Post by Faust on Dec 27, 2022 1:20:00 GMT -5
I.
Scene: Church of the Grace of Our Most Holy in the Silver Plains, La Llana Plata, Andalucia, Nevarra
Father Santiago rose from his sleep with a shock following the thunderous boom of wood meeting stone with great force behind it. Caught in a lengthy prayer that stretched into a mid-afternoon nap the presbyter stirred having been roused so suddenly. His attention turned from the altar where numerous hand-made idols and offerings from the community of La Llana Plata were assembled in a chorus decoration that functioned as an outline to the illuminated banner of Voseante. His vision, initially glazed over was returned after a few swift blinks where his eyes met young boy standing in the doorway of the humble chapel. His knees were exposed and coarsely scratched after having likely played around in the rugged terrain surrounding the settlement. The Father noticed that the boy looked burdened both physically and emotionally. His body slouched and waved as if almost guided by a weak breeze in the air where his arms hanged limply. His dark hair simultaneously was messy and weighed against his head as if he wore some sort of hat for a long period of time. Most importantly, however, the boy's eyes were reddened and shimmering tears reflected both the natural light being let in as well as the illuminating lamps within the chapel. Even now he seemed as if he were incapable of holding back a torrent of cries and his body convulsed ever so subtly as if he were fighting a losing battle to contain that most sickening sadness.
Taking note of this, Father Santiago stood up and rushed over to the boy with worry starting to weigh in is chest. He wondered if the boy had been hurt, and if so, how grave the injury was. Though he inspected him and found no discernable injury as he approached him only then did he notice that he was hurting from something that no traditional medicine or herbs could fix.
"Domingo, what has happened to you? Are you alright?" the Father kneeled down having become accustomed to such a position in order to meet his ward at eye-level on numerous occasions, though he could recall when his heavy stature caused notable fatigue and trouble with reassuming a standing position.
"I hate them, tio! T-They're always mean and Raul call-calls me a chordo and m-m-makes fun of me. I hate them! I h-hate hate..." as the boy ranted his own sorrow served as kindling for a bubbling fury that burned his cheeks and nearly boiled the fresh tears that started to flow from his eyes once more. Seeing this, Santiago learned forward and brought the child into his embrace allowing him to sob and scream into his shoulder. Moments passed where the chapel's silence was replaced by the roaring fury and wails of the young boy muffled by the body of the old priest who held him gently and combed his messy hair while also gingerly patting his back. After awhile Domingo lost the ability to cry vocally. His throat was choked up in the worst way and the tears which flowed unobstructed had dried and were instead replaced with a notable itchiness and sensitivity to the somewhat coarse texture of Santiago's jacket. At this moment the Father pulled back and looked at Santiago with a remorseful expression. His own feelings were turbulent, on one hand he wanted to storm out of the chapel and scold the children out under the sun for all to see but at the same time he knew that this was not his battle to fight and that he couldn't step in on behalf of his nephew otherwise he would never learn to confront his problems with his own resolve.
"Tell me Dom, what happened?" he asked. The boy took a moment to collect himself, pulling back to wipe away his face layered with his tears.
"I was going to go play luchadores with Miguel, I even made my own mask and I wanted to show him because I liked it and thought he would like it. But before that I ran into Raul and Izan and hurt my head a little. Raul pushed me and Izan grabbed me and wouldn't let go..." as Domingo continued talking he struggled to speak, swallowing in between sentences and catching his breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of crude leather.
"T-They took my mask and... I told them to stop... I don't-" he bared the leather piece to Father Santiago, revealing a patchwork leather mask decorated playfully with bright contrasting colors around the eyes and where the mouth would have been had it not received a sizeable tear running from the neck seam all the way to the forehead. The crestfallen child handed over the mask to Father Santiago who had a look of subtle surprise on his face as he looked at the ruined mask placed in his hand.
"They unmasked me... I-I can't be a luchador now. I'm not strong enough... I'll never be strong enough..."
"Domingo-"
"I don't want to talk anymore, tio. I want to go lay down." and without allowing Santiago a chance to speak the boy wiggled out of his grasp and lethargically made his way to the other end of the chapel, entering a doorway and taking a flight of stairs up to the upper level of the chapel. Moments following a notable thud of a door being closed echoing throughout the halls of the church having found its silence once again. The priest watched as the young boy absconded from the scene and stood up in the middle of the aisle left looking down at the damaged leather in his hand. His grip on it firmed up as he allowed himself to fall into a pew nearby and spend the next several minutes looking over the details of the mask, contemplating what Domingo said, and thinking about all the things he can do and even the things he wished he could've done.
