Thea's voice pierces through clouds and severs Elia's train of thought. "S-sorry; blabbering on about nothing."
Breathing slow, Elia opens her eyes and looks over the priest. She's rough — as unkempt as the alley. Dirt smudges all over her cassock and face, untrimmed fingernails with more dirt caked underneath, and the smell. No shower in at least a week.
Around her, milk crates form the walls of a ramshackle shelter. Torn t-shirts and bedsheets stretch overtop; a Frankenstein fabric riddled with holes. Far above that, a window-mounted air conditioner drips condensation, which falls through said holes and onto a pile of more ragged fabric. Thea's bed, no doubt. Or a makeshift pillow. Or it's just trash. Hard to tell.
"What happened to you?" Elia says.
"I-I told you, didn't I? I was about to get evicted. Didn't have near enough money to rent another place, so I'm here. It's warm most of the time."
This conversation is landmines aplenty. Elia clears her throat. "Guess you blame me?"
"No, n-no. Not at all. Definitely not, no." Thea cocks her head to one side. "W-well, maybe a little bit. If you had—"
Elia kneels down and waggles her fingers in Bamboo's direction. "How long have you been out here?"
Bamboo doesn't prance over; instead, she runs her cheek along Thea's legs. The little shit.
Thea swipes her hand along the cat's back. "Here, exactly? Three days. Technically four if you count the moving day; not that I have much to move anymore." She pats a suitcase nestled beside her. "Anyway, I've been trying to find a good spot for a couple weeks and this—"
"So a couple weeks; you knew what I meant."
Thea shudders. "Y-yeah. I guess I did. My brain just keeps pushing all these words out and—" She claps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry..."
There's silence. They both stare: at the ground, brick walls, random trash. Not each other. Though, there's the occasional glance where their eyes meet. Each one forces Elia's gut to contort and her eyes to stray. What do I say? What do I do?
Not subject to the tribulations inherent to human-to-human social interactions, Bamboo flops upon the floor, rolls onto her back, and bears her stomach for all to see, but not to touch.
Elia's gaze gets lost tracing mud-crusted strands of belly fur. I could tell her the truth, I guess. About me. How, though?
Emerald eyes lock on Elia's. "Raow." Bamboo says.
Too nosy, the damn cat. Elia looks about the alley once more. Everything is as it was: dirty and trash-filled. This time, though, something catches her eye.
The milk crates.
Idea forming, she raises herself to standing and stares down at Thea. "You're a priest, right?"
"Yes. W-well, no. Kind of? Not officially, anymore. Why do you ask?"
"Let's clear the air. We'll do a confession."
"You're Catholic?"
"My parents were." Elia shuffles over, placing the milk crates between them. She eases down the brick wall to her butt. On the other side of the crates' plastic grid, Thea fusses with something. If Elia squints, the sight is somewhat like an actual confessional. Though, thanks to the size of the holes in their impromptu screen, the priest's form is less an impression as it should be and more an "I can see straight down your ear hole" situation.
"Get to it, then." Elia says.
Thea and her shadow fiddle, fingers fussing over fingers. "You're sure? Here? I never liked doing these, you know."
"Sure enough. You'll manage."
With a pause and a shaky breath, Thea starts. "Uhm— uh— welcome, Sister. What burdens do you bring?"
Elia sucks in a breath. A deep one. Down inside her gut, a fire —ever present — searches for tinder. For fuel to burn, to consume, to devour. She sets her jaw. "Anger."
"O-oh. At w-who, might I ask?"
"You, myself. Everything. All the time."
"Phew— uh— sorry. Why? Is there a reason?"
"Nothing specific; there's a new reason every time. Even if it doesn't make sense to me, thinking back. Small things. Small enough that I don't even remember what they were by the time I cool down." Flame flickers within Elia's chest. "God, it pisses me off."
Thea doesn't say anything; Elia lets her anger fester alongside the silence.
The priest putters like an engine, surely lost in her search for divine wisdom. Eventually, her puttering transforms into coherent words. "W-what if you try being more gentle with yourself?"
"Never thought of that one."
"Sarcasm?"
"Sarcasm."
Thea shrinks. "S-sorry. Should I have stayed quiet?"
"No. I don't know— fuck. I've got anger issues, okay? I'm trying to say I'm sorry and tell you why things happened and that I started working it out with a therapist and all that bullshit. Got it?"
"Some of it. I— I don't know what to say, though. Ask, rather. To keep the confession going, that is."
"Then don't talk. I'm sorry for pushing you and for not helping you when I could have. I'm a piece of shit; I'm trying to be a less shitty piece of shit. So come work for me instead of sleeping out here."
