You Are Not Alone

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✝ I still press your letters to my lips

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I still press your letters to my lips

And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss 




--- *** ---
--- Two Weeks Later ---
--- 20th of December, 1964 ---

Once two weeks of a heavenly catharsis infectiously rumbled up to chase its recent prey of resigning from the church became a valley of prominently inexorable events, consequently a couple of days beatifically leaked its vibrantly divine light up to the winter holidays that couldn't be skipped just to be marked not only on the calendar, but also gauging each household's pearly dedication to celebrate it. Even though in the past two weeks you and Timothy spent more time together whenever you had the chance to fuel your leisure and each gathering for the regular meals, nevertheless, you solemnly took in your hands to emigrate permanently into his privately owned residence in the countryside, in order to not arouse your neighbours' hideously fiendish, vermillion prejudices and doubts behind the unsolved murder of your former manager that has being a question on investigation by the whole neighbourhood without an efficiently certain response.

Your former home was already being sold by your bare hands after you emphatically have gathered your luggage and confining each authentically majestic, rare paraphernalia inside your suitcases and lugging them to the luggage carrier of the former devotional clergyman's sable cab that was pulled off the same day after his official resignation from the diocese at last. Even when inexorable encounter with the bleakly fiendish homesickness that was possible to respawn as relentlessly bloodthirsty wight of the past and your former property, the categorical decision commenced to contagiously perpetual carding every ounce of your nostalgia to rail eagerly you train of thoughts nonetheless.

Sometimes the decisions for better life and dodging every feasible trouble that might be the trinklet of your oscillation even without opting to be donned up were less touchable of the celestially gilt sanctum of your untouchable heavenly nirvana guarding your very soul and flimsy heart. You couldn't hazard to reside for any longer in the flat where your neighbours didn't trade the best platonic bond with you, nor the worst even during the briefest interactions. Sometimes the most hazardous, versatile decisions could cost you even a split second to save your life or somebody's pearly precious well-being. You couldn't put a finger on how immensely grateful you appeared to be in the end after your ever-lasting emigration in the British aristocrat's two-story house.

Even when in the first two weeks he spent as unemployed yet, nevertheless, every time when you were back from your day shift at the cafeteria, consequently majestically breathtaking, exquisitely scrumptious dinner meal accompanied by additional attributes such as salads and flimsy goblets elegantly engulfing its freshly poured delicious red liquor shimmered past your eyesight and waltzing its remarkably unique glint that rhymithically was escorted in the corner of your eye. The hours of great deal of efforts and two masculinely mammoth, starkly veiny hands cortoring at each manipulated twitch of his long fingers to prepare the meals remorseless.

Hypodermic Transgression ✝Monsignor Timothy Howard x FEM! Reader✝Where stories live. Discover now