Chapter 233: Elena—The Sadness
“Saint”
Cecilia Murdered
The
world is stunned at the demise of Sister Cecilia Lafet
By Sylvia Lancaster
In the waning daylight hours, as she walked alone, unaware and down an affluent suburban street, Sister Cecilia Lafet, sometime resident of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and beloved by millions the world over, was murdered in an apparent assassination. She was shot once in the chest by what seems to be a small handgun.
There was only one witness to the crime, a young woman who was looking out of her front window when the crime happened. “I was pulling down my drapes,” the woman, who wishes to remain unidentified, said “when I saw Sister Lafet on the sidewalk. I recognized her immediately, you know, from the news and the pictures; she even had that huge emerald crucifix dangling over her black dress. I called out for my husband to have a look… I was so excited… she seemed to be just standing on the sidewalk and I could see her pale hands clasping each other. She seemed to be staring down the street…. Then this man came up to her, as if he had been following her and Sister Lafet bowed her head, almost as if she were praying and before we could do anything he pulled out a small, silver gun and shot her….”
Even at her dying moments, “Saint” Cecilia retained her dignity and grace.
“I swear to you,” The unidentified witness said, “That she must have known what was going to happen before we did. She merely bowed her head and she clasped that crucifix and when she was shot, she didn’t fly back. She just crumpled to the ground and fell back very neatly, almost as if invisible hands were placing her there gently. How can there be this much evil in the world that they would do this to her? If not even someone as pure and miraculous as her could be trampled by evil, what do we have left to believe in?”
Sister Lafet was not robbed and the attacker ran as soon as he shot her. The W----- V---- suburbs are not known for crime like this and it does not seem to be an assault that was motivated by rape or robbery. Taking into account the various times previous that there have been attempts on Sister Lafet’s life, it seems almost obvious that this was a successful assassination.
It is not known why Sister Lafet was even on this street and how she was able to slip past her bodyguards and an investigation is already in action to find the answers to these and other questions.
Whatever the outcome of the investigation, it will do little to heal the wound gashed into the hearts of millions the world over and it will never answer to them why this woman, described by many as a living saint, was stolen from them at such a young age. Within minutes of the announcement of her death, mourners flooded the streets of every major city worldwide, especially in the areas where she had the most impact, Afghanistan, Guatemala, Russia, China, Ethiopia, Uganda, Somalia and most importantly Sierre Leone.
Sister
Lafet is most notable for her tremendous work in Woman’s Rights movements and
humanitarian efforts especially in struggling or
Included
with her diplomatic talents, Sister Lafet is known most dearly for her alleged
acts of healing with her hands and causing other “miraculous” deeds with just
the sound of her voice. Hundreds upon thousands of people worldwide swear to
have either seen or benefited from Sister Lafet’s gifts. The word from the
Sister Lafet has also gone under media and civilian criticism most recently from Pro-Choice and Anti-Theologian activists for her firm and open stance on abortion and the state of religion. It has been documented that she had received death threats from members of both of those parties. No word yet, however on whether there is an investigation into either of these groups for a suspect.
Lafet was
also a very private woman and nothing has ever been revealed as to how old she
really was, where she came from and what her true name is. The earliest records
we have ever been able to discover on her are that she was under the care of
Reverend Andrew Sullivan and actually housed in St. Patrick’s Cathedral as an
adolescent. It is assumed she was an orphan and nothing more is said of her
until her appearance on that sunny day in
Unfortunately, the crime against her did not end with the bullet that pierced her heart. One of the most recognizable features on Sister Lafet were her sparkling, vivid green eyes that some said could hypnotize and entrance. They were indeed brilliant and their shape was almost slanted, like that of a cat’s. Apparently, those eyes were too irresistible for cold hearted souvenir seekers. Word is that shortly after her body was interred in the morgue, the coroner was horrified to find her eyes had been cut out of her face.
Her legacy and impact on this world will never be forgotten, that much is certain. It is also certain that her murder will not go unpunished. All of us should stand in silence and pay homage to this woman, this “Saint” and thank her for the many miracles we have been privileged to experience.
I am not a religious woman by any means, and I too admit that her stance on abortion grated against everything I stand for. But in the wake of this tragedy, I have to say for Saint Cecilia and her many devoted followers, May God be with you in these dark times now that the one bright light remaining in this troubled world has been taken from us. Things like this should never happen, but they do……
There was sadness in the air. Elena could feel it. She had sat up in bed last night, her sleep shattered as if someone had screamed into her ear. She had even pressed her hand against her right ear as if shielding it from the shriek. And then she pressed her hand against her belly, ran to the bathroom. It was only an urge to urinate, and nothing more.
