[ She's trying not to watch him write too intently, but that's a hard resolution to keep to. It feels as if Bolton is determining her future, even though all they are discussing is in the past by at least a month.
A month of this outlandish, lifeless place. A month of eating food she could never have conceived of having access to, growing close to those her family would have never mingled with, learning of worlds and species that should not exist. A month of speaking with people who think her words have value and are willing to hear her. She takes the wrong initial message from what he's saying: even without any memory of her transgressions at home, she has embraced this new world. Given the chance to maintain her family's faith, she opened herself to the heathen ways all about. It is not that this place changed her. She, herself, always wished to change, and only now -- and maybe earlier, she supposes, with the Devil -- has she been given opportunity. ]
Yes.
[ She looks down at the paper. Tears bloom in the corners of her eyes as, after a lengthy pause, she repeats herself. ]
Yes. There is no chance left to me of salvation -- that is what I thought. Now I know not what the truth is, but if my soul is deeded away, what matters it what I think?
[ Christ can un-witch us if you will but speak truth to me. That was what Father had said, when she was no witch at all, and the next morning he was dead. She closes her hand around the second napkin, the tears now tracking down her face. None of them live with this neverending terror of damnation -- maybe Margulis did, but he is long gone to whatever end awaited him -- they seem never even to think of it. Can she ever be like that? If she lives and stays, what will happen to her? She has too many questions to even think them coherently; they tie themselves into knots until there is but one great tangled mass of them, pulsing like a vein at the center of her mind. ]
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-03-14 07:56 pm (UTC)A month of this outlandish, lifeless place. A month of eating food she could never have conceived of having access to, growing close to those her family would have never mingled with, learning of worlds and species that should not exist. A month of speaking with people who think her words have value and are willing to hear her. She takes the wrong initial message from what he's saying: even without any memory of her transgressions at home, she has embraced this new world. Given the chance to maintain her family's faith, she opened herself to the heathen ways all about. It is not that this place changed her. She, herself, always wished to change, and only now -- and maybe earlier, she supposes, with the Devil -- has she been given opportunity. ]
Yes.
[ She looks down at the paper. Tears bloom in the corners of her eyes as, after a lengthy pause, she repeats herself. ]
Yes. There is no chance left to me of salvation -- that is what I thought. Now I know not what the truth is, but if my soul is deeded away, what matters it what I think?
[ Christ can un-witch us if you will but speak truth to me. That was what Father had said, when she was no witch at all, and the next morning he was dead. She closes her hand around the second napkin, the tears now tracking down her face. None of them live with this neverending terror of damnation -- maybe Margulis did, but he is long gone to whatever end awaited him -- they seem never even to think of it. Can she ever be like that? If she lives and stays, what will happen to her? She has too many questions to even think them coherently; they tie themselves into knots until there is but one great tangled mass of them, pulsing like a vein at the center of her mind. ]
Did he send me?