rachaeljurassic - Tumblr blog

rachaeljurassic · 2 days ago

Text

Original Sin Chapter One - Honor Thy Father And Mother

“The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.” – Revelation 12:9

A cool breeze blew through the parking lot of St. Raphael the Archangel Catholic Church. It was September, and a chill was threatening to cut through the warmth of the sun in the clear blue sky. A very well-kept yellow 1980 Buick Regal pulled carefully into a reserved parking spot near the front of the church. The woman behind the wheel made sure to remember to hang the little blue placard with a stick figure in a wheelchair printed on it from her rearview mirror before opening her door and stepping out of the car. Chloe stood about 5’4”, just the slightest bit stocky, wearing ripped jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded black band t-shirt, her usual “uniform”. She was in her mid-30s at a guess, but seemed younger somehow, and not just because of how she dressed.

Chloe took off her Ray-Ban sunglasses revealing striking blue-green eyes, and hung them from the collar of her shirt, taking a deep breath and puffing her cheeks out as she exhaled before walking around to the passenger side of the car. She opened the back door, pulling out a folded wheelchair from the backseat. She set up the chair, locking the wheels in place so that it wouldn’t roll anywhere on the uneven, slightly slanted parking lot. She moved to the front door and pulled up the lever. Nothing happened. She looked through the window at her mother who sat scowling ahead while Chloe tried to get her attention by knocking on the window.

Eventually the older woman looked at her daughter. Janet had short, grey, curly hair, and wore a blue and white floral print housedress and entirely too much makeup on her aged face. Chloe had always secretly thought she looked like a circus clown as a child, but if the thought crossed her mind, she’d always been careful not to laugh, as her mother would inevitably ask her what was so funny. Chloe couldn’t lie, she’d never been able to, and she would have told her mother the truth, earning her who knows what sort of punishment, especially if her father were home and happened to overhear.

“You need to open the door,” Chloe said loudly, a little irritated. She wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s bitchy little games today. Her mother smiled and pulled up the lock on the door, allowing Chloe to swing it open. She offered an arm and her mother took it, using Chloe to steady herself as she got out of the car and hobbled the few steps to the wheelchair and sat down. Chloe’s mother had suffered a stroke a few months ago, and had had trouble getting around since, frequently falling when she attempted to do things on her own that she ought to get help for. After the third fall she’d suffered, Chloe had made up her mind to move back to her hometown from her apartment in New York City to help her parents and particularly to take care of her mother.

That had been three months ago. Chloe swung the passenger side door closed, trying not to slam it in her anger and only partially succeeding.

“You know what you’re wearing is completely inappropriate,” her mother griped at her. “I don’t know why you insist on embarrassing me every time we go out anywhere.”

“I’m wearing what I usually wear, mother, it’s fine,” Chloe told her through gritted teeth. They went through this every week.

“And you could have done something with your hair, make a little effort, dear,” continued her mother in a tone that indicated she thought she was doing Chloe a great favor by bestowing such wisdom on her. Chloe wished she could tell her to shove that wisdom up her ass. But she kept her mouth shut and nodded as her mother looked up at her from the chair, waiting for a response.

Chloe kept her hair in a dark brown shaggy pixie cut, not to make any kind of fashion statement, more because she couldn’t stand when her hair got in her way or held her up when getting ready in the morning. She’d had it cut this way since she was old enough to choose her own haircut, with very little variation. She ran her fingers through it now before putting her hands back on the handles of the wheelchair. Chloe continued pushing the chair up the sidewalk to the front doors of the church, which were propped open, saving Chloe the struggle of getting her mother to push the chair through the door on her own without making too much of a dramatic spectacle of herself. They’d been propped open every Sunday since the second week she’d brought her mother to mass, when Father Joseph had introduced himself and held open the door for them. She’d thanked him with relief on her face. The following week and every week after, regardless of the weather (it rained here quite a bit), the doors had been propped open when they got there, she suspected at the direction of Father Joseph.