Elena went back to bed, she couldn’t close her eyes and keep them that way, she could only feel it, the sadness. And hear it too. She sat up, it was muffled. Blinking rapidly she went to her window, pressed her ear against the glass. It was more clearly defined. Someone was sobbing.
She cracked the window opened and she could hear it. It was a woman, she was sobbing so hard that it almost sounded like shrieks. A man, her husband perhaps, was trying to console her.
“There’s no more hope,” she sobbed. “We have nothing left.”
Elena frowned and closed the window again. Perhaps they were bankrupt, they were ruined or perhaps the woman was overreacting to something, perhaps it was nothing, perhaps it was everything. Elena slid back into her bed. She tried to close her eyes. She heard the whisper in a voice as low as a child’s, “The sadness.”
Elena sat up and pressed her hand over her belly again. “Shit,” she muttered. She sighed in irritation and grabbed the remote control off the nightstand and she clicked on the television.
“….again there is no more new information as to who could have been responsible for this cold hearted, heinous shooting…”
Elena frowned and flipped the channel only to find that every station had been taken over by the national news. On every channel were the photographs, the footage of mourners, women wailing and clawing their hair. Elena swallowed and felt a twinge in her stomach. Someone had killed that woman that saint.
Elena had never really believed in the miracles and mystery around Sister Cecilia, she had always assumed that most of the mystique was the creation of the Catholic Church, propaganda to distract the masses from some very damaging scandals that kept mounting and piling against them. But Elena did believe in the power of her name, and the things she had accomplished and been responsible for bringing about.
Dead? Assassinated. The name Ghandi came to mind, this was just as big. Elena shook her head. No, this was bigger. Someone would hang for this murder, even if they were innocent, they would hang.
“…murdered
in this
Elena’s skin prickled when she saw the footage of the street and the blood stained sidewalk. She knew that house; it had the large ceramic butterflies in the gated yard. Elena had always looked at those butterflies with some irritation as she had passed it by, peering out the car window. Who would want butterflies as a lawn decoration?
At the very end of the street was a turn, then another street that led to another turn that led to another street and at the end of that one, there was THE house. Of course it would happen so close to his house. He seemed to attract anything of importance, even if it was bad.
It was as
cold as winter as she sat on the park bench. It was October, and it was gray,
the leaves were scattered and swirling in the wind. It was a frigid, biting
wind, a wet
Elena pressed her hand over her right knee, it was aching in this weather, it still swelled, it had shattered under her meager weight a year ago when she had needed it the most, and it had shattered her dreams. She then intertwined her fingers, they were what supported her now, and it was all she had to earn her living.
He reached over and grabbed her hand; it was so tiny in his. His hands were always warm and he kissed her knuckles, they were hidden under her woolen gloves. He loved the music she made with her fingers, ever since that first night he listened to her pound away on their out of tune piano, enrapturing an entire party. He had told her this in the stillness of the night, when moonlight spilled over his pale skin, illuminating him to a status he did not deserve, not really.
“Don’t,” she said.
He let her hand go and she pressed it over her tummy.
He was the first…
“Jonathan,” she said, “I love…”
She stopped; she felt that sadness in the air again. He didn’t have it in his eyes however, in fact when she had seen him for the first time in a month he seemed illuminated and hurried. He was not even asking anyone why they were crying, why they were gaping at television sets. He didn’t care.
“Yes?” he said. There was expectation; he already acted as if he knew her next words, as if he had always known them. Is that something he had inherited from his father? It always came from the father.
“Jonathan,” she said again and she closed her eyes.
His lips touched the side of her neck.
“I’m pregnant,” Elena said. “And I’m going to keep it, I don’t care what you think or say. You can’t take it away from me.”
Now she felt the sadness and it was coming from him. He moved away from her, slid on the bench to do so. Men are weak and they are frightened so easily, we should not hate men, we should take care of them and comfort them. Saint Cecilia had said that once, it was one of the few things Elena had memorized and set to heart. Comfort is what they needed.
“Is it?” he asked and left it hanging in the air.
“Jonathan,” she said. “Of course you know. Why do you need to ask? Why do you men always need to ask?”
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