Log:The Nature of Sin
| The Nature of Sin | |
|---|---|
| Participants | 29 July 2017 Where two new BFFs discuss the subjective sin of kicking a baby -- how bad is it /really/? I mean, come on. It might have been Baby Hilter. |
| Location
Hart Pond - Park | |
| The sun has set and night has taken over. The families have packed up their kids and gone home, leaving the park pretty empty. But a few people remain -- some teenagers over there, a couple strolling over yonder. And then there is Cressida. Seated on a park bench, the woman is sprawled out in a lazy, seemingly boneless slouch. If you were to look up the wikipedia entry for 'dirty hippy', her picture would probably be there: she's wearing loose, boho clothing, her hair has a wild uncombed (unwashed) look to it, her feet are bare. And for anyone venturing close? There's the smell. It's not /bad/ per se. She just smells like .. patchouli and Phish groupie on tour, yannow? And weed. A lot of weed. Another thing of note is that she, uh, kinda glows. It's like her edges are lined in soft illumination. But certainly that is a trick of the eyes; maybe she uses body lotion with glitter in it? Anyhoo, she watches the teenagers, the strolling couple, the scant few people here with a blank expression. Blank, yeah. Zoned, sure. But she /is/ paying attention. Tracking them in her sleepy, dreamy way.
Amanda Green is on her way home. She lives just up the road. But as a tradition of hers, after a long day, she heads to the park to unwind. This is marked by an Audi S5 covertible, in sky blue, pulling into the lot, and then the little Brit popping out. She's dressed in a black skirt, a white top, sheer black hose, and pair of black oxfords. Her outfit is angled at hip and casual, though is surely quite spendy. She starts to walk, taking in the chill air. Too chilly for her to be out long, not without a jacket, but it's fine for a few minutes of walking and letting the stress pour off her. That brings her near Cressida. And, even if it might be rude, she ends up staring at the woman. Was that a glow? No... surely could not be...
Was that a glow? What where who? Cressida doesn't know aaaaaanything about no glow, nope. It's just the street lamp. Or the moon. Yeah! Let's blame it on the moon. She stares back at the staring girl, Green being pretty much as opposite as opposite can be. So short! So in possession of things (car! shoes!)! So stylish! I mean, jeez-louise. She's even wearing /pantyhose/. It's doubtful Cressida even knows what pantyhose are. Her legs would probably reject them. Eventually, someone has to blink and eyeballs are getting dry so the hippy is the one to do it. Blink. Her eyelids only come up half-mast though and she grins a slow, crooked smile at the chick opposite her. "Heeey," she drawls. It's not a Southern drawl. It's a 'I've been smoking weed all afternoon and much of the evening and I'm feeling good how YOU doin kind of drawl. An upnod follows. "Wassup." And yup. Still glowing subtly.
"Hel-lo," Green says, after a moment. "All right?" she asks, in a way that suggests it's not actually a question. Her English accent is crisp and perfect. Which really does match the rest of her. That casual ease that only comes from practice and perfection. "Sorry for staring. I'd thought I saw something..." she muses. Then she turns to look up at that moon, nearly half. She stares for a moment. Must have been the moon...
The woman's eyes go wide when she hears Green's accent but at, like, slow loris speed. Or that sloth character from Zootopia. Her smile goes from a lopsided little number to a full-blown grin too and Cressida leans forward to peer more closely at the wee Brit. "You have an accent!" she says with /enthusiasm/. Thank you, lady. Certainly Ms. Green was not aware of this fact. Alert the presses! AMANDA BETHANY GREEN HAS AN ACCENT! For her part, Glowy McGlowpants does not. There aren't any regional markers in her speech -- not local. No from Boston. Not from New Yawk. Not from the South. Not from anywhere discernible. Suddenly, she shoots her hand forward. Oh shit, what is she going to do? Does she have a knife? A gun?! Nope, just a hand. She holds it out toward Green. You know, to shake. Handshake. "My name is Cressida!" Again, with the enthusiasm. See kids, this is what happens when you approach strangers in the park at night.