She took her mother into the church, dipping two fingers into the small bowl of holy water at the door and making the sign of the cross, her mother doing the same. They took their usual spots in the back corner pew, Chloe on the end seat and her mother’s chair next to her on the deep red carpet of the aisle. Father Joseph took his place at the pulpit, delivering a sermon that Chloe admittedly barely heard a word of. She may as well have been drooling while she watched Father Joseph speak. She knew this was stupid. She was too old for stupid crushes, and on a priest no less. But she couldn’t help it. She felt a little tug inside her towards him every time they were near each other. He was about six feet tall; with short thick dark hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She almost lost her breath when she first met those eyes and hadn’t stopped thinking about him since.

Father Joseph stood at the head of the church, ready to speak, but he hesitated. He scanned the crowd filling the pews quickly, his eyes flicking to the back corner of the room. She was there. He nearly sighed in relief. Father Joseph looked forward to seeing Chloe, for he’d found that was her name the Sunday morning they met, when he’d helped her and her mother through the front doors of the church. Every Sunday, their short talks after mass as the assembled parishioners were leaving the building were one of the highlights of his week. They left him in a good mood for the rest of the day.

After mass, Chloe wheeled her mother toward the front door, veering right towards the bathroom. She always had to pee after sitting for so long, she’d told her mother more than once. The real reason she stalled leaving the church wasn’t even obvious to herself, but when she stopped to use the bathroom, it gave everyone else time to leave the church, giving her Father Joseph’s undivided attention when they spoke outside the church on Chloe and her mother’s way to the parking lot.

Chloe had been thinking a lot lately about her faith and about her place in life. She needed someone she could talk to. She hoped Father Joseph could be that someone, not least because she was eager to spend more time with him. She finished in the bathroom, washing her hands and drying them with a barely absorbent paper towel that felt only a little less rough than the bark of the tree it had been made from. She crumpled the paper towel and tossed it in the trashcan on the way out of the room, shutting out the light as she went. The church wasn’t especially large, and so only had a single bathroom labeled “MEN” and another small one labeled “WOMEN” containing a toilet and a small counter against the wall surrounding a round sink basin with a mirror above it. Consequently, only two people could use the bathroom at any one time during mass, a bit of an inconvenience on major holidays when the church was especially crowded.

She took the handles of her mother’s wheelchair in hand and started to push her toward the front doors of the church, propped open as they always were. She wheeled her mother outside to find Father Joseph standing just outside, hands folded behind his back, seemingly in thought. She stopped in front of him and greeted him warmly. He took her hand in his and shook it, a wide smile spreading on his face and a warmth spreading to his cheeks at her touch. Chloe thanked him for a lovely sermon (even if she heard zero percent of it) and he thanked her sincerely. They spoke a little about the weather, neither wanting to part ways just yet. Father Joseph realized he still held her hand between his and let go, clearing his throat.

“Listen, Father, I wanted to ask you something, and I understand if you’re too busy, I’m sure you are,” she started.

“What is it, Chloe?” he asked, leaning in so that Chloe’s mother couldn’t hear them.

“Would you… I mean, would you meet me for lunch at Nat’s later today? If you have the time,” she finished quickly, nervously trying to spit out the invitation before she lost her nerve.

“I… Sure, I can do that,” he said quietly, trying to hide his elation at the prospect of seeing her again without having to wait until next Sunday, and of having some time alone with her. The relief on her face was obvious.

“How’s three?” she asked.

“Three’s perfect,” he answered with a smile.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, genuine gratitude in her face. Chloe turned to leave, sensing that her mother was getting antsy. She was honestly surprised she’d behaved herself this long, but was thankful she had. Apologizing for her mother’s behavior and words had become a part-time job in itself since Chloe had moved back home, though it hardly felt like home compared to New York. She missed the city every day.

She thought about calling her best friend Becca when she got home, after getting mom settled at her house, and making sure she had dinner prepared for her father to put into the oven when the pair got hungry. Chloe usually spent Mondays preparing easy to cook meals for her parents to defrost and put into the oven for dinner throughout the week. She came over a couple of times a week to cook something other than casseroles and pasta dishes. She’d gotten pretty good at coming up with easy-to-freeze-and-reheat meals that were actually nutritious while she’d lived on her own.

