helios delacroix ; eighteen, male, district nine pastor boy, gunshot gunshot bible study good ole child of ratmas what are gangus lol is that leviathan got 99 problems but not a single sin :') it's called winning
It rains blood, the broken sins of Ripred's children; I can only do so much.
I can only repent so much.
Coursing through my veins - I've always been the most loyal. The most perfect, at least that I could fine, I wanted to be christened with the very definition lost somewhere between star child and judgement day. I want to be innocent enough to be able to carry the burdens of my sister's sins and still be able to walk with my head high enough to keep me from drowning in unholy waters. For them, I'd do it too, I believe. I've always been a big dreamer, but I dream that in the face of holy wrath he'd bestow upon me enough mercy to save my sisters too.
(For them, I'd bare it all.)
I don't think I can. I'm not a sharp thinker, in all honesty, I've been told countless times by Xanthe but it doesn't take a genius to see the ghosts surrounding sinner's. On the bright side, it only takes an idiot to ignore it into oblivion; the priest tells me this often. He's my guidance, more so than family itself. Father White sits me down and asks about them, and I tell him, "well," take a second to swallow spit, "Percy just turned fourteen," and I smile something wholesome and he shakes his head, my stomach sinks.
"Is he devoted, Helios?"
"No sir," I shake my head and golden locks, "she isn't."
It's a revolving motif, Father White's constant asking about my sisters and I never have anything to provide except empty answers. He's angrier on some occasions, accusing me of letting them become corrupt myself, that by not saving them I'm condemning us all, that I'm just as much a sinner. His voice is deep, echoing in the church hall's and I feel small; "I don't know how to save them, Father." Flustered and red, Father would walk away and I would sweat in a church pew alone - "just do it."
And it's difficult, trying to force feed salvation into a band of bandits with no want to be; it's almost as if suffering for them is better than living. That breathing smog is healthier than clean air. By the time I parish I don't think I'll be able to have protected any of them from their selves, even my own twin. Xanthe remembers the church, I know she does, just as I remember her past she has to remember my present, so how is it that we have two very different futures? I question how related we may be, her dark hair and sins - how can we be?
"May Ripred weep for them," I breathe into clasped hands, sun heavy through stained glass.
We were once a holy family, it's burned into my brain, a holy flame flickering and scorching that of my memories; we were blessed. As a child Father White would squeeze his hand on my shoulder as I held hands with my siblings - the lot of us through matches into graves of blood soaked caskets. I don't understand what they're running for, fighting against anymore, but I guess that comes with oblivion.
Ripred held them in his arms and they turned him away.
(What is there mercy for?)
There's a noose around my lungs, hearing the door shut behind Father White and I'm alone, weeds growing in the silence. Alone, just judgment and I, it's how it always feels. My hair's combed back and I'm stuck in my tuesday's pretty good, matched for my date with solemn eyes, I exhale.
Oblivion, a place I find myself in too often for my liking. I cross my heart for the faces of my sisters.