A perplexed look crosses the little Brit's face as she stares down at the other woman. "J'ai un accent? Quel accent?" she asks, in near perfect French. Which is decidedly not British English. She even lifts a hand to her chest, to aid in feigning confusion. It lasts for a moment, then she gives a soft laugh. "I was born elsewhere," she says, in English. In an English accent. And then a hand! Green blinks. "Oh!... My. Oh. We're shaking hands... all right then..." she murmurs out, and then reaches out, to take that hand, ever so delicately. "Amanda Green. Pleasure... Cressida? That's lovely."
The French throws her for a moment. Cressida's expression blanks and she just stares at Green, the foreign words seeming to cause her to hard reset or something. But then the Brit switches back to English and laughs. There's a slight delay but the hippy laughs too and she does so with -- you guessed it -- enthusiasm. And she's really loud, man. "HAHAHAHA, elsewhere! Me too, man. ME TOO." Now, where were they? What were they doing? OH YEAH. Handshake. There is nothing delicate about a Cressida Handshake(tm). And she can't do it sitting down. Rising up off the bench, she leans her whole body into it; while she isn't particularly tall, she's taller than the teeny-tiny fashion plate. Couple that with the fact that she is a dirty stranger in a dark park and it might be a touch intimidating? Maybe? On one hand, she /seems/ well-intentioned. On the other hand, she's throwing off borderline crazy vibes. Maybe she just doesn't navigate social situations very well? But dear God, this handshake. Can we talk about it for a sec? - Firm. - Up, down, up, down, up, down with vigor! With vim AND vigor! - She's grinning from ear to ear like a frickin' lunatic! - It lasts just -that- much too long. When it is over, Cressida slaps her hands together -- one, two, three -- like a job well done. "Excellent. /Excellent/. 10 out of 10, would shake again. Definitely would recommend to others."
"Oh... we're... all right. Didn't know we were doing all that," Green quips, sounding politely offended by the overabundance of handshaking. Still, she keeps a smile on her lips just the same, and waits for it to end. When it does, she draws her hand back, and makes no effort to wipe it clean on her skirt. She'll use the purell in the car. "So, then... Cressida," she says, looking the woman up and down, once more, now that she's standing. "Tell me... what is something that excites you, and what is something that causes you despair?" she asks. Because that's a nice, normal question. "Excluding handshakes," she adds, quickly.
Holy shit. Now /THAT/ is a question. Well, question/s/, really. Plural. Two of them. Cressida utters a low, slow: "Whoooooa" like she is channeling Keanu Reeves and staggers back a step or two until her legs bump against the park bench. Then she sits her ass back down -- ker-plop -- and stares at the heavens in wide-eyed wonder for a stretching moment. "You know what bums me out, man? What really just makes my heart sick? To see people just going through the paces. To see them settling. Wake up, get ready, eat breakfast, get in the car, drive to work, sit at a desk as their mind numbs to the tedium of existence. Break for lunch and eat food that tastes like ash in their mouthes. Clock back in, count the minutes as the hours wind down. Get back in the car, drive home, kiss the wife, kiss the kids, pet the dog, eat dinner. Sit in front of the tv, take a shower, jerk off, go to sleep, dream of nothing because all your dreams died long ago and get up in the morning to do it all the fuck over again and never ask WHY AM I DOING THIS. WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT?" She shakes her fists at the sky, at the stars and the moon staring silently down at the two of them, at the couple long wandered off and the teenagers still doing tricks on their skateboards. "Because life -- and existence itself -- is finite. Every moment is a moment closer to the final end. Each second is precious and unique, singular in design. It has never existed before, it will never exist again. It should not be squandered. And it is only through living -- really /living/ -- that anything has meaning. So THAT is what excites me. When I see people embracing that futile beauty of our doomed existence and relishing everything it has to offer. Touch things, breath it in, taste the tastes, smell the smells!" With that, she barks out a laugh and then plucks an unlit joint from behind her ear and presses it between her lips, fishing around in her pocket for a lighter. "Don't worry," she says, the blunt bouncing as she speaks. "It's 'medicinal'."