Chloe was an artist, “though not a very good one” she always told people when the subject came up, and she hated being interrupted by having to cook a meal when she was in the middle of a new project, so she’d gotten good at meal prep to prevent that irritation. If asked, Chloe would probably say that her art was “just a hobby” and leave it at that, but the truth was she’d had a decent amount of success selling her work just through word of mouth after some friends of Becca’s had bought from her, and was even featured in a gallery or two in the city (she hadn’t sold anything then, but she’d been thrilled to be there either way).

Chloe left her mother at the end of the sidewalk and walked across the parking lot alone just to get away from the constant stream of consciousness pouring out of her mouth, most of it negative and often hurtful to Chloe, though she’d grown quite a thick skin over the years of dealing with her parents. She breathed deeply and focused on the concrete beneath her as she walked across the parking lot to their spot. Not a far walk but she needed the respite. She unlocked the door and climbed into the car. She checked her mirrors and flicked the small Alf bobblehead she kept glued to the dashboard.

“You ready for her, buddy?” she asked the bobblehead. She flicked it again to make it shake its head “no”. “Yeah, me neither. Fuck it,” she said as she jammed the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot, speeding up to the curb where her mother waited, tires squealing when she braked hard in front of her. She smiled widely as she got out of the car, tuning out the loud bitching coming in a steady stream from Janet’s mouth. Lately Chloe had gotten into the strange habit (but not surprising really, given the childhood they’d given her) of calling her parents by their first names, at least in her head. She wouldn’t dare do it out loud, dreading the headache that would ensue, the lectures about disrespect, the “honor thy mother and thy father” bullshit would start, and it would just go downhill from there. Not worth the temporary satisfaction.

Chloe tried to be a good daughter, she really did. She tried so hard. But it had never been enough. She had never been enough for them. She’d called them dutifully every week like clockwork while she’d lived in New York, she’d come home for the holidays, made sure to send gifts for Father’s Day and Mother’s Day, had done everything she thought she was “supposed” to do. She loved them, she always had and always would, but she resented them. Though a bit of a lapsed Catholic, Chloe had still always somewhat believed, and had at least gone to church on the major holidays with her mother (her father never attended, he barely left the house since he’d retired). She had tried to adhere to the teachings of the church, when it came to most things anyway, but she couldn’t help how she felt, and she’d long ago given up trying to.

Chloe opened the passenger side door to the Buick and helped her mother up from her chair. Janet snatched her arm away from Chloe when she tried to help her into the car, muttering something about her being “some kind of maniac” under her breath. Chloe smirked at that and closed the door behind her, cutting off her mumbling with a mechanical clunk and a click. She opened the back door, collapsing and stowing the wheelchair between the back of the driver’s seat and the back seat where it couldn’t slide around when she inevitably took a turn too sharply for Janet’s liking, maybe accidentally, maybe not. Once it was secured, she closed the back door and walked around the back of the car to the other side, climbing into the driver’s seat and inserting the key into the ignition. A neon keychain reading “Foxy Grandma” hung from her keyring. The only other keys on the ring being the one to the house she was renting at the end of her parents’ block and a spare key to her parents' house.

Chloe drove her mother home, taking it easy on her this time, taking the corners slowly and obeying the speed limit for once. They arrived at her childhood home in about five minutes (if she hadn’t needed to drive her mother, Chloe would have walked to church every Sunday) and Chloe climbed out, admiring the shady, oak tree-lined street she and her parents both lived on. She helped her mother once again into her wheelchair, closing the doors to the Buick and wheeling her down the sidewalk to the large red front door of the house. The house was eggshell white with red trim and a red wraparound porch with a swing Chloe had spent many hours reading on as a child. She pulled out her key and let them into the house, wheeling her mother into the living room where her father sat in the dark, the only light in the room reflecting from the television, playing some black and white western or other, feet up in his La-Z-Boy recliner, beer in hand.

Chloe didn’t bother greeting him.

“Hello, Harold,” said Janet to her husband, who appeared not to hear her. After a much too long pause, he took a sip of his beer and grunted in response. Chloe wheeled her mother across the rug so that she could sit next to Harold. He was a short stout man, wearing grey chinos and a white t-shirt with red suspenders. He had house slippers on his feet and sported a thick white mustache below a bulbous red nose and bald pate.

