by Amanda Long
He placed one of his hands on top of hers. “Thanks. I can see similarities between the effects of alcohol and blood on one's usual behavior.”
“Okay, then there you go. One tends to act 'unusual' when under the influence.” She smiled.
“Yes, I guess they do,” he replied, returning her smile while gingerly withdrawing his hands before the sensations always felt by her touch consumed him.
Seeing how tough the question was for him to answer, she thought it only fair to answer the question herself. “So, to sum things up, that makes one spontaneous unrequited kiss for you, zero kisses of any kind for me.”
“Really?”
She blushed insecurely and bowed her head. “Shocking, I know, when I'm such a pillar of perfection. Apparently, men don't find petite redheads covered in freckles attractive.”
He lifted her face gently to gaze into her eyes. “I find you extremely attractive. In fact, I think you are perfect.”
“Oh,” she whispered.
Before he lost his nerve, he leaned in, pressing his lips softly against hers. Lacking experience and intending to stick to his word earlier about only kissing her when he was sure she wanted him too, he kept the kiss short and sweet; just enough for both to know they wanted more. He reluctantly pulled away before getting too excited.
“That was nice,” she admitted, though she had expected their first kiss to be more passionate.
Nervous about his decision to hold back, he laughed. “At least you didn't push me away.”
“I'd never push you away.”
Those words where all he needed to kiss her like he truly wanted. Placing his hands gently on the sides of her face, he leaned in once again. He peered into her eyes just before their mouths joined for a second time; the love that resonated in those soothing green eyes astounded him. He wasn't worthy of her love, yet he craved it above all else. He finally believed she could save him. When their lips touched, he felt the transfer of her love. The surplus of love she possessed, slipped into him as their lips parted. Its affect was like flipping a switch, allowing light to flood into the darkness of his soul; filling all the deep crevices that had formed since spilling his first blood. He was reborn.
Chapter 15
Reunion
The lights of the last city vanished, replaced by mile after mile of forest. Dorian hadn't realized how remote his 'human' home was, but seeing the distance stretched out beneath him showed how far removed he had become physically from his old life.
How on earth did Thomas ever find me? That's a question that will have to remain unanswered. Leave the past behind you. It doesn't matter now anyway.
Turning away from the window, he adjusted the leather seat to lay all the way back. He yearned for sleep, anything to pass the time. Instead, he remained wide awake, anxious about his reunion. This was his second time flying, but he lacked any memory of the first, being unconscious at the time. He probably would be enjoying this flight if his stomach wasn't a ball of knots.
Where's an elephant tranquilizer when you need one?
When he planned this return home, much to the prodding of a fiery redhead, he had no idea it would require such a long, miserable plane ride, allowing plenty of time for thought.
How will father react to my visit? Will he be happy to see me? Will he still angry and hurt over my last words to him
The dozens of tiny bottles filling the minibar called out to him, 'drink me'. The temptation to ingest all of the mind numbing alcohol, but he knew he would only delay the inevitable. He would see his father again, whether in flesh or spirit, and face the consequences of his goodbye.
He thought back to the conversation that brought him here, anything to stop his incessant wondering and worrying.
“Is your father still alive?” Megan asked during one of the breaks in their kissing.
“I don't know.” Dorian replied, all desire vanishing instantly, replaced by shame.
She held back the tears threatening to fall by focusing on her anger. “Dorian, shame on you. You have a father that I'm sure loves you,” she paused, waiting for him to nod in agreement, “and you don't know if he's alive?” She rose from the couch, her anger and sadness making her antsy. “You have to go see him.”
“We didn't part on the best of terms.” He reluctantly admitted.
“That’s even more reason to go. He's your father.” Bowing her head, she whispered sadly, “I would give anything if I could see mine.”
*****
Standing just outside the door of his church, shrouded in the darkness of night, he heard his father's calm, soothing voice inside. Glancing at his watch, he realized his arrival coincided with the beginning of Sunday night service. Knowing how long winded his father could be, he decided he had plenty of time to revisit the woods; another item on his coming home to do list.
