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#john x millie
mareyshelley · 1 year
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“Even though the styles of her dresses are the same as earlier, she looks way chicer. That was fun, to show the progression of her growing younger. Her colours are lighter in the beginning, and go darker. In the end, she and Father Paul look like they belong together.” – Midnight Mass: The Art of Horror.
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violetonmars · 1 year
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Mike Flanagan's Midnight Mass, Book VII: Revelation
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Amal El-Mohtar, This is how you lose the time war
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the-moon-racoon · 2 years
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I don’t feel like making “serious” fanart. Give ideas for shitpost pls
also, not gonna lie, I stole this meme from the sherlock fandom
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lovepollution · 4 months
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No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross: A John x Millie playlist
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sleepymushroomkupo · 2 years
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I don't think I'll ever get over that part during John's confession to Millie where he suppresses a sob when he says "I didn't want you to die."
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God... thinking about John in episode 7, just absolutely hopeless and defeated, admitting he was wrong, rejected by his flock, and in the end, nobody really gives a fuck about him but Millie.
He loses everything he tried to fight for, even his own daughter, and for someone trying to create a deathless world, he probably truly feared death. It's chilling to see him make the command decision that he will not survive the morning.
Meanwhile Millie probably accepted death long ago, and she's the one who helps him step away, figuratively brings him into the light. In a sense, she's almost like what Tara-Beth was for Riley in the end. Millie takes John's hand, together they venture out to their daughter's favorite spot, there's something in both of them that's probably still afraid, knowing time is running out but letting it pass, she forgives him, she kisses him, and they are enveloped in love that is both broken and perfect in one last sunrise.
Like.
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My heart.
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aaluminiumas · 1 year
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The Dress
They had no other choice, and they fully acknowledged all the risks they were about to take. John understood it from the very beginning, maybe with even more clarity than her, but now, standing in front of the old wooden door leading to the shabby house, he couldn’t bring himself to knock. 
Usually, he felt no hesitation. He crawled here at night, scratched on the beaten-up wood, and hurried inside, immediately wrapping his arms around her fragile frame, showering her with kisses; she laughed and turned around to close the blinds, sending him to the kitchen to brew some tea or grab a cookie she’d just baked. He never groped for words, he was never at a loss, especially with her, eagerly listening to whatever tale he had to tell, but now the eloquent priest, notorious for his circumlocution, realized that his head was empty. Not a single thought entered his mind. Not a single word slid off his tongue. John even doubted that he should be here at all. 
Taking a deep breath, he tried to shake off the stupor chaining his limbs. The upcoming ceremony drove him crazy, he would be more than happy to delegate and never witness the dramatic scene, but he was the only pastor to officiate. It was, metaphorically, his cross to bear—as a comeuppance for all the sins he’d committed. God, no doubt angry with the behavior of his not-so-obedient servant, left no opportunity to slough off the painful duty, and John did not repine against such a cruel decision. After all, he comprehended the motives: this was one of the rare moments when God was perfectly clear.
My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.
Whenever the man imagined his Millie wearing a white dress for another man, he felt an uncontrollable surge of ire boiling within him and instigating him to do unkind, outright evil things. As a man of the church, as someone purported to listen to lengthy confessions of the most formidable sins, John was deeply ashamed of his own thoughts and tried to stifle them, but even oppressed, they burned him to the core, turning him into a pile of ashes. He could barely subdue the ravaging emotion sweeping over him with the ferocity he had never experienced before: for the first time in his life, the Bible offered no help. No matter how frequently he opened the Scripture, striving to find the right verse, sober his reasoning, and maintain his famous sangfroid, he saw nothing: the blurry lines of the old book smeared across the page, sending his mind far away. 
He repented, of course. Still a devout priest, he spent hours in his room, praying his sins away, but this remedy failed too—for an obvious reason, which John had difficulty admitting. 
He was not honest. Yes, Monsignor John Pruitt promoting sincerity and spiritual integrity, was not genuine with God anymore, repeating one and the same prayer, asking for forgiveness, and locking himself in a confessional. He did it all pro-forma, automatically, by default; he reiterated and reiterated in a foolish attempt to ingratiate himself with Him and, primarily, assuage his guilty conscience. 