“I’ll go get dinner in the oven, okay, mom?” asked Chloe. Her mother nodded, looking up at her with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, dear. You take such good care of us,” her mother answered, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Chloe had learned to take her mother’s rare good moods in stride, though they threatened to cause whiplash at times, and just enjoyed the ride until her regular sour disposition showed itself once again. Chloe smiled down at her mother, a smile she hoped looked more genuine than it felt, and left the room to make her way down the hall from the large, high-ceilinged living room to the even larger kitchen (though her mother had always been a terrible cook, half the time during her childhood Chloe was afraid whatever concoction her mother served her for dinner might get up and walk across the table to escape being eaten, it often looked so alien). She looked at her reflection in the stainless-steel surface of the restaurant sized refrigerator for a moment, making a face and sticking her tongue out at herself before opening the door and looking inside.

She found what she was looking for after a minute of searching through the cavernous fucking fridge that for some reason her parents thought they, two elderly people who barely ate, needed. She pulled the casserole off the center shelf of the fridge and kicked the door shut on her way across the room to the convection oven, turning it on to heat up and waiting the few minutes it took before putting the pan inside and setting the timer that sat on top of the oven. Chloe walked back down the hall to the living room and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, telling her father that dinner would be done when the buzzer in the kitchen went off. He grunted again to show he heard her, not looking away from the television. Chloe turned on a couple of lights in the room on her way out of the house so her mother could read while Harold lost himself in a John Wayne marathon on TNT.

She left through the front door of the house, letting herself out quietly, closing the door behind her and making sure it was locked. She put her hands in her pockets as she walked down the sidewalk to her car. She got in and drove to the end of the block, parking in her driveway (she used the garage as an art studio, and so parked the Buick outside under a large carport to protect it from the weather, and from falling acorns). She got out of her car and walked to her own front door, hers painted a bright blue with white accents, the rest of the house matching, white siding with blue windows and shutters and a deep blue-grey shingled roof. Chloe let herself in with a sigh and put her bag down next to the door beneath the coat rack. She went to the kitchen and took a seat at the kitchen island on one of the dark polished wooden stools that surrounded it.

She reached across to the wall behind her and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle, dialing Becca’s number. Becca answered after three rings.

“Hello?” Becca asked into the phone after a second of silence.

“Hey, it’s me,” said Chloe, knowing Becca would recognize her voice.

“Hey, bitch what are you up to?” Becca greeted her with the usual grace she saved only for her closest friends. “You enjoying the night life out there in Bumfuck, Nowhere?” she laughed.

“What are you doing tonight? I have to live vicariously through you because there is nothing to do in this town, I swear everyone’s dead after eight p.m.”

“Going to a show,” said Becca.

“What show?” asked Chloe suspiciously. Becca sounded cagey. Becca coughed something into the phone that vaguely sounded like a human language, though which one Chloe could only guess at.

“What show, Becca?” asked Chloe again.

“The Fisted Nuns,” said Becca louder, this time clear enough to understand.

“WHAT THE FUCK BEC?” asked Chloe loudly. “Why the fuck are you going to see my ex’s band?”

“I didn’t know they were playing until after I bought the tickets, we wanted to see Sludge Enema and Pierced Foreskin was supposed to open but they had to drop out at the last minute! I literally had no idea, I swear Chlo!”

“Just please don’t talk to him, okay? Don’t tell him anything about me, okay? I really don’t need another headache to deal with here,” said Chloe.

“I won’t, I swear, I probably won’t even see him because Cam and Derek aren’t meeting me for drinks until seven and—

“Bec, I have to go, I have a meeting with somebody,” Chloe interrupted her. Knowing Becca, that was ramping up to be the longest story ever told in one long, run-on sentence.

“Who do you have a meeting with? Is this a date? Did you meet a guy down there?” asked Becca, curiosity and a bit of teasing in her voice. “What’s he like? Better than the last one, I hope. Not another drummer at least, right? Is he tall? I bet he’s tall. Where did you—

“BEC I HAVE TO GO I’ll call you later, I promise, okay?”

“Okay but you better be ready to spill, bitch, I’ll be home until seven,” said Becca.

“I thought you said Derek and Cam were meeting you at the bar at seven?”

“Always keep ‘em waiting, Chlo,” said Becca, laughing. Chloe laughed too.

“Kay, bye,” she said into the receiver.