Scene: Church of the Grace of Our Most Holy in the Silver Plains, La Llana Plata, Andalucia, Nevarra
Father Santiago rose from his sleep with a shock following the thunderous boom of wood meeting stone with great force behind it. Caught in a lengthy prayer that stretched into a mid-afternoon nap the presbyter stirred having been roused so suddenly. His attention turned from the altar where numerous hand-made idols and offerings from the community of La Llana Plata were assembled in a chorus decoration that functioned as an outline to the illuminated banner of Voseante. His vision, initially glazed over was returned after a few swift blinks where his eyes met young boy standing in the doorway of the humble chapel. His knees were exposed and coarsely scratched after having likely played around in the rugged terrain surrounding the settlement. The Father noticed that the boy looked burdened both physically and emotionally. His body slouched and waved as if almost guided by a weak breeze in the air where his arms hanged limply. His dark hair simultaneously was messy and weighed against his head as if he wore some sort of hat for a long period of time. Most importantly, however, the boy's eyes were reddened and shimmering tears reflected both the natural light being let in as well as the illuminating lamps within the chapel. Even now he seemed as if he were incapable of holding back a torrent of cries and his body convulsed ever so subtly as if he were fighting a losing battle to contain that most sickening sadness.
Taking note of this, Father Santiago stood up and rushed over to the boy with worry starting to weigh in is chest. He wondered if the boy had been hurt, and if so, how grave the injury was. Though he inspected him and found no discernable injury as he approached him only then did he notice that he was hurting from something that no traditional medicine or herbs could fix.
"Domingo, what has happened to you? Are you alright?" the Father kneeled down having become accustomed to such a position in order to meet his ward at eye-level on numerous occasions, though he could recall when his heavy stature caused notable fatigue and trouble with reassuming a standing position.
"I hate them, tio! T-They're always mean and Raul call-calls me a chordo and m-m-makes fun of me. I hate them! I h-hate hate..." as the boy ranted his own sorrow served as kindling for a bubbling fury that burned his cheeks and nearly boiled the fresh tears that started to flow from his eyes once more. Seeing this, Santiago learned forward and brought the child into his embrace allowing him to sob and scream into his shoulder. Moments passed where the chapel's silence was replaced by the roaring fury and wails of the young boy muffled by the body of the old priest who held him gently and combed his messy hair while also gingerly patting his back. After awhile Domingo lost the ability to cry vocally. His throat was choked up in the worst way and the tears which flowed unobstructed had dried and were instead replaced with a notable itchiness and sensitivity to the somewhat coarse texture of Santiago's jacket. At this moment the Father pulled back and looked at Santiago with a remorseful expression. His own feelings were turbulent, on one hand he wanted to storm out of the chapel and scold the children out under the sun for all to see but at the same time he knew that this was not his battle to fight and that he couldn't step in on behalf of his nephew otherwise he would never learn to confront his problems with his own resolve.
"Tell me Dom, what happened?" he asked. The boy took a moment to collect himself, pulling back to wipe away his face layered with his tears.
"I was going to go play luchadores with Miguel, I even made my own mask and I wanted to show him because I liked it and thought he would like it. But before that I ran into Raul and Izan and hurt my head a little. Raul pushed me and Izan grabbed me and wouldn't let go..." as Domingo continued talking he struggled to speak, swallowing in between sentences and catching his breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of crude leather.
"T-They took my mask and... I told them to stop... I don't-" he bared the leather piece to Father Santiago, revealing a patchwork leather mask decorated playfully with bright contrasting colors around the eyes and where the mouth would have been had it not received a sizeable tear running from the neck seam all the way to the forehead. The crestfallen child handed over the mask to Father Santiago who had a look of subtle surprise on his face as he looked at the ruined mask placed in his hand.
"They unmasked me... I-I can't be a luchador now. I'm not strong enough... I'll never be strong enough..."
"Domingo-"
"I don't want to talk anymore, tio. I want to go lay down." and without allowing Santiago a chance to speak the boy wiggled out of his grasp and lethargically made his way to the other end of the chapel, entering a doorway and taking a flight of stairs up to the upper level of the chapel. Moments following a notable thud of a door being closed echoing throughout the halls of the church having found its silence once again. The priest watched as the young boy absconded from the scene and stood up in the middle of the aisle left looking down at the damaged leather in his hand. His grip on it firmed up as he allowed himself to fall into a pew nearby and spend the next several minutes looking over the details of the mask, contemplating what Domingo said, and thinking about all the things he can do and even the things he wished he could've done.