The moon provided ample light for the trek deep inside the woods; his former place of exile. He chose first to visit the large oak where ages ago he had desperately attempted to end his life.
Sadness flooded him as he gazed at the majestic tree. Kneeling, he caressed the large roots that had cradled him. He feared finding blood stains, but there were no signs of his brutal failed suicide.
Being near the place of his greatest sin, he felt compelled to beg forgiveness. Looking to the heavens, he pleaded, “Father, I am so sorry for everything, for desecrating Your Creations, for blaming You for my situation, for trying to end my life. Instead of trusting in You, I took matters into my own hands. Can You forgive me?” Tears streamed down his face as he waited for a sign from his Heavenly Father.
Feeling Dorian deserved a sign of forgiveness, God sent him a vision of his suicide from His Heavenly Perspective. The vision was not for punishment of the sin, but for understanding.
With a tug at the base of his neck, his body lifted from the ground. Hovering above his previous position, he looked down on his own image nestled comfortable in the roots. “Father,” he called out frantically, frightened and confused by his displacement. He watched himself pull out the knife to mutilate his own body, escalating with each failed attempt to free himself from his curse.
“Why show me this?” He asked, trying to look away from the gruesome scene of his own suicide played out before him. Not able to do so, he was forced to witness every second of the self-inflicted agony. “I know the outcome,” he sighed, fighting against the invisible hand holding his head still. An intense sadness consumed him unlike anything he had experienced. Sobbing uncontrollable, he squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded, “Please Father, make it stop.”
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer looking upon himself from above, but back in his own body still caressing the large roots of the oak. A gentle breeze whirled round him, bringing with it understanding of why he was forced to endure the vision of his own demise. Wiping the tears that still streamed down his face, he again looked to the heavens. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused to You. I thought You had forsaken me when the truth was only me who had forsaken you.” The same breeze wrapped around him, this time bringing peace.
“YOU SPEAK WISE WORDS, MY SON. IT IS TRUE, I DID NOT FORSAKE YOU.”
Dorian was so pleased to hear God's Voice in his mind again, he couldn't speak.
“IT BRINGS ME GREAT JOY TO SEE THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE REASON FOR ENDURING MY PERSPECTIVE OF YOUR SUICIDE. OF COURSE YOU ARE FORGIVEN, DORIAN. I DID SO LONG AGO. YOU ONLY NEEDED TO FORGIVE YOURSELF. NOW GO, BE REUNITED WITH YOUR EARTHLY FATHER. HE IS ANXIOUSLY AWAITING YOUR RETURN.”
Filled to the brim with God's Love, he rose from his kneeling position. He desired to possess the token of his sin. Walking to where the device had been discarded, he searched for the hilt of his knife. Running his hands along the rugged bark, he stretched up as far as he could reach, then down all the way to the roots with no success. Knowing this was the correct tree, he repeated the entire process. His right hand grazed against a large knot just below eye level. Peering at the blemish, he spotted the
hilt of his knife protruding dead center only a quarter of an inch farther than the rest.
Extending his nails, he removed bark from around the hilt of the knife. Gripping it firmly, he yanked the knife free from its enclosure, bringing with it a chunk of bark. A deep gash marred the trunk of the tree. Tucking the forever reminder of his ultimate sin into one of his belt loops, he headed to the cabin in hopes of retrieving his Bible. He knew it would not be long after the nightly service that his father would retire for the evening. He reached the cabin within seconds, his eagerness to be reunited with his most precious possession propelling him forward. He leaped onto the porch and swung open the door in one seamless move. The interior of the cabin was as he left it, minus a few inches of dust. His satchel hung from a post on the top bunk. Reaching inside, he retrieved his Bible, thankfully protected from the elements by the rugged leather. He slid the book back into the satchel, headed out the door and raced back to the church.