Hence, no mercy came from above—and he didn't really count on it anymore. Not that it meant anything to him. Not after the woeful image of Millie getting ready for the wedding.
Finally collecting himself and taking his emotions under control, John lifted his hand and knocked on the door.
No answer.
A feeling of nauseating sorrow gave way to a growing wave of concern. Millie, an impatient little thing, rushed to the door each time she sensed his presence. He could creep in the dead of night in absolute darkness, making no noise, and she would somehow feel him around, opening the door seconds before his arrival.
It didn't happen. The woman did not push her nose in the street, trying to distinguish his tall figure among the trees and the bushes.
 “Millie?” he called, voice ringing with worry. “Millie? You in there?”
His voice always made her promptly open that door, either for a midnight date or other special occasion that demanded her presence, but not today. Today... something was off. He couldn't hear her light steps on the creaky floor; he couldn't catch the cupboard doors plaintively clinking; he couldn't discern any sound coming from within—
As if the house was empty.
The priest felt his limbs freezing with dread. Could she just have fallen asleep, affected by the turmoil and stresses of the island, unusually animated, bubbling, and buzzing in the bizarre condition of the previously unknown helter-skelter? Or did she recede to safety, to her darkest corner where she could gather her thoughts and ponder over the decisions she was about to make? Or, maybe, she paid a visit to George's family, his numerous sisters? She was never good at doing her hair. She'd said so herself.
While his heart warmed with the sudden memory of her sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her thick, dark hair, John still nervously shifted from foot to foot on her porch. The priest peeped into the nearest window, hoping to discern the delicate silhouette, but saw nothing: the living room was empty, so was the kitchen, or at least the part he managed to make out from his position. Where was she? Off to the church already? Meeting her would-be in-laws as he'd earlier surmised? Discussing the nuptial with the groom himself?
Hardly.
As someone who spent hours in this very house, knowing its every nook and cranny, John perfectly knew the layout: not only could he roughly estimate where the rooms were situated and how the furniture was arranged, but he also could visualize the windows Millie would have to pass by in order to enter the corridor. Still, the woman was nowhere to be seen: she didn't dust the shelves as she used to, bake a cake in the kitchen, or read a book on her favorite sofa. Nor did she knit, listen to music, or quietly wait for him… and there were not a lot of places on Crockett where she could—or wanted to—go.
And the building itself. It seemed dauntingly empty, practically dead. The construction bore a weird atmosphere of eerie lifelessness, lacking Millie’s attention to detail and comfort. 
The man felt his blood go cold: something did indeed happen. He felt it with his skin. But what exactly? Could she have done something to herself? She'd seemed so confident the night before, fiddling with hairpins and the mirror, occasionally pressing a rosebud to her temple. Heartbroken, yes. Millie was heartbroken, but she nonetheless put on a brave face, saying she knew what she was doing. Determined. Strong. Unhesitating. Ready to protect their future at all costs. 
With a heavy heart, the man remembered how unwilling he was to listen, with his mouth agape, staring at her in disbelief. Frantically whispering, she insisted that it was their only way; it had to be done if they still wanted to live on the island as they used to.
If they still wanted to live on this godforsaken island, belonging to just as the godforsaken state of Washington, situated in the godforsaken area of the godforsaken United States of America. 
If they still wanted to. 
Did they? He never really asked. When they were lying in bed, dreaming on and on, counting the hours till dawn, John preferred to think of other, more pleasant things. He told Millie about art he saw in the Vatican City, mentioned various pictures he admired in Florence, imagining them walking across the streets of Rome... And she just listened, sometimes chuckling and not really interrupting his rapt ramblings, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. Then she stood up, stark naked, and basked in the translucent moonlight. That's where he gaped at her, entranced by her beauty, slightly dazed and embarrassed by the boldness. 
Soon John discovered that she was pregnant, and he realized he couldn't quite process the situation. Millie may have expected him to take measures, but the priest felt stymied to act. Her pregnancy complicated the already intricate condition, and the man, genuinely horrified, found out that he didn't possess enough courage to step down from the altar. 
He did not possess enough courage to take her away. 
“Millie?” the man managed to find his voice again, turning the doorknob.
Again, no answer. To his great surprise—and much to his terror—the door was not locked.