A single eyebrow creeps up as Cressida is so literally blown away by the question. Green watches for a moment, then takes a few steps forward, and sits herself next to Cressida on the bench. Not close enough to touch, of course. Though if the smell and filth has offended her, well... If Cressida is the observant type, she might pick up that Green isn't bothered by either. She's bothered by touching. No touching, please. As the little Brit sits, it is as it should be. One leg crosses over the other at the thigh. Her back is straight. She doesn't touch the back of the bench at all. Prim and proper, through and through. She listens. She waits. She considers. She eyes the joint. "Surely, you'll share?" she asks. Then a pause, and a little wave of her hand. "That's a shite answer," she decides. "I do not believe what some white collar conservative does with his life affects you." She pauses. "Are you afraid that someone will force that life upon you?" she asks, eyeing the woman beside her, with big, lovely, dark eyes.
"Of course not," she answer -- to the latter question. Not to the joint sharing query because weed is a group activity, man. The blunt is lit and she takes a few puffs before passing it to her new pal, Green. "I doubt anyone would even want to impose that kind of life on me. I doubt it's on anyone's priority to-do list to get me into an office. But it bothers me deeply to see others succumb to that kind of existence. It hurts me right here." She pats her hand over her heart and sighs. The hippy relaxes against the back of the park bench and starts to slide into her slouch once more. "However, if you want a more personally specific answer? I'd kill anyone who hur- .. wait, why you wanna know this stuff anyway?" Who would you kill and why, Cressida? Like .. kill-kill? As in murder? Or does she mean kill in a figurative sense? She squints at Green. "You sit all dainty," she points out aloud. Green has an accent. She sits all proper-like. So astute Cressida! Keep these astute observations coming..
Green reaches over for the blunt without hesitation. She keeps eyes on Cressida as she draws it to her lips, and then takes a long, long drag. She holds the smoke in her lungs as she continues to watch, and hands the blunt back over. It's not until her lungs start to burn, which is about when Cressida is stopping herself and asking questions, that Green turns her head away and blows out a long column of smoke. There's a small cough on the end, but that's about it. This woman smokes. "I do everything all dainty," she offers, in response. Her gaze fixes on the boho hippy once more. "Too many years of boarding school and etiquette lessons not to," she offers, with a sweet smile. "And I want to know because I am a manner of Demon that deals in the sins of others. Tell me your sins, feed my hunger, and in exchange I shall offer you my services," she says, her tone not changing even the slightest from the polite-and-proper that's been on in place this whole time.
The joint makes its way back to Cressida -- hello, sweetheart -- and she holds it pinched between thumb and middle finger as she brings it to her lips. She gazes at Green through a haze of smoke, squinting at the tiny woman while her lungs fill and her thoughts roll over. The hippy looks .. skeptical. Does she doubt that the Brit is what she says she is? Not exactly. "How do you define sin though? It's so subjective," she answers in a somewhat strained way as she's keeping the smoke caged within her. Passing the blunt back, Cress exhales and her body grows more relaxed. Is she troubled, sitting next to a professed (manner of) demon? If she is, she has yet to make a show of it. "So," -- upnod, curiosity, lower lip nibble -- "..have you always been one or is it something you picked up?" At boarding school, perhaps? Who knows what happens at those places! I mean, look how she sits. Clearly a lot of evil happens there.
"No... no, it's not," Green says, as she takes back the blunt. "Relativism was invented by sinners so they could go about their art freely," she says. Then a pause. "Or maybe by demons, to encourage sinning," she adds, with a silly smile crossing her lips. She raises the blunt to her lips, holding it like a cigarette between two fingers, and takes a smaller hit. She holds the smoke a moment, as she leans over to offer it back, and then when she speaks, it's with smoke-tinged words. "I was born this way," she says, and follows the words by blowing out the rest of the smoke in her lungs. "Believe so, at least. Been this way as long as I can remember. Admittedly, the last few years have made it far worse... Miami," she says, with a little laugh. "Changes a woman. Anyways. You know when you've sinned. You just learn to ignore the voice that tells you so."
