Ex Nihilo

The rain is a heavy curtain again; it seems to be the semi-permanent setting these days, only switching up with bouts and cloudiness and heavy air. Raymond is done with his duties for the day – he’s reached the rectory already (admittedly, without Peter’s company, but the man had the tendency to come and go).

He noticed Peter though – it’s strange to see him get close to the church, although at first it struck Raymond as strange to see him in the grounds as well. Peter didn’t have many nice words for the Lord, and he claimed himself an atheist, and yet... And yet he came around to check up on his dead girlfriend every once in a while. A man like him – Raymond knew he wasn’t looking for some kind of redemption or relief. He was looking for a miracle.

So to see him around wasn’t unusual; for him to not pester Raymond, it was. Still, the priest had other things to worry about, things more important than snippy comments and pale appearance smelling of cheap cigarettes and leather. He’s seen Peter, Peter didn’t approach him, they nodded at each other and that was about it.

But Peter didn’t approach the grave either, which was all the more peculiar. That’s what has Raymond here, right now – with wide umbrella at his hand, with Peter a good distance away from Raymond and with a crouching, bloody figure bent over the grave.

The scent of the blood is overwhelming, but it’s dark and seems to be liquid only because the rain is falling so hard. It’s a girl, the woman is a girl – thirty at most, he would say, but he cannot see her face very well. Her hair is falling around it in even, straight locks and sticking to her skin. It’s dark out and the rain’s not helping, but he can see how the woman is nearly white and how light her hair is. Everything on her is light, only the blood is dark.

“Miss, you need help.” He speaks. The creature blinks, then turns to face him. Raymond feels haunted by her eyes. “Let me help you.”

She shrugs, then uncurls her arm from around her abdomen, where she was clutching up until now. More blood soaks the jumper she’s wearing, but considering that Raymond can see large injuries on her, that’s—that’s just not a lot of blood. Not enough of blood.

“I don’t need your help. Or your church’s help.” And just how is it that Raymond keeps encountering these people that have so much against church?

There’s a gash at the size of her neck, large. If it were normal, she would’ve been dead by now, but it seems like the top part of the wound is stitched together. There is nothing to indicate there were ever stitches there.

“I need my brother’s help, you know.” The haunting eyes. Bright and blue, although hers look nearly white in her current state. Eyes don’t change colours. Eyes shouldn’t change colours. “But he won’t approach me.” That’s where the haunting eyes come from.

Raymond looks back at Peter, who’s standing still and stiff a good way from them. It doesn’t seem like he wants to come closer, but he’s looking more alert then he did the first time Raymond saw him tonight. He sighs, unsure of how to proceed, and then kneels next to the woman, umbrella above both of them now.

“My church probably wouldn’t accept you anyway.” He says, almost regretful. Almost. “And your brother must be upset by all of that blood. Is it yours?”

Raymond knows things about Peter – he knows that he’s one third of triplets, that both of his sisters are older than him by minutes. He knows that Peter’s father was Polish and mother Russian, and yet he has no accent while speaking English (this girl does, Raymond notices). He knows that Peter likes cigarettes and salt and dislikes sweets and that he likes animals but doesn’t want pets. It’s all small, devastatingly insignificant.

Then there are other things he knows about Peter – things that he came to conclusion through his own observance and past experiences, and things that he didn’t share with Peter because he didn’t know how the pale man would react. Now is as good time as ever, Raymond supposes.

The woman is now looking at him with surprised eyes, then her eyes linger down his face and onto the rosary around his neck. It might be about the only thing protecting him right now.

“Can it really be mine if it’s probably what I suck out of others?” She asks, eyebrow raised and smile stretched across her face. She looks a lot more feline-like than her brother does. “You’re pretty relaxed for, you know... a priest.”

He’s not sure if that’s a compliment or an honest-to-God statement.

“We all have our flaws.” He sighs out in the end. His robes are wet. His shoes are wet. He’ll probably be soaked to the bones anyway, but a bloody girl sitting above a grave is bound to draw attention to herself, even in a neighbourhood as secluded as this one. Especially after the incident of several days ago. “You need to wash up... You’re not looking too good.”

Not looking too good is an understatement – her hair is in-tact but her face is mauled, her neck and chest and arms stabbed at various points. Raymond cannot help but wonder... There’s been talk of the serial killer, of course, but nobody from their vicinity didn’t die yet. Even if it had happened – why would somebody like Peter’s sister, somebody who can withstand all of it and absolutely overpower a human captor, let his happen?

“I just spent three days playing dead, mister priest. I should hope that I’m heavy on the eyes.” She laughs, a sharp sound rather than melodic, like he would think; then she gets up. The movement is abrupt and sends mud, blood and rain all over Raymond’s robe. He sighs again, already getting fed up with this family and follows the woman to the outer gate.

She stops, sudden, and turns around. Raymond’s only millimetres short of colliding with her. She raises her arm – she has to support it with her other, because it’s badly wounded even if Raymond knows that wounds will be gone in several days. As if though it’s something she planned all along, she flips the bird at something behind Raymond – somebody behind Raymond. At Peter.

“Tell my brother I’m calling a truce. We need to talk. And find the other bitch.” It’s an order, not a question. Before Raymond can voice his displeasure, she’s gone, silent and invisible in the darkness and rain.