The tacky paws of fear crept across his back and stuck to the nape of his neck.
“Millie, I am coming,” John shouted indecisively, careful not to touch anything but nonetheless quietly closing the door behind him.
Adjusting his collar and clearing his throat, John crawled through the narrow corridor, intently looking around, hoping to spot a note, a tiny sticker with a short message written in her minuscule handwriting. Focusing on the scanty furniture, the man struggled to squelch the panic rising in his heart. What was he about to see? She never ignored him—never. Even when they quarreled, quite rarely though, Millie nonetheless welcomed him, greeted him with a modest smile, and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, pushing the door close behind him.
She'd been waiting for him as long as needed. She never gave up on him, and he betrayed her by letting her make such a decision, by letting the woman sacrifice herself, her hopes and dreams.
“Millie?” John called in the umpteenth time, heading over to the bedroom. “Are you here?”
The oak door of the bedroom did not penetrate a single sound from within, and John, bracing himself, placed his hand on the brass knob.
The sight unfolding before his eyes petrified him, scarring the man for life. From this moment on, he knew that it was the picture he would never erase from his memory.
Mildred, his smiling, cheerful Millie dressed in white, was sitting in front of a scuffed pier glass, senselessly and listlessly staring at her own reflection. She certainly tried to primp up and, judging by the scarce cosmetics now lying scattered before her, did her best to look good: she had taken the occasion seriously, but something stopped her.
Not even being present, he did.
She would have looked peerless. She would have been the most beautiful bride among many others, and he'd seen a fair share, but she would have topped them all if not for her pale face, turning into a mask of pain. This absolute lack of reaction, silent grief, her lukewarm caramel eyes, now faded hollow pits of despair—the sight filled him with the consternation he had never felt before.
How could he do this to her?
 “Millie? Millie, love,” John muttered under his breath, darting towards the woman and kneeling before her tiny frame, taking her limp hands in his. Knowing the doors were open for everyone to see, knowing that people could easily discover them, the man suddenly realized that he no longer cared. The nascent fear to lose her—for good—transformed him completely, making him forget about his ephemeral duty before the congregation.
“I… can’t do it, John,”  Millie rustled, her voice barely heard. “I can’t.”
John pressed her knuckles to his lips, the cold touch sending chills down his spine. He turned her into a ghost of a woman, an apparition, chirring across the house, and he wielded no power over the circumstances, he could not undo it, no matter how hard he prayed or how much effort he put into his responsibilities. She had been planning it for months, he had been preparing for weeks, they—
 “I can’t, John,” she muttered, her eyes filling with tears she strove to hold back. “I just can’t go there.”
John swallowed thickly, his mind working frantically.
 “Millie, you… You don’t have to. We will find another way,” he rambled, squeezing her fingers, trying to warm them up. “You do not have to go through this. I know there are—”
 “I am weak, John,” Mildred implored, interrupting him, her eyes finally diverting to the man, and he felt his heart breaking at his point. “I started all this. I offered this scheme, thinking I’d created a perfect plan, but I couldn’t have ever imagined how greatly I’d fail. I cannot do it. I cannot go there and pretend to be a happy, normal bride everyone is expecting to see. I cannot.”
 “Millie—”
Her name stuck to his tongue. What could he possibly do to help her? What could he possibly say to mollify her? He loved her determination, her sense of responsibility, but wasn’t it the moment when she should just flip it off and... What’s next? A truthful voice in his head rang. What’s next? What do you want her to do, a pregnant woman on a miserable island, all alone, without a family who’d protect her from the side glances, gossip, and humiliating jokes and discussions? Do you want her to proudly carry her burden, constantly listening to disparaging jeers of fellow citizens, trying to guess the baby's father's identity? Do you want her to bear with bullying that would certainly transfer to her—ultimately yours as well! —child studying at school? No. This was more than he could handle.
And still, he couldn’t impose it on her. Even by Crockett's low standards, it was an atrocity beyond any normal mind.
“Millie,” John said finally, finding his voice. “Millie, you are the strongest woman I know. But this ordeal, this torment is much more than a person can handle. You are not a Christian martyr to go through this; you are not Saint Sebastian or Jesus Christ Himself; these throes will not—” his voice broke, but he managed to grope for the right words, “You have already proven your strength to whoever questioned. You do not need to go on. Millie,” the priest pleaded, his voice dropping down a notch. “Refuse. Say no. Do not do it to yourself.”