"Eeeeeeehn," Cressida replies, shaking her head slowly. "I don't know if I agree with you. Sure, there are things that are universally 'bad'." She holds the joint pinched between her lips as she lifts her hands up to make air-quotes when she says the word 'bad'. "Most people would agree that kicking a baby through the uprights on a football field is no bueno -- although it could be argued that measuring moments without taking in the larger scope of time is short sighted. Maybe that baby, left to live, would have led to a catastrophe of horrific proportions eons from now. Does that negate the act itself, the horror of kicking a baby? Probably not. But does it really make much difference if it had been humanely killed? Nah. Kicked through the uprights, mercifully put down, it doesn't /really/ matter when everything is a shit show." She takes a few quick puffs followed by a long one and then passes the joint back to Green. Ahhhh marijuana. So good. "And even if there are universal bad -- or sinful -- things, where is the dividing line between those things and that which are good? What constitutes a sin? Is it a sin against God? A sin against the constructs of polite society? Who decides? And what happened in Miami?" That last question was a bit of a side-track but she peers curiously at the stylish woman, eyebrows lifting over half-lidded eyes.
"Baby Hitler," Green says, ever so solemnly, as she inclines her head. She takes back the blunt and puffs at it a bit. That's her only response to that whole spiel about the nature of sin. She's too busy smirk and smoking to say much more. One bigger drag, and then she hands the joint back over. "You are right, of course. Who's to say. How can we measure. Do the gods love the pious, or is it merely pious because the gods love it," she says, reciting a sort of quote, rather than actually asking a question. There's a faint shrug. "A lot of cocaine and a would who broke my heart," she offers, without missing a beat. "Shite city. Miami."
The hippy bobs her head in nods that seems like she moving along to some internal beat. "Yeah, I'm just saying that a lot of things seem shitty in the moment but .. well, they ARE shitty in the moment. It's just kind of egotistical of man to think they can be the judge of those moments when they do not have the ability to step back and see the context as a whole." Puff-puff-pass, puff-puff-pass, the joint travels back and forth and back again; hopefully no cops will roll by. Granted, weed has been decriminalized but, at the very least, they'll be shooed away. "I've never been to Florida, actually," Cressida says thoughtfully after a long squint. Think think think -- nope, never been. "Too many weird stories coming out of that state. Usually weird is my jam but that place .." She shakes her head. "Nu-uh. I mean, bath salts. /Bath salts/."
It would seem that dainty isn't required of Green. Which is to say, she can relax. Which is to say, she finally leans back, as the weed starts to do it's thing. Yes, relax. It's a delightful thing. "Mmmm..." she responds, to nothing at all, really. A few quiet moments, and she blows out a sigh. "Shite state," she decides. "I didn't event want to go, but the ex, well..." She waves a hand. "Miami. How exciting," she says, and follows it with a soft laugh. "Passed on the bath salts, of course. Meth, too. Heroine and cocaine were plenty." She pauses, then smirks. "Good cocaine in Miami..."
"I like drugs that make me feel like I am floating away," Cressida says, taking a dainty -- dainty! -- puff. That is because the joint is close to done and shit is getting close to burning her fingers, yo. Holding it pinched with her nails, she starts fishing around in her pocket again and -- "Ah-ha!" -- comes up with a clip. Better. Passing this last little bit back to Green, there are a few hits left but.. "Don't worry," she says, lifting up a tangled knot of hair and showing another joint tucked behind her other ear. Grin. Eyebrow waggle. Letting her locks drop again, her knits her fingers behind her head and looks skyward. "So what's it like, being a manner of demon? How do you feed your hunger and what happens when you are sated? What is your relationship to God?"
Green lifts a hand and waves off the roach. No, no. Enough for her. She's plenty relaxed, as she stares up at the moon. Of course, even relaxed, she's still sitting with hands folded neatly in her lap, legs crosses, looking rather put together. It's just that she's leaning back against the bench now. "It's rather lovely. I get everything and anything I want. Requires a touch of patience, but... that's hardly an issue," she says, smiling still. "I already told you how I feed my hunger. And when it's sated, well... Rather a bit like lying in bed after a proper fuck," she says. Then a pause, and a laugh. "There is no God."