“Kisses,” said Becca, hanging up with a click.

Chloe looked at her watch and realized she’d stayed on the phone with Becca too long and she was about to keep Father Joseph waiting unless she forewent a shower, so she ran upstairs, washed her face and threw on some eyeliner before heading out the door. It was a nice day so she decided to walk, Nat’s Diner wasn’t that far from her house, and she could make it in time since she’d decided to shower after she got home. It was getting a little colder and some clouds were starting to creep in at the edges of the sky, occasionally blotting out the warm early autumn sun. She pulled her flannel shirt a little tighter and thought about how she should have brought an umbrella, but it was too late to go back and still be on time to the diner.

Chloe made it to the corner unmolested by any neighbors, a frequent occurrence when she decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to get some air and do some thinking. The parents of the neighborhood kids she grew up with always recognized her and wanted to catch up as if she had been close to any of their children. Chloe had been a loner growing up and still kept her friend circle small now that she was older. She’d occasionally played with the other kids, but eventually she’d been labeled the “weird” girl and thus, untouchable, by the time they’d reached high school. That had been fine with Chloe, as far as she was concerned, she didn’t belong with any of these people anyway, and why should a round peg try to fit into a square hole? She was content doing her own thing and being left alone.

Then her father had decided to retire when she graduated high school and leave her the concrete business, Harold’s, with the caveat that she not change the name, her father didn’t want a “girl’s name” taking over his business’ title too. The business essentially ran itself, and had only grown since she’d become the owner, making sure that her employees were paid and treated extremely well, with full benefits paid by the company, a pension plan, paid vacation and parental leave. Those were her demands for the business; beyond that, she left the running of day-to-day operations to Robert, the man that her father had always wished were his son, and who he had trained to take his place in all but ownership of the business, which went to Chloe. She’d heard the fight her parents had had over that decision from her bedroom. Her mother tearfully telling her father that if he left his business to a stranger over his own daughter, she would leave him. He’d hit her that night for the first and last time, but he’d also changed his mind and decided that it was only right that his blood inherited the business, even if she wasn’t the right gender.

As soon as the ink was dry on the paperwork she had everything she needed packed into a duffel bag and was on a bus to New York City. She found a cheap apartment until the business had the opportunity to start garnering her a steady income (which turned out to be much more than she’d expected) at which point she rented a larger apartment with a much better view, in Gramercy Park, near Union Square. That’s where she’d met Becca, who lived in the same pre-war building, a floor below her. They met several times on the elevator and had eventually struck up a conversation. They found they got along quite well, and Becca started inviting Chloe to concerts and parties. The two had been best friends ever since, over 15 years.

Becca wrote for fashion magazines, mainly doing freelance work that allowed her almost as much freedom in her everyday life as Chloe had. Though Chloe enjoyed and needed quiet time at home, she loved the experiences she got hanging out with Becca, who was knee-deep in the goth and punk scenes of the city, meeting members of bands she’d never heard of and likely never would again, learning names like Spike, and Iggy Ooze, and even one guy who, I shit you not, went by “Snake”.

Chloe was in the middle of her reverie, barely looking where she was going, when she found herself standing outside Nat’s Diner. She checked her watch. She was a few minutes early and couldn’t see Father Joseph inside waiting for her, so that was good. She went inside to escape the nip in the air and sat at the booth in the far back next to the window, enjoying the afternoon rays of sun shining through the glass whenever the clouds allowed it to peek through. The server, a middle-aged curly-haired woman named Mel, approached the table, and took Chloe’s drink order, a black coffee.

She settled herself in the booth, both hands wrapped around the cup of coffee Mel had brought her, occasionally sipping the rich black liquid that warmed her from the inside as she waited for Father Joseph to show up.

Tag List:

@barrettfilms @magicovento @amaliazeichnerin @theodoesitagain @endofradio @maxwellendowed @hellsangelbaby @icecoffeekisses @dopewitchtrash @astrangegirlsmind @daniirosie @xenalistair @rachaeljurassic @monstergifpacks @wolvenjay @maria-allegra @moonlight-fern @rainstorms-library @chocolate-starfish-wtf @sportsmusicsoapsmoviesfan

#whoo hoo

21 notes · View notes