Out of the blue, her face, lifeless and gray, beamed: she gave him the smallest of smiles, revealing the gentle lover he knew so well. For a split second, the man felt his heart flutter; his eyes sparkled with one of the sweetest memories when he kissed the very same smile an hour before dawn. 
Her gentle hands cupped his face, thumbs brushed across his lips.
“I must,” the woman breathed out, her sad eyes gazing at him. “For the sake of our own future. For the sake of our baby. For the sake of our peaceful—or relatively peaceful—life on Crockett Island.” Another wistful smile. “You can easily imagine what happens if something less outstanding comes out. Remember, our highly inquisitive Mrs. Keane started an affair with one of the fishermen and then dumped him for unobvious reasons? The island was roaring. Or that death of old age that happened to take our respectable Mr. Whittaker, the doctor. Everyone was sure it was either a curse, an unknown disease, or a poison.” She paused for a moment, unable to squash a chuckle. “Think of us, John. If this comes out…” 
Her voice petered out. She didn’t finish the sentence, but he could easily guess what she implied.
Collecting herself, Mildred stood up. John, staring in awe, couldn’t process the situation: it was the simplest dress possible, but the pride she put into her posture, the inflexibility of her stature, the determination in her otherwise puffy eyes made him hold his breath. She could have been his.
She could have been his, had he said the right word.
She could have been his, had he been half as brave.
Standing up, the man looked her in the eye. Millie hurried to wipe off a fleeing tear and turned around.
For a moment, the woman stood still, staring at the figures, reflected in the mirror. A bride in a white dress, her face drawn, but her posture proudly straight. A tall man dressed in dark colors, his shoulders slightly slouching forward.
 “It still could be us,” Millie suddenly blurted out in a whisper.
A spark of recognition, a weird thought struck him like lightning. Even though he didn't fully understand the meaning behind her words, something stirred inside of him, sending a tingling sensation to the tips of his fingers.
“We still... could flee.”
John doubted he'd heard her correctly: her voice was so quiet that it got covered by the susurrus of her dress. Dumbfounded by the strange, unexpected proposition, the man shuddered, unable to grasp the idea. But before he could collect his wits and answer, Millie, swallowing a lump in her throat, uttered, “Please... Help me with the dress.”
His trembling fingers touched the zipper, feeling the familiar warmth her body exuded. In a moment of spiritual weakness, he wondered whether they were desecrating the sacrament of marriage. They most certainly were; she was wearing this white dress, though she was no longer innocent and was expecting a baby. She never loved the man she was about to be married to. They were deceiving God Himself to make their game fairer, while there was only one option he should have pondered over.
The priest leaned forward to press a kiss on the back of her neck, on the seventh vertebra, exactly where the zipper ended, engulfing the woman in a cloud of frankincense.
 “Millie,” he whispered, his long nose grazing across her pale skin. “Please… Try to be happy… if you can.”
The woman nodded and silently squeezed his hand.
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whambamthankyouham1 · 2 months
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Thinking about young John and Millie 😭
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jyngerpeach · 2 years
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I dunno if this has been shared on here before but I just found it and now I'm a mess.
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chronic-ghost · 2 years
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playlists (and their accompanying fic)
the ghost of you (giving up the ghost - TBD) - Magic in the Moonlight: Brice Catledge/reader
a hybrid signal (the chimera) - Horizon Zero Dawn: Aloy/Avad
you’re a holy fool, all colored blue (the hush of the very good) - Midnight Mass: Monsignor John Pruitt/reader
gothic 60s (something wicked this way comes - TBD) - Midnight Mass, John/Millie
this girl, this thorn - general vibe for Mad Wife (American Gods)
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Lover, Please Stay
Grace has a nightmare about Paul choosing Millie over her here :’(
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mareyshelley · 2 years
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Summary: After convincing Sarah and Erin to leave for the mainland, Mildred goes to confront her old lover. She has to talk some sense into him. A/N: Only one more chapter to go! Thank you @femalecynic​ for beta reading 🖤 Rating: E | Chapter 9/10: Full chapter on Ao3
He said the last of his goodbyes to the people filing from the church. Millie was still inside. He hadn’t noticed her leave, and he was sure she wouldn’t avoid him. She hung back. She was always one of the last to leave, to give them longer to talk, but she never waited inside.
