The Initiates

The Initiates: Chapter Two

Damien led me down the graveyard. His back arched inwards as he walk and his shoulders were pushed back. His head was high and poised as though he had something to prove. Perhaps he did. The black dark of his hair matched my entire outfit as I was close to pointing out, only to remember that actually; no, I was in funeral clothes. Mourning clothes. Surrounded by death clothes. Not that I found black to be a distasteful colour, just that I found wearing it by choice was much more comfortable than roasting alive within your own dress. Against your will, no less.
"Why, Damien," I breathe as he leads me through row upon row of white marble headstones, some surrounded by bouquets of expensive flowers, others forgotten over time and aged and greening. My fingers trail over the top of a particularly pretty headstone, dancing along of their own accord, "What a romantic walk you've brought me on."
He turns to face me and I expect the smirk on his lips would have made anyone else swoon. Such smirks were not respectful towards the dead, however I felt that Damien was not the sort to be respectful to the dead. I felt Damien rather wished to add a few more graves to this graveyard- and not the ones with respectable pretty white marble markers.
"I want to show you something." He shrugs and I skip forwards a step, inwardly cringing as I feel my dress shift on my skin.
"Is it out of the sun?" I play it up, dramatically fanning my face, collar tugging; downwards, just to see if his eyes wander.
They don't stray from my face and I'm pleased. A sex pest pastor would be cliché, although a flicker of interest would be a good indicator of whether he was a truly cliché sex pest pastor or not.
"Yes."
He doesn't reveal anything else, but I do catch his eyes sweep the length of me and a glimmer sweeps over them; like a mirage filling the sky. A slow smile creeps over my face and I loop an arm through his.
"The heat has me feeling positively faint. Don't you agree that funerals are much better suited to grey skies and rain?"
One eyebrow jerks upwards at my comment. "You talk weird, did you know? Extremely pretentious."
"I read a lot." I shrug, "But don't you agree?"
"What, about rain? It would be more... atmospheric? Is that the word I'm looking for?"
I look up at him and smile, nodding.
"That's exactly the word."
"But you said she would hate all the misery; perhaps God is doing her soul a favour."
I'm surprised. Damien hates his job but is he still religious? There's a touch of bitter sarcasm in his tone but I can't pinpoint the source of it, it just seems to course through his veins; like a further addition to the chemicals his body is already pushing through him.
"So Mr Pastor. Does that mean you're a believer?"
"I believe there's not nothing."
"That's awfully vague." I drag the word out. I'm acting far more childishly than usual. Nineteen years old and flirting with a religious yet incredibly handsome older man. Even I find it ridiculous. I need a new partner, however, or I lose my status. And if I lose my status then four years of hard work and lies are wasted.
"But you seem as though you talk so much to keep everything vague." The glint is back in his eye and I wonder if he knows that they look like sapphires.
I feel a knowing smile creep onto my face at his comment and he grins. It's sharkish; dangerous and predatory, but I feel safe. He isn't a danger to me. Someone else however...
"Anyway. How come you aren't upset? The whole best friend thing, you should be crying; shouldn't you?"
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, despite the fact that something about my young pastor is making it difficult for me to maintain my usual level of self-restraint. "I don't wear my heart on my sleeve very often."
He raises his eyebrow at me again but doesn't pursue the real answer, he must have caught quite quickly from ny expression that I'm not one to reveal my deepest darkest emotions to a stranger.
Is he a stranger though? There's something about him, the way he's guarded to the point where learning his name felt like I had struck gold. Something about his midnight hair reminds me of someone out of a dream.
I can see what Damien called the funeral director's building through the vivid, green willow trees ahead; an old, white-washed stone building, with a rickety wall surrounding it's yard. There is a reception area on the west side of the building, with a sign saying 'Welcome' on the door: A dark red garden shed is beside it, and a much older woman is hanging out clothes on a washing line. Clearly, this is his home. Clearly, judging by the set of his jaw, he doesn't like that thought.
"Mama, the service is over. Michael is overseeing the hall." Damien's voice takes on an even sharper edge as he calls over to the woman. As we approach the wall, she turns around and I can immediately see the family resemblence. Her eyes are also a brilliant blue, extremely young and sharp on her weathered face. Her hair is mostly silver-grey, but I can easily imagine it long and black as night. I find it frustrating how someone with such a wisened face- as it is old, and wrinkled, and has definitely seen some things- can remain so beautiful. However those bright blue eyes are narrowed at me and I can sense Damien gained his biting sarcasm from her. Perhaps because of her.
"I'll tell your uncle to take the digger out." And then her tone shifts, as does her focus. "Who is this? Who are you?"
"I'm A-" Damien's arm snakes behind me and squeezes my fingers, which sends shivers up my spine despite the heat. I find it rude, however, and it frustrates me to not be allowed to introduce myself. I then remember his distaste towards his family and relax my face into a polite smile.
"This is Amelie, Mama. She was friends with Miss Tanner, and she's feeling rather faint because of the heat and the people. You know how it is. I told her she could come here to cool off and have some water."
His mother's eyes quickly stop judging me and she quickly smiles. She doesn't smile with teeth.
"Damien's a good boy. Mind to take your shoes off when you go inside."
Damien's eyes are filling with coldness. I can see it frosting over the blue, turning them icy and unfathomable. I want to know why he is so against his home and mother. I wonder if I will ever find out.
He leads me into the house through an unassuming door which I guess is the main entrance and I quickly find myself revelling in the 70s decor. The whole building is desperately struggling to escape what I suppose was the last time it was happy; and the sheer atmosphere excites me. This house has a history.
It is bigger inside than it appeared to be. It is not spacious, however, as there is furniture crammed into whatever space it can be. There are piles of magazines stacked on one coffee table, and a pile of engine pieces cluttering half of a sofa. Photographs and crusifixes of various sizes and designs adorn every wall and bookshelf, each expanding on the house's story.
"Where are you taking me?" I query, reaching out to touch Damien's hand. I'm curious as to whether or not the chills I got were from the unexpected physical connection, or from a more spiritual source.
As with when we were outside, goosebumps race up my arms and I smile to myself. Poor Damien has no idea what he has gotten himself into.