Alistair

Alistair gets up and looks in the mirror. He winces a
little from the open wound in his back that he has
resolved, for the moment to keep as a reminder that he
still has a problem to fix. He has been cleansed of
his sins, past and present. He feels the thoroughness
of his repentance, but the consequences of his sin
must still be grappled with, not in guilt, but with
conviction.

He means to destroy the curse.

When that curse is gone, he thinks, then I will let
the wound close and be done with it. Till then I will
let the stinging remains of the lash fuel my righteous
determination.

He begins putting on his new clothes - no vestments.
Pure white. Some part of him recognizes that it's not
very subtle, but then, when has he been a subtle
person? No, it's right to mark the change for what it
is. And stick to it. No whiskey. No matter how much he
desires it, thirsts for it, longs for it. None. Not a
drop. Of course, in a perverse show of stubbornness he
will absolutely keep using it as an element in his
"dunamis" - his 'signs of faith'.

Fully dressed now, he examines himself. The tattoos
show through the white clothing and he has to admit he
looks a bit like a Biker going to be baptized. Oh
well, he isn't trying to make an impression on anyone.

2 thoughts on “Alistair

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