Curious, John gave a final wave to the islanders, and went back into St. Patrick’s.
Millie was there, standing up on the altar with her back to him.
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” he teased. She was only six years younger than him, but it had made her smile and roll her eyes the first time he’d called her that. Now he couldn’t help himself.
She turned to him, carefully carrying the cruets down the steps, and fondly rolled her eyes again.
“I’m helping.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he insisted, gladly accepting them from her. “Thank you.”
“I know,” she said with a smile, walking back up to the altar to collect the thurible. “I told the boys to head home.” She returned to him with that same, brilliant smile, and there was something in her eyes when they met his. “I wanted to talk to you.”
John nodded, gripping the cruets just a little too tight. It was Millie that broke eye contact first, with a swish of her dress, and pointed with the thurible towards the doors.
“Should we take these back?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, without really understanding what he was saying until she looked at him expectantly. “Yes! Yes, let’s–” He turned to the doors and walked on ahead. Her heels clicked happily behind him.
[Read More on Ao3]
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violetonmars · 1 year
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Park Chan-wook's Thirst (2009)
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Mike Flanagan's Midnight Mass (2021)
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catholic priests turned vampires hopelessly devoted to their love and hunger my beloveds 🤍
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lovepollution · 2 years
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Alone Together
Title: Alone Together Characters: John Pruitt, Mildred Gunning Pairings: John Pruitt/Mildred Gunning Rating: M Word count: 2928
When Mildred woke up in John’s arms for the first time at the motel, it took a second for the initial panic to lift - for her to remember that she didn’t need to worry about sneaking back home under the cover of darkness or of her husband possibly finding out what she had been doing. No, now she was exactly where she needed to be, wrapped in his arms and surrounded by his scent, perfect and unmistakable as it had become to her nose.
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All I'm gonna say is, given some of the rules surrounding priesthood
John was probably a virgin
Millie was most likely not
Do with this what you will.
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aaluminiumas · 1 year
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Shall We Dance?
“Need help?”
       The familiar voice, hushed as always, cut through the distant buzz of the fair. It came so unexpectedly that Millie, carrying packages with her knitted goods, gave a start and dropped a box she’d been holding under her arm.
       “Oh! Father, you’ve scared me,” she said with a mild rebuke in her voice. However, when she turned around, her face softened at the sight of the tall figure looming over her. “I doubt precipitating someone’s death is on the list of Christian virtues, and you did just that.” Mildred joked with a smile, lifting one of the boxes and placing it on top of the improvised tower.
       “I’m so sorry,” the priest cackled, “I didn’t mean to scare you, Mrs. Gunning—”
       “Millie, Father. Millie it is.”
       Albeit her intonation bore no animosity or resentment, John Pruitt instantly discerned her attitude to the social title she acquired after the nuptial. She didn’t choose the man she was married to: Mildred had to contrive a ploy to beguile the whole island and save him, but he couldn’t bring himself to get disposed of the forced courtesy. He treated her with the same amount of respect as others, waiting for the right moment to drop the formalities officially. 
       “Okay, Millie,” he acquiesced, savoring the taste of her name on his tongue. “I was just passing by and saw you preparing for the fair,” he gestured towards the boxes, “As I didn’t spot any trace of George around, I thought that you might need a hand.” 
       “Yes, George is…” the woman glanced at the dark window behind and above, “To say the least, he’s always been a little grumpy and never liked social gatherings. The war aggravated the situation, and he doesn’t even mention parties. So, while everyone’s out supposed to have fun, he’s bound to work overtime and replace those who’ve chosen entertainment,” she paused for a moment, “I don’t even ask.” 
Her voice gradually trailed off, and John felt a pang in his heart. How could he do that to her? How could he push her into this life instead of stepping down from the altar and showing her that she could be the happiest woman alive? How lily-livered of him was it to leave her to her own devices and marry someone she never wanted?..
       “Why didn’t you ask me then?”