He slipped in unnoticed. The creaking of the old wooden door went unheard, drowned out by the humming of a hymnal. Leaning against the cold stone wall near the entrance, he studied his father as he bustled about the sanctuary, tiding up after the nightly service. His once black hair now streaked with gray; his heart sank as he wondered how many strands had lightened because of him. Seeing the evidence of his worry so pronounced, he feared this reunion might be a mistake. How could his father forgive him? Not wishing to cause him any more pain, Dorian remained plastered to the wall until Father Murphy had extinguished the final alter candle. He crossed his fingers for silence as he opened the wooden door to make his escape, but the door eagerly announced his departure. He froze, cringing, one foot in the doorway, as the creak echoed through the church, bouncing from wall to wall.
“Dorian?” Father Murphy called out hopefully.
Cast in shadow Dorian turned around.
“Dorian, is that you?” Father Murphy asked, holding the candle out in a shaking hand.
“Yes,” he whispered, pushing the word out past the lump forming in his throat. Rushing to his father's side, he caught the candle as it slipped from his excited hand. “I'm sorry if I frightened you,” he apologized, relighting the alter candles for his father's benefit.
“Nonsense!” Father Murphy exclaimed, grabbing his son by the shoulder. After turning him, with more strength expected of one appearing so frail, he patted his face. “Is it truly you, my son?”
“Yes, Father,” he assured, moved by how easily his father used the words 'my son'. Two words he wasn't sure he deserved anymore.
“Not an apparition, then?” Father Murphy inquired, staring intently at him, afraid he might vanish before his eyes.
“No.” Dorian chuckled as his father finished confirming his solidarity.
“Well then.” Father Murphy lifted his beaming face and hands to the heavens. “Thank you, God!” He shouted before returning his attention and affections back to Dorian. Placing his hands on both sides of his son's face, he pulled him in close. “I have prayed for your return every day.” Tears streamed down his face as he planted soggy kisses upon his son's cheeks and brow.
Dorian accepted his affections without complaint. He gazed down at his beaming face after finally being released.
“Well?” Father Murphy asked expectantly, arms folded across his chest.
“What?” Dorian asked, confused by the question and his father's sudden seriousness.
“What took you so long to return?” Father Murphy clarified.
Dorian stared at the floor ashamed. “I'm sorry, Father, but I became terribly lost.”
Father Murphy wrapped his arms around him. “But now, you are found.”
“I believe I am,” Dorian replied, smiling weakly.
Returned to his usual exuberant demeanor, Father Murphy beamed, “I am curious to hear about your time away from me, but I need to do two things first.”
“Okay.”
“First, I need to give more praise to God for my answered prayer.”
“Oh, yes of course. If it's alright with you, I'd like to be the one to offer prayer.” Dorian bowed his head. “It's painful and embarrassing to admit, but I'm quite out of practice.”
“I would love for you to offer up prayer, thank you, my son. As far as being out of practice praying, I'm sure you'll be fine.” Father Murphy patted him on the back. “It's like riding a bike.”
“But I don't know how to ride a bike,” Dorian admitted.
“True.” Father Murphy laughed, ignited the same response in Dorian.
After their moment of merriment passed, both men knelt in front of the altar, heads bowed, hands clasped together. Dorian hesitated; the proximity to the place where his life had forever changed filled him with sadness. The last time he had knelt in this place, he sought understanding for the state of his church and himself. Long had the blood been wiped away from both but the stains haunted him. Breathing in, he instituted his prayer, hoping his hesitation went unnoticed. “He does not treat us as our sins deserve. Psalms 103:10. Thank You, Father, for staying true to Your WORD and forgiving me when I am undeserving. Thank You also for bestowing on my earthly father the same ability to forgive. Amen.” After a few moments of silent prayer, Father Murphy rose from his knees with a groan and headed for the kitchen. “Now, I must put on some coffee if this tired old body is to stay vertical to hear your story.”
