The sounds of the subway are echoing in Patrick's ears, but louder still are the thoughts he can't get out of his head. It is early morning, and he has been up all night, caring for the occupants of the youth shelter her works at and now he is going home to bed. He is thankful that George visited him during the night, though it didn't keep him from slipping a drink or two here and there. Patrick is crafty and sneaky and he has been at this a long time. Now he not only feels like a failure as a saint, but as a brother as well.
Despite whatever residue might be lying in wait on the subway window, Patrick leans his forehead against it. He watches the underground world go by in darkness, the occasional light illuminating the wall for a fraction of a moment. It is as he as watched the centuries go by. Dark, light, dark, light, day, night, day, night.
There was a time when his hair wasn't red. His hair had been light brown, and over the years the red had gradually sneaked its way in; not flaming crimson or overly obvious, but he knows. He knows this isn't how he began. Nothing inside himself feels as it should. He wants to be a soldier for God. He wants to fight the good fight and bring more souls to God's love. He wants to deliver people, as he delivered Ireland. The fight is inside him, but it dies. It is dulled by alcohol and public perception until he is nothing but a figurehead for buckled shoes and rolling hills and green beer and the eradication of snakes.
His hair is red. In the window of the subway, he sees his reflection. He doesn't recognise it.
Despite whatever residue might be lying in wait on the subway window, Patrick leans his forehead against it. He watches the underground world go by in darkness, the occasional light illuminating the wall for a fraction of a moment. It is as he as watched the centuries go by. Dark, light, dark, light, day, night, day, night.
There was a time when his hair wasn't red. His hair had been light brown, and over the years the red had gradually sneaked its way in; not flaming crimson or overly obvious, but he knows. He knows this isn't how he began. Nothing inside himself feels as it should. He wants to be a soldier for God. He wants to fight the good fight and bring more souls to God's love. He wants to deliver people, as he delivered Ireland. The fight is inside him, but it dies. It is dulled by alcohol and public perception until he is nothing but a figurehead for buckled shoes and rolling hills and green beer and the eradication of snakes.
His hair is red. In the window of the subway, he sees his reflection. He doesn't recognise it.
Current Mood: 
guilty
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