       Millie looked down and tapped her toe at the porch, pretending not to hear: his voice, never loud to begin with, dropped down another notch, turning into a barely discernible rustle. Obviously, he knew the answer: they had decided to call it quits to protect Sarah, their infant daughter, and to blindfold George, head over heels for his lovely wife. Millie, no matter how much she wanted to contact John and have a chat, couldn’t afford to break the character and behave as she used to. In a town like this, everyone could notice a bright spark backlighting her overall dark eyes.
       “You know why.”
It almost physically hurt him to listen to this stifled whisper, especially after years of separation. Nodding, the man grabbed one of the boxes and stood still, waiting for Millie to lock the door.
       Suddenly, a loud burst of laughter intruded on his mind, and he saw a dark-haired girl of about seven scampering around with jolly shouts.
       “Mom, I did it! I really did it!” the girl darted towards her mother, embracing her legs. “I won!” she exclaimed excitedly, raising her face to look up. “Even Mrs. Keane had to admit it. They told me I could—”
       “Shhh.” Millie smiled, planting a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “First off, say hello to father John here. It’s impolite to interject into a conversation like this.”
       Sarah blinked and broke into a smile. Waving her hand eagerly, she greeted the man, “Hi, father John! I won! Can you imagine it? Even Mrs. Keane admitted it!”
       Millie chuckled and shook her head. John stood rooted to the spot, completely transfixed. He was unable to process that it was indeed his daughter, chattering happily, explaining her first wins and defeats, eager to share her experiences with a mere stranger. After all, she didn’t have a clue who he really was, and he had to—he barely could!— distance himself from whatever message the girl tried to convey.    The only thing left for him to do was to teach Sarah, and Millie never objected when he modestly offered to spend some time with her—their—daughter, giving lessons to the girl and a thin crowd of other children. George never barged in either: Millie had explained that their miraculous, knowledgeable pastor was willing to prepare the child for school and, in a more long-term perspective, to college. It gave John the opportunity he clung onto desperately, and he compliantly pretended everything went well. He latched onto the scrapes of normalcy, of the life he was never destined to taste, and kept dreaming about the possibility of being with Millie for real. Mildred, grateful as ever, had her own disguise: she invited the man for tea after another lesson with Sarah and chattered about her daughter’s progress. George shrugged and gave way, rarely joining the party; Sarah quietly played around; the TV set was working intermittently in the background, broadcasting maudlin soap operas or endless talk shows…
They were never safe. Even the tiniest of gestures could be misinterpreted.
       Squelching his feelings and desire to hold Millie’s hands for a little longer, John departed to his lonely, dingy, bleak rectory that never knew a touch of a warm, loving hand. There, repenting, muttering prayers in Latin, or refreshing all the declinations and conjugations to divert his attention, John concluded that he had a job to do and went to bed.
       It started all over again every morning.
       “Sarah, dear,” Millie’s gentle voice suddenly came, “Please, wait for your father and help him when he comes home. Just the usual things, okay?”
       “But I want to go to the fair too!” the girl protested with a pout that resembled Millie’s grimace. Something pulled at John’s heartstrings: not exactly this small detail, completely unnoticeable to a stranger’s eye, but the whole scene. Sarah didn’t inherit her mother’s appearance, but even at that age, she revealed how stubborn she could be. She behaved just like Millie and was ready to stand up for herself. While others might call her capricious, the priest understood where it all came from and why she had to be so defensive.
       “You will,” Mildred promised with a tender smile. “Just wait for him. I can’t do it myself as I have a business to run,” she pointed to the boxes with a subtle nod, “Otherwise I would’ve never asked you. This is simply necessary, you know that. As soon as he’s back, come see me. Deal?”
       “Deal.”
       Sarah agreed, but John nonetheless spotted her displeased funny moue as the girl turned around and climbed the stairs.
       “I’m sorry for the scene,” Millie apologized, locking the door and grabbing a smaller box. “She’s growing. It’s almost impossible to find the right explanation for the things she should or should not do, but I’m doing my best. God knows I do.”
       “He certainly does,” the priest nodded. “And yes, she’s just growing. She’s a bright girl. Just like her mother.”
