you here, Alex?"
"I was going to see Ly–a friend when mother called me; she wanted to make sure you were all right." Here, he glanced at the figure in the bed. She looked very small against the sea of white, skin far more wrinkled that he remembered and seeming incredibly fragile. Lysander had been right about one thing (for Alex'd had to call him when he heard the news to let Lysander know he'd be delayed) – even after all that had happened, she was still family.
A moment's silence, then the figure in the bed raised one arm. "Come here, Alex."
Unsure of whether he was being called to be chastised or to offer comfort, he walked slowly, awkwardly taking the offered hand. It felt like autumn leaves, crinkled and rough. It trembled like autumn leaves, too.
"Alex, I'm scared."
Of all the things he was expecting, this was not one of them. "Grandma, the doctor said they just want to keep you for observation. They don't think anything's wrong; it's just precautionary. There's nothing to be scared of. Mother will be here in a few hours and then you'll see. Everything will be fine." He had never liked false optimism, but there was little else he could think of to say.
His grandmother gave a wane smile. "Alex, will you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
"Pray for me."
He dropped her hand as if it were a hot iron. No. Anything but that. "Grandma, Mother will be here soon. She'll pray for you."
"Pray for me, Alex. You used to do it so beautifully."
His fists clenched in an attempt to belie the sudden rush of anger. "It was a lie. I just repeated what Mother said."
The figure on the bed gave no sign she had heard him but merely repeated her request. "Pray for me, Alex."
"Just wait for Mother."
And again.
"I can't."
Again.
"No. I will leave now or I will stay here with you if you wish, but I will not pray for you."
She never spoke another word to him, but as he was about to leave, she slowly raised her hand. He stayed by her side long into the night.
