Chapter Text
Anointing the sick is not the worst duty that Caitlyn has to perform as a priest, but it is up there. In fact, if she had to rank them, it would come just below giving the dying their last rites.
That has proved to be the most challenging - Caitlyn has seen a lot of death for a 25-year-old, not all of them strangers.
The woman who lies beneath her hands has a kind face. Deep wrinkles engrave her skin, and the laugh lines beside her eyes make Caitlyn conclude that she is a happy woman. Her breathing is laboured - she can tell that she is close to the end, yet there is still a present sparkle behind her brown eyes.
Oil gleams over her forehead from the path of Caitlyn’s fingertips, and her eyelids flutter like a butterfly preparing to rest. Her cracked lips part with a gentle wheeze.
“Pretty girl.”
Caitlyn blinks, firstly wondering if she is talking to her. Her eyes gaze at her with a sense of recognition within them, and a presence stirs her soul.
“You’re so young,” she slowly lifts a hand into the air, and Caitlyn takes it, feeling the frailness of her skin beneath her, “You have a good life, now.”
Their joined hands display a harsh juxtaposition - a life lived, and one that has barely begun.
She nearly laughs at the thought. Caitlyn feels as though she has lived a hundred lives already, none of them overly happy.
She looks up at her son, who stands at the opposite side of the bed, shoulders heavy with sadness. He leans forward and takes her other hand in his own, and her brown eyes find him. Her smile is small and weak.
"Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit," she says, bowing her head and gently lowering her hand back onto the bedside.
She looks at the man with the warmth of a thousand suns, like he is nothing more than her little boy. Oceans of grief swim in his soft gaze, but he finds the strength to smile weakly at her.
It makes Caitlyn ache. Silently, she slips out of the room and into the bathroom.
Warm water rushes over her hands as she washes the oil away. She sighs, feeling the heaviness in her chest. It makes her think of her own mother, who never got to live to that age. Her hair was already starting to grey when she passed, but she was far from ready to go.
She remembers the phone call, the way her heart dropped before it shattered into a million pieces.
“Father,” the son says softly when she moves to open the door to leave. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she smiles.
“Can I ask you something?”
The man seems hesitant; he wrings his hands together uncomfortably and furrows his eyebrows.
She has given advice for all sorts of issues over the years - some people like to speak to a representative of God about their troubles for assurance, whilst others seek direct guidance from Caitlyn herself.
“Sure.”
“My mother… She never married and she engaged with many lovers, she never really spoke about it with me but…” he lowers his voice, “she’s been with women.”
He shuffles on his feet and bites his lip, eyebrows arching with worry.
“What if she doesn’t go to heaven?”
The question churns her stomach, causing her breath to catch in her throat. She has thought about it a lot, for reasons she struggles to admit. Catholic school taught her that hell is hot and fiery for those people. But those teachings are outdated, and Caitlyn’s own heart tells her otherwise.
That has not stopped her from begging God to strip away the thoughts that curl in the dark corners of her own mind.
Like when she sees a particularly pretty lady in the congregation.
Or the kiss she had shared when she was 16.
No - she had repented for that years ago. There is no use mulling over her sins that God has since forgiven her for.
The man is looking at her now, face open and pleading.
“I think God makes everyone who they are for a reason, and his love is greater than any of us can understand. Is your mother loving?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust in that love. She will be welcomed to heaven with open arms,” she offers him a small smile, “if you need anything, come by the church.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Something strange stings the back of her eyes, but she blinks it away.
–
Caitlyn Kiramman has been a Catholic priest for three years.
When she was a girl, she went to a prestigious Catholic school and found comfort in faith. At 18, she began to study for a life of Priesthood. She participated in practical pastoral placements and received spiritual guidance until she was able to fulfil her vocation as clergy, a vocation in which she takes great pride, and subsequently peace, in.
She became Father Kiramman upon arriving into the Church. According to the Powers that Be, Mother is reserved for head nuns, and Caitlyn never wanted to be a nun. She knew that she wanted to be a priest. Besides, she is not entirely sure how she feels about constantly being referred to as Mother. Jayce had said that she would like it too much, to which he received a swift telling off.
“See what I mean?”
“Shut it, Jayce.”
“You can’t say that now you’re a woman of God.”