 Millie turned her head to him but didn’t say anything. Understanding that she simply could not reply, he felt a powerful blow in the stomach: it hurt him almost physically that they had no chance to discuss ordinary things available to others. It could’ve been him raising Sarah; it could’ve been him sitting in this room with his daughter and his wife; it could’ve been him holding Millie close to his heart and whispering sweet nothings into her ear… It could have been him. But he had made his choice, and she never really demanded he should step down from the altar. She never asked for more than they already had. Millie may have been waiting for him, hoping that he would eventually change his mind, but she… grew tired of her own patience. Hence, that gesture several years ago, when she took his white collar and slipped it into his black shirt, placing a gentle kiss onto his cheek. 
           She quietly surrendered, unwilling to compete with his beliefs, knowing he would never break his vow. 
           And she never asked. 
       “What did you,” John cleared his throat, trying to find a suitable topic for them to speak about on the way to the fair, “What did you mean saying ‘just the usual things’? Is George,” he pushed the name out of his mouth, “alright? Has anything happened to him recently?” 
       “No, nothing,” Millie responded, adjusting the box under her arm. “He’s fine. The case is… it’s not very comfortable for him to undo his laces, bend over, take off his boots, and his old wounds tend to ache when the weather gets wet, and it’s wet all the time here… You know, unguents and ointments are always at the ready—” Millie suddenly halted and looked down, “But you’re not exactly interested in all this. You clearly… don’t want to hear it.” 
       “You’re right. I don’t.” 
       They continued in silence, not even attempting to tackle a topic that wouldn’t sting either of them. Both felt the air congealing with tension and convoluting into spirals of viscous substance, sticking to the limbs, plaguing mind and body, painting the world black. What if this was indeed the end? He’d tied himself to the altar and the cross, and she’d found a way to camouflage their affair. Started a family. Gave birth to a wonderful daughter. He was never meant to have one. He had been preparing for his whole life, determined to dedicate himself solely to God, and he finally could have it all to himself. He knew every line in the Scripture, could cite any verse from memory, perform any sacrament without a hitch, listen to vilest confessions and not blink an eye or feel a twinge of aversion or repulsion. Absolved of all sins, he could start anew. 
       But her? What about her? 
Looking askew, John perused the pale face. Tired, with her eyes dark and lifeless, bound to take care of the man she didn’t even love—was it the life she had been dreaming about? He had failed to tame his personal black swan in the past, but what if it proceeded to ruin their relationship, sending it up in flames, bringing it down to ashes, etching every modicum of love they diligently guarded? He was so determined to find the right way, so afraid that this unexpected spark would distort his very concept of faith that he totally neglected everything else. What if sacrificing herself, saving him from the destruction his passions inexorably boded, she spent hours and days obliterating the memories they shared to turn into a devoted, pious wife?..
       “John,” Millie suddenly uttered with the affection he longed for so long, her optics faintly glistening with the coruscation he never hoped to see again. “Will you dance with me at the end of the fair? Like we did last time?”
       His face broke into a smile. He would never forget that moment: Millie Gunning, feeling lonely and clearly ill at ease, was waiting for the other shoe to drop, shuffled about, and shifted her feet, trying to ignore her more successful peers. Everybody seemed to be having a partner: even the widowed Mrs. Keane, who nagged at everyone in and outside school, found a miserable-looking guy with a shabby hat heavily patched at the crown. George could very well be the only dweller refusing to show up, thus compelling his spouse to go through taciturn condemnation of the islanders. What was she purported to do? She couldn’t leave yet if she didn’t want to complicate the relationship with the people of Crockett, nor could she participate. So, standing there, smiling politely and laboriously to Mrs. Keane, who could smell a problem from a mile away, Millie feigned control over the situation and sorted her knitted goods, sometimes plucking out the threads to fix a scarf or a beanie and look occupied.
John Pruitt, the local priest, came to the rescue, offering a hand, a broad, cheeky smile plastered to his agitated face.
       “Shall we dance, Millie Gunning?” he repeated like before, staring directly into her caramel eyes, his voice gaining the velvety notes she thought she would never hear again. “Whole Crocket Island is going to hit the floor tonight.”
           Catching the innuendo, Mildred eagerly nodded. Feeling her heart beating faster, the woman dared give him a smile he remembered from one of the nights they’d spent in his rectory, wallowing in the translucent stream of the moonlight.
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