He was but a simple priest, following the lord's teachings despite the world being wrecked with poverty and the plague; when life failed him, his faith did not. He had always supposed himself to be a man of God, and had dedicated himself to the chur...
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
_ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟶𝟹 ; 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗 _
𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓, 𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 weak arms like (Y/N) did. She had arms thin and fragile, pathetically unsuited to anything that required heavy lifting--aka, nearly every household task. Some would call this the result of a bad upbringing, others would simply title her as lazy.
The day of thankfulness, "Thanksgiving", was rolling around, and for the first time in her entire life, (Y/N) would be celebrating alone. No more was her mother there to truss and bake the turkey, nor her father to wrestle through the large crowds in order to buy that perfect cranberry sauce and gravy. Her brothers with their silly antics and mischievous pranks, her sisters competing to make the perfect tea...
They had died.
(Y/N) stood looking at the turkey helplessly, unaware of what to do, how to truss the turkey, how to season and properly cook the meal. Long gone were the days where she could simply ask a neighbor for assistance or go to the library unscathed. Some believed she was a murderer, after all.
Even nuns and priests judged her. Gossiped about her behind her back...
"What do they know, anyway!" She exclaimed, her voice reaching a crescendo as she looked at the expensive meat and stressed about what to do with it.
"Calm down," she told herself, placing a hand to her chest. If she acted out, it would only add fuel to the fire that was those terrible rumors. Even if she had to eat it alone, she was going to eat a turkey for Thanksgiving this year.
Walking over to the coat rack beside the door, she brandished a black coat and slid it over her arms, alongside a pair of black flats. Her entire wardrobe consisted of that monotonous palate nowadays.
For the first time since she had went to church last Sunday, (Y/N) stepped outside of her humble home, prepared to go to the library and rent a book on how to make a Thanksgiving meal. An aching sense of dread filled her stomach and seeped into her pores, and one step at a time, she ventured to the library. However, before long--
SPLAT!
"You damned bitch! You murderer! The cops ought to lock you up!"
The remnants of a now crushed tomato slid down her cheek, falling onto the ground beside her shoes and leaving a red trail of juices. Like faux blood.
Her head turned to her right, where the man stood there with his chest puffed out, his thick brows furrowed as his mouth shouted inscrutable insults. The man who had once been a family friend, had visited her when she was a baby--was now yelling insults at her, calling her a bitch and a murderer.
Even the loud outburst hadn't caused a scene yet. Or perhaps it had, but the townsfolk were used to it and simply walked around the two of them.
Her frame nearly caved, as she stared at the ground, at the tomato that laid there flat on the ground. She knew that this familiar feeling of hers was wrong, an urge that she could never act on again.
