We follow Ramiel and their Sunday routines with a woman known as Missus.
𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃: Pandora's Box — a tale of cat-and-mouse following the titular hackers and a bounty hunter group tracking them down in the septic Capitol of the fictional Egressian Empire.
𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁: Ramiel
NOTE: Certain names are redacted due to forthcoming plans for an RPG based off the wip novel.
Sundays were sure to be a drag. The only balm was that they typically had another person to commiserate with, but it seemed Missus was now another dull ache in the matrix of whatever Godiva’s joke of a divine plan this life was. There was no longer a reason to live on Sundays.
Last week, [RAMIEL'S NAME REDACTED] attended another gilded Sunday Sermon at Lazarus Alley’s Cathedral. The after-service was always more interesting, with drink flowing and drunkards swaying to a crooning flapper, who was typically the renowned JUDAES, their betrothed and childhood friend. They were enrapt in a gleeful conversation with the Missus, an old woman they’d met in infancy at another one of these affairs and whose husband was a fan of their mother, [REDACTED]'s work. Specifically, they were discussing one of the more disruptive events of the past week: the removal of Gwen, the local leper and homeless woman who suffered from the same disease that RAMIEL's other mom, Mama, had died of, which the Missus (along with the entire Alley) knew.
“I know, I can’t believe my mother made such a stink,” they told her last week as the pair took rapid, tiny sips of the champagne, acting as children while they pointed out all those that stood out like them. “All she wanted was to meet with her social worker at the Ministry.”
“Why would they even bother letting her!” Missus slurred, clinking her glass with RAMIEL's in agreement. “She’s unwell, clearly – always tittering to herself and bothering passerbys about her ‘condition’. She doesn’t even want housing.” She pointed the glass at RAMIEL's face, jabbing it forward as though her logic were a saber that could make its point by bruising their nose. “None of them do! Not the infirm, not the mentally ill – none of them. If they wanted houses, they’d have them.”
RAMIEL made a neutral face and sipped so that the bubbles slurping were the only sound. Missus curled a brow at this, sipped in preparation for her next thwack of words. Just as her mouth jutted agape, JUDAES and VERONA arrived to save the conversation.
Surprised by the vile words that spewed from Missus’s mouth, RAMIEL realized, more firmly than any of their prior disagreements, that while they might be bound by the same Otherness that had brought them together in the past (newly-wed and rumored mail-order bride from Tai and adopted toddler from the slums just below Lazarus’s heaven), Missus was not a mathematical improbability. She was not an outlier of the opulent life that trapped all of them to this two square-mile hamlet. Instead, Missus was average, and this realization continues to plague RAMIEL as they are left sleepless this following Saturday, replaying the interaction in their silken bed.
Every Sermon was mandatory for the Nobility of the Alley to attend, so the day was a weekly prison sentence, starting back when RAMIEL was small. The meeting of the Missus had been fated, and she had since been their savior that made the handcuffs that tied RAMIEL to their mother’s wishes bearable. There was an angel to carry the weight of this cross, they had thought many times. It comes to mind now as they roll onto their side.
Of course, there were always instances where the shininess of Missus’s halo dimmed. A time where her husband, Mr. Trumblebottom, and his inexcusable actions were excused by her and made RAMIEL hide, tears glistening as they ran away from Missus, for the entirety of the Priest’s sermon in the daycare where all the other children were dropped off to play while the grown-ups talked. Other evidence of what ultimately hit RAMIEL square in the face this past Sunday included (but were not limited to): the Missus’s continued use of femininity when referencing RAMIEL, her poo-poos of their blatant physical ailments and her inability to acknowledge them even when RAMIEL, themself, discussed them openly, the love that the Missus so clearly showed for her husband even when he wasn’t watching, or even down to the first time they met. RAMIEL plays it over in their mind now, running through the slide-show of their life.
The Missus sat so beautifully, a crumpled doll, and her eyes ravaged the pulpit-body of a statue of Apollonio, the resurrected, holy Son. Consumed by hellfire, she fluffed up her pancake, mile-high curls, but with a glazed look like she had finished a late-night talk with a strange man, batting crimped lashes, and drunkenly hoped he might love her. Does Apollonio love you?, RAMIEL had almost asked. They sat six feet down with their knobby knees going numb from the scratchy pads under them. Their hands were half-undone, because RAMIEL was always bad at praying to Godiva. They stared at her. Rubber-gaze snapped, she stared back, an impatient owl.
“Trying to talk to Him?” She glanced towards the statue she’d been looking at so veneratively.
RAMIEL nodded.
“I could never talk to Him, either, when I was your age.” She squashed her pert-red lips to one side. It pointed out the nascent accordion-folds around her mouth that RAMIEL realizes, now, are quite apparent. “Well, actually, can I tell you a secret?”
Her eyes, warm and milky as hot cocoa, engulfed the little one in a way that tantalized them. RAMIEL nodded.
The Missus scooched over, quite ungracefully, and murmured, “I didn’t believe in Godiva, growing up. We worshiped a different God. Odyne.”
