His eyes rimmed with red, his face covered in dark scruff, his hair sticking up in odd places - anyone who saw him might be forgiven for thinking that Gabriel did not look his best. But no one did see him, at least not at first, because there was no good reason for anyone to be near Sweetwater Church on a Friday morning. Even the preacher didn’t want to be too close, he needed it to be out of sight, the pressing concerns of the religious of Foxcroft not his to deal with, at least for a little while. ( Was he becoming too good at shirking responsibilities? It was better not to think about that now. )
He passed through the trees at the edge of the church grounds and on to the road, concentrating on the easy rhythm of one foot in front of the other. That was better than the pounding in his head or the dry mouth, at any rate. He talked to himself as he walked, silently at first, and then the occasional phrase slipped from his mouth the further he went, the more convinced he was that he was alone. If he looked back he would see that the steeple was still in view, peeking above the trees behind him. He didn’t look back though.
“...not my fault if they don’t agree with me.” he told himself, changing the subject of his own inner conversation. “And anyway, it’s not like she’s so...” He looked up, realising suddenly that he wasn’t his only audience. “...perfect.”
