[ she doesn't know how long she's been in here. not because of any supernatural meddling (that she's aware of, anyway) but simply because she's lost count of how many times she's tried to start a prayer.
oh, she knows this isn't that kind of chapel. that if those that built this worshipped any kind of god at all, it's not any of the ones she knows. least of all the one her mother still speaks to, rubbing at wooden beads to close off the end of the day.
it's all symbolic anyway. she doubts any god powerful and omnipresent enough as the ones her mother's bibles claim to know would really care where she's praying, just so long as she is. though he would probably wonder, first, just where the hell she's been all these years. ]
Sorry, [ is what she winds up saying outloud first. honestly it's as good a start to a prayer as anything. but now that she's started, she wonders where she even means for this to go. would an apology, no matter how sincere, really undo a punishment like this? is this a punishment? maybe she ought to offer up a confession first, or so her vague memories of protocol would suggest.
she works her mouth open again, but the voice and words that come out aren't hers. half-turning, she has to squint past the streaks of light that flood the enclosed space (was it a chapel, or a tomb?), backlighting a larger figure who takes a step in. ]
I'll be done in a minute, [ she explains reflexively, even when just two seconds ago she'd all but decided to give up. ] Or — you can go first, if you'd like.
uwu ♡
oh, she knows this isn't that kind of chapel. that if those that built this worshipped any kind of god at all, it's not any of the ones she knows. least of all the one her mother still speaks to, rubbing at wooden beads to close off the end of the day.
it's all symbolic anyway. she doubts any god powerful and omnipresent enough as the ones her mother's bibles claim to know would really care where she's praying, just so long as she is. though he would probably wonder, first, just where the hell she's been all these years. ]
Sorry, [ is what she winds up saying outloud first. honestly it's as good a start to a prayer as anything. but now that she's started, she wonders where she even means for this to go. would an apology, no matter how sincere, really undo a punishment like this? is this a punishment? maybe she ought to offer up a confession first, or so her vague memories of protocol would suggest.
she works her mouth open again, but the voice and words that come out aren't hers. half-turning, she has to squint past the streaks of light that flood the enclosed space (was it a chapel, or a tomb?), backlighting a larger figure who takes a step in. ]
I'll be done in a minute, [ she explains reflexively, even when just two seconds ago she'd all but decided to give up. ] Or — you can go first, if you'd like.