Her parish is small, which she enjoys - it is a comfort to know the regular parishioners and immerse herself in the local events. Lots of the church members like to talk to her after services and seek guidance surrounding events in their lives.
It does not stop her from feeling lonely, though. The parishioners are mostly older people, who she likes, but does not see as friends. Seeing couples and families stirs something uncomfortable in her which she always manages to pray away - envy makes the bones rot. She tells herself that it comes with the job. She seeks refuge from God, and more often than not, she finds it.
She does have friends - Jayce and his fiancee, Mel, are her closest confidants, but she does not see them very often these days. She feels like she speaks to her father less and less, too. She is busy with the Church, and it does not help that she had to move to a parish two hours away from home upon her ordination. She has left a lot behind for this life.
The Bishop who oversees her diocese is a man named Marcus. She tries to get along with him - God would want her to. But he can be rather challenging. They have very different beliefs, despite both being Catholic, and he always claims that everything Caitlyn says is wrong. You’re young. You’re a woman. She has no choice but to listen.
He does not come around often, which she is grateful for, but he likes to make sure that she is wholly dedicated to her vocation by adding extra tasks to her already heavy workload. Sometimes she thinks that he just likes to make sure Caitlyn has no time for a social life.
He does a grand job there if that is his aim. Her time is divided between hosting holy ceremonies such as Mass and having to go out to make blessings, such as the one she is currently driving to.
She parks outside of the shabby-looking building and straightens her clerical collar in the reflection of the passenger window. Her navy-blue hair is tied up, with two strands framing her face, and she wears a snug-fitting black suit.
Inside the large hall are scattered desks filled with children. Some sit on their own, others sit in groups, talking in hushed whispers. There’s a lingering chill in the air that urges Caitlyn to fold her arms over her chest.
As Caitlyn starts to wonder if anyone is actually supervising these children, a side door swings open, revealing two women involved in a heated discussion.
Her attention tunnels in on the woman with pink hair, who is quite simply, gorgeous. She wears black jeans and a tank top which shows off rippling muscles that gracefully flow into each other like waves in a vast sea. Her arms are covered by intricate tattoos which dance up her thick neck. Her hair is shaved on one side and choppy on the other, shrouding part of her face.
The other woman is blonde - she just looks annoying.
“Find somewhere else to gentrify. I’ve been running this club for a year and this has not been a problem before.”
“I know, Miss Vi, but the senator demands-”
“He can shove his demands up his ass!” Her voice booms through the hall, catching the attention of some of the children. “End of.”
The blonde’s face scrunches up in annoyance, and then she storms out of the hall, heels clicking against the polished floor.
Caitlyn catches the pretty woman’s eye, to see her irises are a deep grey. Beneath them, a small tattoo says ‘VI’. She walks over to her, and Caitlyn can do nothing but awkwardly glance at the ceiling.
“Who’s your kid?”
“I’m sorry?” Caitlyn meets her eyes, eyebrows raised in confusion. In the proximity of the woman, she can see the sparse freckles that dot over smooth skin and a scar on her upper lip.
She watches as Vi notices her collar with shock. Her expression soon morphs into annoyance.
“What do you want?”
She folds her arms and lifts her chin in an attempt to look down at Caitlyn. It half-works, Caitlyn does feel unfairly judged, but the woman is shorter than her, so the other part of her finds the act humorous rather than intimidating.
“I came to bless your charity,” she sneers at Vi, though tries to hold her holy composure.
“Bless it? Ha!” She puts her hands on her hips and scoffs.
Caitlyn's eyes widen, a flicker of indignation flashing across her face.
“Excuse me?”
“We don’t need your blessing, we need a way out of this cesspit.”
“Well… Maybe I can help. What’s the problem?”
She presses her lips into a straight line and quirks a brow.
“Someone’s bought this building. It’s going to be turned into some rich dude’s play pen, leaving these kids with nowhere to study.”
Caitlyn pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and thinks for a moment.
The idea comes naturally. It is part of her duty to the people.
“You can use the Church.”
At first, Vi looks surprised. There’s a glimmer of contemplation on her face, and then she disregards it and rolls her eyes petulantly.
“So you can preach madness to kids who are trying to study? No thanks, cupcake.”
Caitlyn furrows her brows, feeling suddenly offended, and utterly baffled by the strange nickname she had been bestowed with. Her heart jumps and sputters in her chest, and her fingers flex at her sides.
