ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Faith

Vignette - Faith
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Msgr. Flores
In Absentia	Ash Wednesday '
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. It's only just past noon, but Jackson's steps are already heavy-sluggish, slightly unsteady as he makes his way into church; a morning of not eating hits the photokinetic considerably harder than most. There's still a good deal of construction going on, but inside a lot of the space has been restored. There's a small wait; Msgr. Flores is in the confessional with another penitent, and Jax drops down heavily into a pew, leaning forward with elbows resting on knees and fingers lacing together. Chin propped on the backs of his knuckles, his gaze focuses forward; in his large glasses, the crucifix is reflected in his mirrored gaze. The morning's dark smudge of ashes still sit on his pale forehead. When the confessional is vacated and the pastor emerges takes him a moment to push himself to his feet. He doesn't go into the confessional -- its darkened space is a bit too /much/ penance for him, especially today. Instead he and the priest just wander off into the basement to find a quiet spot in one of the meeting rooms to sit. Or slump, in Jackson's case, a little exhausted-tired in his seat. A little sluggish as he signs himself. "-- Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been --" He's a little hesitant, here, a small blush flushing his cheeks. "-- four an' a half months since my last confession." Once upon a time, it was never more than a week. After this, there's silence. Jax's fingers twitch in his lap, thumb pressing in against the scarred stub of his smallest finger. In here you're supposed to start with the biggest sins, the mortal sins; confess the hardest ones to say, the ones weighing heaviest on the soul. The ones that stick in the throat when you're sitting with your confessor's eyes focusing in on you and four and a half months of horror churning through your head. Jax stares down at his hands, fingers slowly curling into loose fists. Small threads of shadow coil their way up around his arms, twining dark against his skin. His tongue pokes at one lip ring, wiggling it slowly. "I -- gave up," he finally says, thick drawl quiet-soft in the basement stillness. "I mean, I'm an illusionist, you know, time to time I learn to fake it, but I gave up on -- a lot. I gave up on thinkin' things'd ever get better, I gave up on thinkin' I'd ever be able to /help/ make 'em better, I feel like I gave up in a lotta ways on my family an' I sure as heck gave up on God. An' the kinda life I live, Father, despair ain't just a feeling, y'know? S'a /decision/. An' it's one I --" His hands unfold; he lifts one to run it up through his hair, leaving its shaggy mop tousled. "I near let a man kill me, just because I wanted this all to -- be done. /I/ wanted to be done. An' I ordered my team to leave a man in those cages to die. An' I think I'm about to see my best friend killed to get more folks out. An' the thing is I ain't even sure which decision's the right one. Maybe they're all jus' wrong ones. M'trying to find my way back to a place where I even /want/ to live 'cuz there's a whole lotta folks whose lives ride on my decisions an' I --" He stops, lips twitching up slightly at the corners. "-- The rest'a my list don't really seem that big next to this one. Y'got a few Hail Marys, maybe, can scrounge me up some faith in the world again?" Msgr. Flores gives him a small curl of smile. "I think," he says, a little heavily, "perhaps we should start with some faith in yourself."