Elia's breath catches. What'd I just say?
Quiet as Thea is, she must be in a similar state. Elia steals a glance. Thea wrings her hands around something lying across her lap; the shaft of her cane.
Duffie was one thing, but her?
A whiskered cheek scratches against Elia's denim coveralls. Bamboo. She slithers under and between bent knees, tail flicking this way and that.
Scrubbing behind furry ears, Elia sighs. "Nosy ass. How'd I get stuck with you?"
Voice flat, Thea interrupts the moment. "Do you mean it?"
Do I?
Elia nods. Weak; barely noticeable; but she does. "I do." She says.
"Why?"
"What I've already said. Do I have to repeat it?"
Thea's tone jumps an octave, now far from flat. "N-no. I'm just— I'm confused. I don't even know anything about cars! What do you get out of this?"
Elia sits with the question. Nothing is the obvious — the easy — answer. But no, that's not it. There's something crawling beneath her skin. A sick, sludgy mess she can't ignore. Guilt. She swipes a hand down Bamboo's back. "Atonement, I suppose. Just saying sorry isn't enough for what I did."
"So you'd expect me to forgive you?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"That you'd try to learn what I teach. You'd do your work. That you wouldn't keep me up at night."
"Keep you up? W-what?"
"Well, you'd need a place to stay. Somewhere to shower."
"That doesn't really answer—"
"Got to spell everything out." Elia mutters. "With me. You'd stay with me and you'd work for me. That's the best I can do. Got a couch, a shower, and a place to eat. Take it or don't."
Thea shrivels. "Ha... n-not the friendliest way to put it."
"That's how I'm saying it. Take it that's a no?"
"No. I mean— no. No. I'm not— I'm not saying no. W-well, I guess I am saying no, but not to the offer. I— I don't know what I'm saying."
Elia pushes up off the ground and swats at the butt of her coveralls, brushing away whatever dirt or trash is trying to tag along. "Figure it out then. You know where I'm at; offer is open. Bamboo, you heading back with me or staying here?"
Bamboo circles once, tail high. She darts back around the milk crates and disappears. "Roaw!"
"Figured." Elia starts off, but the sight of her fly infested windowsill flashes. "Feed her if you can; she didn't have her breakfast."
Thea's voice pierces through clouds and severs Elia's train of thought. "S-sorry; blabbering on about nothing."
Breathing slow, Elia opens her eyes and looks over the priest. She's rough — as unkempt as the alley. Dirt smudges all over her cassock and face, untrimmed fingernails with more dirt caked underneath, and the smell. No shower in at least a week.
Around her, milk crates form the walls of a ramshackle shelter. Torn t-shirts and bedsheets stretch overtop; a Frankenstein fabric riddled with holes. Far above that, a window-mounted air conditioner drips condensation, which falls through said holes and onto a pile of more ragged fabric. Thea's bed, no doubt. Or a makeshift pillow. Or it's just trash. Hard to tell.
"What happened to you?" Elia says.
"I-I told you, didn't I? I was about to get evicted. Didn't have near enough money to rent another place, so I'm here. It's warm most of the time."
This conversation is landmines aplenty. Elia clears her throat. "Guess you blame me?"
"No, n-no. Not at all. Definitely not, no." Thea cocks her head to one side. "W-well, maybe a little bit. If you had—"
Elia kneels down and waggles her fingers in Bamboo's direction. "How long have you been out here?"
Bamboo doesn't prance over; instead, she runs her cheek along Thea's legs. The little shit.
Thea swipes her hand along the cat's back. "Here, exactly? Three days. Technically four if you count the moving day; not that I have much to move anymore." She pats a suitcase nestled beside her. "Anyway, I've been trying to find a good spot for a couple weeks and this—"
"So a couple weeks; you knew what I meant."
Thea shudders. "Y-yeah. I guess I did. My brain just keeps pushing all these words out and—" She claps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry..."
There's silence. They both stare: at the ground, brick walls, random trash. Not each other. Though, there's the occasional glance where their eyes meet. Each one forces Elia's gut to contort and her eyes to stray. What do I say? What do I do?
Not subject to the tribulations inherent to human-to-human social interactions, Bamboo flops upon the floor, rolls onto her back, and bears her stomach for all to see, but not to touch.
Elia's gaze gets lost tracing mud-crusted strands of belly fur. I could tell her the truth, I guess. About me. How, though?
Emerald eyes lock on Elia's. "Raow." Bamboo says.