"But but but .. /how/? People just tell you about their sins? Like confess to you? And that's it? That's all it takes?" Cressida's mouth pushes over to one side and she looks vaguely .. disappointed. "You don't coax them to commit sin? You don't inspire such behavior? How about a sacrifice of some sort? Anything?" When Green waves off the joint, the hippy mmns quietly and finishes it off herself. Puff. Puff. Puuuuuuff. Exhale. "That's pretty cool, though. Getting everything you want." Her gaze sweeps over to the car that the little Brit arrived in and she nods to it. "And that's what you want? What else? What are the things you want? And if you can get everything you want, how did you get your heart broken?" Headtilt. Wide-eyes. Curious. Her assertion that God does not exist garners no reaction; it’s an answer that is simply filed away. That or she is too stoned to keep track of that conversational thread.
"That's it," Green says, with a faint wave of a hand. "So simple, isn't it?" she asks. "Of course, one needs to commit sins to be able to share them. So, it would seem in my best interest to encouraging sinning... but then, if I pushed you to do something, and you did, I'd have known it was coming. Yeah?" she asks, with a glance aside, then a look back to the sky. "Maybe. Who knows. But... as for the heart break," she murmurs out, considering for a long moment. "I suppose I wanted it," she says. Then a pause. "No, I'm rather certain I did. Sometimes we want things that are painful. But you know that," she says. Green pauses, she considers, then she finally rises up. "Believe it's time for me to go. I've a cat waiting for me."
Ooooooh. Interesting. Cressida nods along and seems to be slipping into a thoughtful trance as she contemplates the nature of self-fulfilling pain when Green mentions.. "You have a cat?!" To say that Cressida lights up is an understatement. Her entire face is ONE. BIG. GRIN. and she is up on her feet as well, the last little bit of joint dropped to the ground as she balls up her hands right up under her chin. "I /love/ cats! What kind do you have? Is it fluffy? Does it have short hair? Does it like it when you rub its tummy? What's its name? How old is it?" This would be the time to make a polite but hasty exit because it's pretty clear that she is in, like, full-on TODDLER MODE on this particular topic and that the questions will never ever end. Never. Ever. Did I mention never ever? Never ever ever never. She might even be slightly more glowy. Maybe? Nah, that can't be possible. But OMG CATS. And she is super crazy cat lady for realsies.
And Green might be turning off to leave. But that would be rude, wouldn't it? So, she smiles, and humors those questions. Patience is super easy when high. "He's a black cat. Short haired. He will leave scars if you touch his tummy. His name is Lucifer - Lucy, for short. He is sixteen years old," Green says, answering the questions one after another, near mechanically. "I live near here. Maybe we'll meet each other again," she offers. "Soon as you decide what you want from me," she adds. A smile, then Green turns, and starts to head for her car. And oh, if she doesn't walk like someone is watching.
At first, Cressida walks with her. To her car. And chatters away about /her/ cats. "I have a lot of cats. I rescue them. When I see a cat in trouble, I save it. Boy oh boy, do I! Rescue them right up! But my favorite is Tripod. He only has three legs but it doesn't slow him down at all and-.." But at some point, something clicks in her brain that maybe she shouldn't, like, you know. Follow so close. Or at all. Social interactions can be hard sometimes -- knowing when to stop, respecting personal boundaries, reading body language. SO. DIFFICULT. So the hippy just stands there, halfway between the park bench and the fancy car. Just stands there, bare foot and illuminated in the moonlight. She seems a little bit lost as to how to end this encounter, like she hadn't gotten that far in her ‘How to Make Friends’ manual. So she just wings it and waves. Wildly. "SEE YOU LATER, ALLIGATOR." Pause. "IN A WHILE, CROCODILE." She heard that somewhere once. With a crooked grin, she makes shooter fingers at Green and then turns on her heel and ambles back to her park bench.
Green doesn't look back, not as she's being followed, and not as she walks away from Cressida. It's good, because that means the cringe she makes is unseen by her new bestie. Oh, and what a cringe it is. Green has taken knives that hurt less than that farewell. A few more steps, and a good ten seconds of silence, and she's at her car. Only then does she turn back. "Ciao!" she calls. Then, she opens the car door, and slips right inside. She'll leave a moment later. Quickly. Because... Gods. | |