“Well, I bless your institution. Good luck with it,” she grunts, spinning on her heel and leaving the building as she sees a young girl with powder blue hair rise from her desk and beeline towards the rude woman.
She drives home in silence, unable to shift the interaction from her mind. People are usually pleased to be graced by her presence. She has never dealt with anyone so rude.
The traffic is terrible, and she feels anger bubble inside of her stomach. She beeps as someone pulls out on her and throws her hands up in the air, shaking her head.
She holds an evening service when she gets back to the Church, but she keeps it short. Her entire body feels a sense of irritation she can’t quite shift, and just as she is about to lock the doors for the night, The Bishop enters the building. She feels her mood sour even more.
“Your Excellency.”
And seriously - who came up with that name? She sees him bristle pleasantly at the greeting and is surprised that he can fit through the doors with an ego so huge.
“Father,” he nods, not returning her smile. He looks up at the stained glass windows, and then at the bronze statue of Jesus that decorates the wall to the left of the altar. Caitlyn has always found it to be quite ugly - the toes are entirely disproportionate, but she keeps the opinion to herself. “Shall we go to your office?”
Marcus visits unannounced like this often, though she always feels like she is in trouble like he has found something out about her and is about to confront her with it. Her palms sweat as they sit opposite each other in the small space.
He begins by asking her questions; about how she is balancing the tasks, and what community outreach she has been getting involved in - it is a general check-in that is required of him. He never asks her about her personal life, and she is glad of it; it keeps the meetings concise. Besides, getting into pleasantries with Marcus is a road she does not want to go down.
“I’d like you to offer a drop-in confession here. I think it is much needed in this area, and the response rate will be high.”
She is not sure what has prompted this from him - Caitlyn is already very busy, with her community work taking up most of her time, but she agrees anyway, even if it is just to get him to leave so that she can go about her evening. He probably just wanted something to say, she thinks to herself.
The meeting is swift, thankfully, and he leaves without another word, allowing Caitlyn to go about her checks of the church before retiring for the night.
Her house, which is attached to the church, is a small, humble space. She shares it with none other than her black cat, named Geppetto.
She scoops her up when she enters, earning a dissatisfied mewl.
“Oh shush,” she whispers into her fur, before placing her in front of the food bowl and pouring a generous amount of slop into it. She gulps it down greedily, and Caitlyn smiles to herself.
She starts to run herself a bath and then begins her evening prayers.
Every evening, she takes time out of her day for personal prayer and reflection. It is not only a duty, but a personal comfort. She kneels on the floor and interlaces her fingers together.
The first thought that pops into her head is the woman who she spoke to earlier, with the tattoos and the bright hair. Caitlyn audibly scoffs - trust The Man Above to have a strange sense of humour. She prays not only for her charity, but for her - she does not even know her name, but she wishes her the best. Something tells Caitlyn that she is a good person, with a good heart.
She prays for her mother, as she does every day. She prays for forgiveness.
Caitlyn, it’s your mother. Oh, Cait.
She prays for the woman who she blessed that morning. She thinks of her son, and prays that the grief comes to him gently. With a quiet sigh, she pushes herself up from her knees and heads to the kitchen.
Her fridge is a sad thing: she lacks the ingredients to make a proper meal, as well as any ounce of energy, so she pulls a prepackaged meal out of the freezer and shoves it into the microwave. The plastic container spins slowly, the dull hum filling the small kitchen.
She checks her phone - no notifications, and then connects to the speaker in the kitchen and plays slow, mellow music. The microwave pings and she sits down at her dining table, with four chairs, and pulls back the film, nearly burning herself on the escaping steam.
The food looks gross. She pokes it with her fork and swallows it down. It is fine. Not exactly inspiring.
Geppetto jumps into the chair beside her, and she extends her hand to scratch the space between her ears. Her grateful meow comes out as a little squeak, and Caitlyn smiles at her little friend.
She looks at the empty chairs, and thinks about calling Jayce. She taps her top lip with the end of her fork and closes her eyes. Jayce has his own life, she cannot keep disturbing him when she feels a drop of loneliness - he is getting married. It’s about time she gets used to this weight in her stomach.
With a dissatisfied huff, she tosses her plate into the sink and hops into the bathtub, willing all of her loneliness to dissipate down the drain.