Dorian stopped his father with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Wait. It was foolish of me to time my arrival so late. Please go rest. My tale can wait until morning.”
“I am rather tired. Two services tend to wear me out. I'm not as spry as I used to be.” Father Murphy joked.
Dorian cringed, worried his father’s aging had more to do with him than life’s natural course. “Let me help you to bed, Father. We can talk in the morning after you've rested.” He assisted his father to his room. “Would you like me to tuck you in, like you used to do me?” He joked.
“That won't be necessary, my son. Just your word that you'll still be here in the morning is all I need to sleep soundly.” Father Murphy replied, patting his cheek for the countless time.
“I promise, Father.”
Father Murphy smiled, pulling Dorian in close for another kiss on the brow. “Goodnight. I love you, my son. By the way, your room is just as you left it.”
“Thank you. I love you, too.” Dorian remained in the small hall until his father shut his bedroom door, then he retired to his old room. The room was even smaller than he remembered. He laughed, realizing his childhood room was probably too small to hold even the bed he slept on at Thomas'. He stretched out as far as his tiny cot would allow. The gentle sound of his father snoring soundly comforted his mind, allowing him to slip into his own restful sleep.
The bitter aroma of fresh brewed coffee assaulted his nose, pulling him out of his deep sleep. Forgetting where he was, Dorian rolled to his left, completely off his cot. “Ow!” He yelled as he braced himself before his face hit the stone floor. A sharp pain resonated up his arms. Biting his lip to refrain from using colorful language, he pushed himself off the floor. Another groan escaped his mouth as his muscles protested his attempt to stand straight. He hobbled toward the door, bent over like a man three times his age, groaning with each careful step.
Upon entering the kitchen, his gait had improved, but not to the point of being unnoticeable. Apparently his system was still in the mist of throwing its tantrum over being denied its preferred food source.
Father Murphy smiled as his decrepit son entered the room. “Good morning, rough night?”
“Actually, no.” Dorian smiled through clenched teeth, his hands gripping his lower back as he stood erect. “Appearances aside, I slept like a rock.”
“You've never had difficulty sleeping like a log,” Father Murphy laughed.
“True,” Dorian thought back to the numerous times his father had literately drug him out of bed, “but this time, I wanted to wake up before you.” He walked over to the wood sto
ve and placed his hand gently on his father's shoulder. “Why don't you have a seat and let me finish making coffee.”
“Do you know how?” Father Murphy asked doubtfully with a half grin. “I didn't think you were paying attention when I showed you.”
Dorian stared at the floor briefly. “Oh, you noticed that.”
“I did. And I'm sure I noticed even more that you may have wanted to remain unnoticed. I particularly enjoyed your crinkled up nose every time I put on coffee,” Father Murphy replied, mimicking his nose crinkle.
“Yeah, the coffee smell wasn't my favorite aroma coming from the kitchen.” He wanted to express how badly he still despised the aroma, but he wanted to do this small thing for his father. A little nasal discomfort was nothing; he would endure far worse to see his father smile. “Now, please sit.”
Father Murphy obeyed his son, smiling as he pulled up a chair at the small wooden table. Dorian finished preparing the coffee and soon joined his father with two cups. He wasn't thirsty, not for coffee anyway. He just wanted something to do with his hands besides tap the table or rub them together.
“Pretty good coffee. Guess you weren't completely ignoring me after all,” Father Murphy joshed as he sipped the hot drink.
“Thanks, I had a great and determined teacher.” Dorian smiled.
Minutes passed as he and his father remained silent, each unsure of what to say, especially him. He had traveled home for his father’s forgiveness and closure, but now that he sat across from him, he didn't know where to begin.
As Dorian looked at his father's face, he noted how much he had aged since his departure. Lines of worry creased his forehead, while the laugh lines, once prominent, had faded. Seeing the pain, he had caused his father, caused the emotion he had been holding back to flood toward the surface. He held his head in his hands as the tears poured from eyes.