RAMIEL gasped, covering their mouth.
Missus nodded. “It’s quite scandalous, I know. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Their head tilted to one side, then the other, contemplating. Finally, they nodded, as a panting dog. The two became a pair, laughing in glee. They often told the story of their meeting to their friends with an equally mischievous laugh, noting that the duo have been like mother-daughter since.
As they were often forced to do over the past decade, RAMIEL reviews this introduction with an ire towards how dutiful the Missus had always been and the fact that they continually catch themself, even now, wanting to be like her. They had held onto this bond due to what the two lacked, as it staved off the pain of Ova’s gaze upon them throughout each Sunday Sermon. Always disapproving, Sundays were more than mandatory.
After each of these days, Ova will walk past RAMIEL. She will walk past the spiral iron-worked stair rails of their home, the same ones wrought with faeries in metal prisons that RAMIEL once ran their fingers over as they listened to her and Mama argue in the front room. On occasion, she will mumble, “That was a successful evening,” and the implication that this may be meant for RAMIEL to hear will carry them through the troughs of that evening’s exhausted, dreamful pseudo-death. They may join their mother in the kitchen, with Siobahn having made something delicious, and they will giggle over what Mr. Trumblebottom said. Ova might lay out the base-coat for the family affairs in a way that makes RAMIEL happy to be a feature of the canvas, and sometimes, Ova will kiss them on the head before turning in early.
“Lots to read!” she will say. Sometimes, she might even sniff their hairline. Then, she’ll take RAMIEL's cane, placing it by the door because she cannot let them forget who they are, and she will evaporate to haunt some other fixture of the Sylvester tableau.
On the evenings where RAMIEL doesn’t earn this, they will avoid the kitchen entirely. Instead, they will pace in their room, unable to sit down due to their back’s pounding. Where their hips meet their legs, the bones will rub together. They will be drunk on mimosas, with the sound of Missus’s rudderless laughs ringing in their ears. Their heart and their throbbing gashes along their spine will continue to beat, and they will wish that death did not escape them now.
Despite this miserable coin toss that Godiva forced each Sunday, Missus was still someone visiting them in their cell. They roll over once more in their bed, disgusted by the syrupy wetness on their pillow and cheeks. They sniffle, wiping their snot on the back of their hand, and realize that they may be better off alone.
Sundays were now dragging a dead body from the grave – creaking up and getting dressed nicely so that the Missus won’t comment on their choice of silhouette and Ova will allow them to spend the afternoon with a woman who, in her eyes, they have so clearly replaced their dead mom with. She is right, RAMIEL knows, but now they wish they’d chosen a different model.
Missus wraps them in a hug, kisses them on the head, and examines their outfit. Verona and Judaes arrive in tow, and the Missus embraces them too. RAMIEL gives a delighted, yet dimmed smile to these friendly intruders.
The Missus pretends to pick off lint from their white linen gown, and she passes them to Verona, joking, “See, you need to order a lint-roller. How many times have I told you? Don’t you agree?”
Verona nods, giving a sympathetic glance toward his best friend. RAMIEL tosses back a minute shrug that the Missus chooses to ignore. Ova, mingling, interrupts, and RAMIEL rolls their eyes at this intruderous friend.
“She’s right,” she says, sipping while she eyes their outfit. “The corset would also give it more shape, get rid of that hunch-back.” She cranes her neck to get ahold of the Missus, who’s enrapt in examining Judaes’s flashy performance attire. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Trumblebottom?”
A hazy bird, the Missus follows the command in Ova’s tone, chirping from one tree branch-conversation to the next. Verona places a tender finger pad on RAMIEL's elbow, and they lean into it, placing slightly more weight on their cane now that neither Noblewoman is looking at them. The older women titter in conversation before Mr. Trumblebottom practically pushes Missus to the side, and while she purses her lips in her accordion-like fashion, she quickly continues to play this game. RAMIEL almost sighs, but instead their eyelids lower as they look down upon the Missus.
“[REDACTED; RAMIEL'S NICKNAME], dear, your mother is right.” She grabs a mimosa off one of the trays milling about. “You really should do something about that hunch. Might not even need the cane, if you do that.” She clinks her glass with theirs.
The thread that was holding them up snaps, and they give their full weight to their ornate, hand-carved cane. They allow themself to become the inert portrait that their mother is so intent on them becoming, choosing to be an impression rather than something clearly defined. They realize, as the Missus continues to yammer on, that the thread of life that was keeping them playing alive on Sundays, was actually a noose tied by another, mathematically average Other trying to worm her way towards winning Godiva’s game.
Ada Limon, The Good Fight // Mary Oliver, West Wind // Danez Smith, Bare // Sappho, Fragment 58.25-26 // Mitski, I Don’t Smoke // Ashe Vernon // Hozier, Cherry Wine // Shauna Barbosa, GPS // Richard Siken, Little Beast // Chen Chen, Summer [The sunflowers fall…] // Warsan Shire // Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
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