Too nosy, the damn cat. Elia looks about the alley once more. Everything is as it was: dirty and trash-filled. This time, though, something catches her eye.
The milk crates.
Idea forming, she raises herself to standing and stares down at Thea. "You're a priest, right?"
"Yes. W-well, no. Kind of? Not officially, anymore. Why do you ask?"
"Let's clear the air. We'll do a confession."
"You're Catholic?"
"My parents were." Elia shuffles over, placing the milk crates between them. She eases down the brick wall to her butt. On the other side of the crates' plastic grid, Thea fusses with something. If Elia squints, the sight is somewhat like an actual confessional. Though, thanks to the size of the holes in their impromptu screen, the priest's form is less an impression as it should be and more an "I can see straight down your ear hole" situation.
"Get to it, then." Elia says.
Thea and her shadow fiddle, fingers fussing over fingers. "You're sure? Here? I never liked doing these, you know."
"Sure enough. You'll manage."
With a pause and a shaky breath, Thea starts. "Uhm— uh— welcome, Sister. What burdens do you bring?"
Elia sucks in a breath. A deep one. Down inside her gut, a fire —ever present — searches for tinder. For fuel to burn, to consume, to devour. She sets her jaw. "Anger."
"O-oh. At w-who, might I ask?"
"You, myself. Everything. All the time."
"Phew— uh— sorry. Why? Is there a reason?"
"Nothing specific; there's a new reason every time. Even if it doesn't make sense to me, thinking back. Small things. Small enough that I don't even remember what they were by the time I cool down." Flame flickers within Elia's chest. "God, it pisses me off."
Thea doesn't say anything; Elia lets her anger fester alongside the silence.
The priest putters like an engine, surely lost in her search for divine wisdom. Eventually, her puttering transforms into coherent words. "W-what if you try being more gentle with yourself?"
"Never thought of that one."
"Sarcasm?"
"Sarcasm."
Thea shrinks. "S-sorry. Should I have stayed quiet?"
"No. I don't know— fuck. I've got anger issues, okay? I'm trying to say I'm sorry and tell you why things happened and that I started working it out with a therapist and all that bullshit. Got it?"
"Some of it. I— I don't know what to say, though. Ask, rather. To keep the confession going, that is."
"Then don't talk. I'm sorry for pushing you and for not helping you when I could have. I'm a piece of shit; I'm trying to be a less shitty piece of shit. So come work for me instead of sleeping out here."
Elia's breath catches. What'd I just say?
Quiet as Thea is, she must be in a similar state. Elia steals a glance. Thea wrings her hands around something lying across her lap; the shaft of her cane.
Duffie was one thing, but her?
A whiskered cheek scratches against Elia's denim coveralls. Bamboo. She slithers under and between bent knees, tail flicking this way and that.
Scrubbing behind furry ears, Elia sighs. "Nosy ass. How'd I get stuck with you?"
Voice flat, Thea interrupts the moment. "Do you mean it?"
Do I?
Elia nods. Weak; barely noticeable; but she does. "I do." She says.
"Why?"
"What I've already said. Do I have to repeat it?"
Thea's tone jumps an octave, now far from flat. "N-no. I'm just— I'm confused. I don't even know anything about cars! What do you get out of this?"
Elia sits with the question. Nothing is the obvious — the easy — answer. But no, that's not it. There's something crawling beneath her skin. A sick, sludgy mess she can't ignore. Guilt. She swipes a hand down Bamboo's back. "Atonement, I suppose. Just saying sorry isn't enough for what I did."
"So you'd expect me to forgive you?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"That you'd try to learn what I teach. You'd do your work. That you wouldn't keep me up at night."
"Keep you up? W-what?"
"Well, you'd need a place to stay. Somewhere to shower."
"That doesn't really answer—"
"Got to spell everything out." Elia mutters. "With me. You'd stay with me and you'd work for me. That's the best I can do. Got a couch, a shower, and a place to eat. Take it or don't."
Thea shrivels. "Ha... n-not the friendliest way to put it."
"That's how I'm saying it. Take it that's a no?"
"No. I mean— no. No. I'm not— I'm not saying no. W-well, I guess I am saying no, but not to the offer. I— I don't know what I'm saying."
Elia pushes up off the ground and swats at the butt of her coveralls, brushing away whatever dirt or trash is trying to tag along. "Figure it out then. You know where I'm at; offer is open. Bamboo, you heading back with me or staying here?"
Bamboo circles once, tail high. She darts back around the milk crates and disappears. "Roaw!"
"Figured." Elia starts off, but the sight of her fly infested windowsill flashes. "Feed her if you can; she didn't have her breakfast."
