The Peony Chronicles

Chapter Six

Gaels eyes swept the pews, hands tucked firmly into his lap. The lump that sat upon the bridge of his nose still burned harshly but he bit back his cries and bile with the urge of composure and the overall excitement of feeling secure. His back was arched as he allowed his sight to aimlessly wander across the churchgoers as they filled in for yet another sunday obligation. He bit his lip in thought, shamelessly seated at the bench affront of the grand organ. If backlash taught his father anything, it was that he could not stop the inevitable from occurring, but merely punish it in the hopes of there being a sudden restriction. His head was tucked under himself as he heard the footsteps and mellow chatterings of many a person, his eyes burned to the keys of his instrument. He dare not look up, lest draw attention to himself.

He hugged the edges of his dress, he felt silly in it, as father had said. He felt silly and was taunted into the idea that all eyes would be on him. Craving attention, Gael decided that would be absolutely grand, and wore it anyways. He did not pick up on the context his father spewed whatsoever.

Yet his eyes wandered anyways, despite the warning, despite the threats. His head turned and skimmed the personas that lay in front of him. Little children anxiously squirming on the pew, men with breakfast still stuffed in their moustaches, moody, rebellious teens desperate to become something and join the movement being held tightly by their smaller, feistier mothers.

    His eyes lingered hungrily, hands gripping the edge of the stool, legs kicking almost as if Gael himself was enamored by some childlike force in nature.

We coast through our lives thinking that something of some force or another will guide us to the fate we were determined to follow through on. That the people we meet are purposeful and are supposed to benefit your life for better or worse. Perhaps that is the ideal that the poor-treated cling to. As they fall asleep late at night, curled up in an aura of misery, they think: "At least I have tomorrow to make things better." and that is what causes them to get through the night painlessly before the battle the next morning; that tomorrow is indeed another day.

We delude ourselves into thinking such things to make ourselves feel better; or perhaps there is an uncontrollable force in the universe that gives us things in life for a reason. Who knows, yet the eye contact that was created in the following seconds of this wandering of ocular contact almost  seemed inevitably miraculous.

He had green eyes. A darker green than Gael's, something shiny and permeable but not so alive. Something about these eyes echoed into the very chamber of Gael's existence and he could not  keep his own verdant pupils averted in the attempts to keep things less awkward and tense. He had black hair, cut short, neatly combed, a stray piece dangling from its place like the silly little cowlick it was. His jawline was defined and the suit he wore hugged him wonderfully.

Gael looked up at him and glistened, only momentarily, and then sunk back down. You see, he had suddenly realized the choice attire his father had sadistically chosen to parade him around in for that very occasion; a pink sunday dress and heels which he spent his wages upon a day or two prior to teach his bastard of a son a lesson he did not fully understand. Somehow, he felt very exposed and more vulnerable in than ever before. His eyes were now pulling away from the strange, brutish man that almost seemed to persist towards his very essence at the ideal that he wished to be stared at.

    Gael bit his lip, turned around, and remained very reserved for the rest of the sermon, scraped knees touching tightly, hands folded together.

Just as they filed in for the hour, they then filed out. An hour with God, an hour to save their souls from eternal hellfire. The chattering slowed as the churchgoers slipped from the pews to the steeple and to their individual vehicles, as only few remained. Gael listened, ashamed to use his eyes.