It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 41: The Author

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

'Are you hungry?' asked the old man, peering down to look into the Author's face.

Time had lost its meaning in the bleak and enclosed space, and at his question, the Author gave little start of surprise. There was lamp on the Wurlitzer that he must have turned on, but for life of her, the Author could not remember such an action. So thoroughly engrossed in his stories, so overwhelmed by his performance, she had not noticed the sun setting on the House of Carr.

It had been a marvelous performance, that she knew, given by a premier executant. Miles he had paced across his study, or so she reckoned, arms gesticulating with grand, sweeping movements, inhibiting the characters of his youth, calling upon the ghosts of what ever remained of his memory; and a clear picture had emerged in the Author's mind: of St. Gregory's, and its motley cast of characters, risen from the dead, burning alive behind the dark eyes of the puppet master so eager to recall them.

And yet, the Author could not wholly escape the idea that this was only a performance, meant only to engross so as to keep distant...

'Well, are you?' pressed the old man, coming ever closer, the lines around his eyes contracting in the squint he gave her. He would not blink. He would not let her look away. That stare so boasted of, so penetrative, seemed to be making every attempt to claw its way into the furthest reaches of her mind; and the Author felt her stomach rumble, and her whole body recoiled from him, but she would not look away.

Do not be cowed, whispered a voice in her ear.

'If you are—'

'Yes,' said Alan Carr, and with a bored sigh, broke his study of her, and went to ash what remained of his cigarette stub in the depraved statuette. 'I suppose here is as good as any to stop—KINCH!'

Light spilled in from behind the Author, as the door to the study opened with a loud, rattling groan. 'Yes, Sir?' said James, and the Author had to wonder if he was just truly that attuned to his employer's needs, or spent a good portion of his time lurking by the door.

'We're ready to—'

'Oh, Sir!' groaned James at the sight of the overflowing ashtray, (not a single cigarette smoked to completion), and the lines of cinder, which were streaked across the floor and traced Alan Carr's many movements. 'We've talked about this. Don't walk and smoke, please! We're going to have to redo the floors—again!'

'To fuck with the floors!' boomed Alan Carr. 'She's hungry. Can't you see?! She's practically wasting away!'

James pursed his lips, and reluctantly turned his attention to the Author. 'If you'll follow me,' he said, stepping back through the doors.

Fresh, scented air filled her lungs as she came out into the courtyard, and rush of gratitude proceeded that. After all those hours in her sedentary position in that dead and musty study, the courtyard was a relief. The dry heat of her arrival had given way to a pleasant breeze that wafted through the open, front doors. The leaves of the plants rustled in sleepy salutations as she passed. It really was a magnificent place to—

'Let'sgolet'sgolet'sgo!' complained the old man at her shoulder, his politeness wavering as he impatiently waved his hands for her to move faster.

The Author hurried on to James, still careful to avoid the mosaic face of the ascending Christ, but Alan Carr had no such qualms, and whether in haste of hunger, or considered carelessness, stepped right across the face, his heels striking precisely between the Savior's eyes.