Monday, 26 August
The corridors of the surgical ward to which the priest has been moved are sometimes packed with people. The entire League of Mary descends en masse, carrying with them baked goods and cassaroles and tidbits to tempt their leader's appetite. They do not understand, still, how badly he was injured, how very close he was to death, how a many who eats everything they thrust at him may not be tempted by pan dulces or homemade empanadas after his visceral have been rearranged by a pack of purportedly rabid and technically non-living dogs. The nurses and CNAs and residents and janitorial staff will eat well tonight.
He is in a semi-private room now and although there is no particular limit on the number of visitors a patient in this ward may have there are practical limitations defined more by the city's fire warden than hospital policy. So the League of Mary members take turns, slipping out into the corridor or perhaps retreating so far as the nearest waiting room to allow another believer or three to slip in for a decade of the rosary prayed in a droning murmur that competes with but does not defeat constant hum of machinery behind the walls of the room.
--
Then she shows up.
Mid-afternoon, bold as you fucking please, dressed in -
- well, they would perhaps be prepared to see her in her usual attire. A bustier and cut-off jeans, a cheap pleather skirt with a slip up to her ass and torn fishnets. Some combination of any or all of the above, plus calf-high boots with stacked heels and that definitively masculine swagger to her. The clothing that has the abuelitas of the Church of the Good Shepherd convinced that their priest has taken up on some level with a prostitute.
The more pious among them remind the rest of the story of Mary Magdalene. The rest share gossip about her appearances at the edges of their lives. Her behavior, her foul fucking mouth.
Instead, Serafíne is dressed in a tiny black dress so skintight she cannot possibly be wearing undergarments beneath it. It is sleeveless and black and lace and significant swaths of the dress are transparent or semi-transparent and other than the dress her arms and her long, long legs are bare and nevermind that the length is an illusion of sorts created by the five inch emerald green heels she wears and some physical accident that derives from the way she is put together but the shoes cost more than the hospital charge for this room for a single day and the cost of the dress would cover Mrs. Sanchez's August rent seven or eight times over and the clutch and the necklace -
the League of Mary no longer believes that Father Echeverría has taken up with a streetwalker.
They think he has taken up with a fucking call girl.
And Jesús Cristo, she is breathtaking.
And Dios mío, how she almost breaks down when she sees him, mostly coherent, sort-of-upright. All those tubs and - and - and - things removed, his body functioning more-or-less on its own.
[For reference, as witnessed by Jamie: Serafíne @ 6:13PM
Phobia roll
Roll: 6 d10 TN8 (5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID]
The corridors of the surgical ward to which the priest has been moved are sometimes packed with people. The entire League of Mary descends en masse, carrying with them baked goods and cassaroles and tidbits to tempt their leader's appetite. They do not understand, still, how badly he was injured, how very close he was to death, how a many who eats everything they thrust at him may not be tempted by pan dulces or homemade empanadas after his visceral have been rearranged by a pack of purportedly rabid and technically non-living dogs. The nurses and CNAs and residents and janitorial staff will eat well tonight.
He is in a semi-private room now and although there is no particular limit on the number of visitors a patient in this ward may have there are practical limitations defined more by the city's fire warden than hospital policy. So the League of Mary members take turns, slipping out into the corridor or perhaps retreating so far as the nearest waiting room to allow another believer or three to slip in for a decade of the rosary prayed in a droning murmur that competes with but does not defeat constant hum of machinery behind the walls of the room.
--
Then she shows up.
Mid-afternoon, bold as you fucking please, dressed in -
- well, they would perhaps be prepared to see her in her usual attire. A bustier and cut-off jeans, a cheap pleather skirt with a slip up to her ass and torn fishnets. Some combination of any or all of the above, plus calf-high boots with stacked heels and that definitively masculine swagger to her. The clothing that has the abuelitas of the Church of the Good Shepherd convinced that their priest has taken up on some level with a prostitute.
The more pious among them remind the rest of the story of Mary Magdalene. The rest share gossip about her appearances at the edges of their lives. Her behavior, her foul fucking mouth.
Instead, Serafíne is dressed in a tiny black dress so skintight she cannot possibly be wearing undergarments beneath it. It is sleeveless and black and lace and significant swaths of the dress are transparent or semi-transparent and other than the dress her arms and her long, long legs are bare and nevermind that the length is an illusion of sorts created by the five inch emerald green heels she wears and some physical accident that derives from the way she is put together but the shoes cost more than the hospital charge for this room for a single day and the cost of the dress would cover Mrs. Sanchez's August rent seven or eight times over and the clutch and the necklace -
the League of Mary no longer believes that Father Echeverría has taken up with a streetwalker.
They think he has taken up with a fucking call girl.
And Jesús Cristo, she is breathtaking.
And Dios mío, how she almost breaks down when she sees him, mostly coherent, sort-of-upright. All those tubs and - and - and - things removed, his body functioning more-or-less on its own.
[For reference, as witnessed by Jamie: Serafíne @ 6:13PM
Phobia roll
Roll: 6 d10 TN8 (5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID]
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula