H&S: Story Of Dorothy Oneshots

Trust and Believe

          "You'll be safe and sound here." The Priest's voice was low and soothing, like the swishing of gentle ocean waves, or the bold whispering of a babbling brook. He was an easily-approachable man, of average height and build, his hair dark and heavily salted with white. Lines of age were deeply set in his face, his handsome high cheekbones seeming to sag with flabby skin. He held the Bible in his hands, striding with confidence, his robe swaying, as if no demon from Hell could best such a devoted holy man.

        Gwyn Demian followed him through the pristine, bright halls of the theological school. The windows shined blinding sunlight on the small ten-year-old boy and the aging deacon. Gwyn's back was hunched, he stared too long at passersby with big, teal eyes and a droopy mop of cloud white locks hanging over them. They waved and smiled at him, even giving warm words of greeting, but he didn't return the politeness. He slowed his pace and turned his head back to stare at a group of older kids that were headed in the opposite direction.

         It'd been so long since he spoke with other kids. They seemed well-behaved, holding onto their Bibles and babbling amongst each other at a respectful volume so as not to upset any classes.

           "Is something the matter?" The voice startled him into turning back around and keeping up his pace again.

           "N-no! No problem." Gwyn assured timidly, gaze dropping to the reflective tiled floors. 

            The Priest smiled gently at him. "Come here, walk alongside me." He beckoned him forward, even slowing down so the boy could easily fall in step with him. Gwyn obeyed, nodding and avoiding eye contact. "You are my equal, Gwyn. I insist you walk beside me, not behind me." 

           "Y-yes sir." Gwyn mumbled, as if not knowing what to make of his amiable nature. He passed an open doorway and stole a glimpse inside, seeing students, mostly adults, sitting at pews and listening to a preacher at the front of the room. Lecturing about whatever lessons the Bible taught humanity. Gwyn's father, Theophilius, was never much of a religious figure, so of course his son didn't know much of Christianity or Catholicism or whatever.

         "Stand up straighter." The Priest commanded, noticing his slumped posture. His tone made it sound more like a suggestion than a demand, really. "...You look defeated. Helpless. As if you don't belong here."

         Gwyn straightened his back, but a new layer of sadness gleamed in his eyes. They twinkled like stars as tears gathered. One could see that he thought every bit of this was true. He did feel as if he lost a terrible war with Lady Luck, or life, as most would say. Coming out confused and depressed about what he was possibly to do now, scarred physically and mentally. He touched the black mask covering the right side of his face, the strings wrapping around his ears to hold it in place.

        The Priest's eyes softened even more, if that was possible. His smile grew, rippling his cheeks with new wrinkles. He gingerly set his hand on the Gwyn's small shoulder, ignoring the involuntary shudder he felt from the boy as they locked gazes. The words came to his wise mind easily. His experiences and teachings gathered his speech without effort, ready to pass down his sage advice to another. To give them faith in their time of need.

     "This is not the last leg of your journey, Gwyn Demian." The Priest spoke quietly, his voice tinged with a somberness that made his empathy all the more obvious. "Yes, you've suffered. At the hands of someone you love dearly, no less. And you will suffer more in your lifetime."

       Gwyn blinked away the tears, slipping his fingers under the mask to tenderly run them over his scar. The rough angry red line started at his hairline and ended at his jawline. He remembered the months of confinement in that basement, the mood swings, the sadistic leering grins. The beatings, the promises of love and affection, the acting on those promises, then the fear and depression when the love reverted back to pain. Constantly looking into the eyes of a madman and wondering when they'd show the next bout of bloodlust, eyes that belonged to his father.