Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Saving the Saint ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Striking Falcon 
Original work.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 02.09.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 972 | Status: Work In Progress
Original work.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 02.09.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 972 | Status: Work In Progress
Saving the Saint
Chapter One
Mrs. Peterson stepped off of the church van carefully, her wrinkled and liver-spotted hand tightly grasped around the sun-warmed steel metal support bar beside the van’s door for balance. She waited until her feet were solidly on the ground before reaching back inside for her groceries.
“Now Mrs. P.,” the van driver began as she balanced the heavy plastic bags in her hands. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with those?”
“No child, of course not,” she said with a pleased and weary grin. “I’m perfectly fine. You go on and finish your route.”
“Are you sure? Cause I can-“
“Yes I’m sure,” Mrs. Peterson replied with a wave of her arthritis-crippled hand. “I’ll see you Sunday-“
“Bright and early, as promised,” the driver said with a wave of his hand. “Bye Mrs. P.”
Mrs. Peterson gave him one last wave, then grasped the plastic handles of the grocery bags and limped her way up the cracked concrete sidewalk toward her front door. She set the bags in the seat of an old wicker rocker on her tiny front porch, opened the screen door and turned the key inside the lock of her heavy front door. She shoved it open with her shoulder, the joint screaming in protest against such action.
“I’m far too old for this,” she grunted to herself. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear, the rogue lock far from it’s gray brethren deep inside the bun at the base of her skull, and struggled to carry her groceries into the house. She kicked the door closed, dragged all but one of the bags to sit in front of her sofa, and turned back to lock her door and latch the thin, rusted chain. Her shaking fingers had just released it, and she was turning away from door when she heard the sound of something clattering coming from the kitchen.
“Those dat-blamed mice again,” she grumbled to herself and grabbed a nearby flyswatter. “I swear, if it’s that fat little brown one I’m gonna-“ She stopped mid sentence, the flyswatter forgotten as the words and the scream that was fighting to be let free froze in her throat.
There in her tiny kitchen, leaning over her sink, was a man. He was tall, dressed in all black with a ski mask over his face and hair. Broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms trembled slightly underneath his dark thermal shirt, which was tucked neatly inside his black dress pants. Dishes clattered unseen and above the noise she heard humming, his humming, as he...
What in the world was he doing?
Mrs. Peterson watched him thoughtfully, quietly, and was surprised when the masked stranger cleared his throat and began to sing.
“I . . . fall . . . to pieces...each time I see you again. I . . . fall . . .to pieces. I can-“
“What in the world are you doin’ in here?”
Mrs. Peterson gasped when he stopped, the beautifully deep tenor dying in the air around them. He turned slowly, agonizingly slow, and Mrs. Peterson gasped again when angelic, sad brown eyes found hers.
“I’m washing dishes, I suppose,” he replied in a voice that was every bit as beautiful as his singing. “It’s been a while since I last did this, so please forgive me if I’m doing it wrong.” He waited for her to say something, his head tilted to the side as dark eyes watched and patiently waited. Several minutes went by, with him waiting and Mrs. Peterson standing in perfect shock at him. He finally shrugged and went back to the dishes, his gloved hands working tediously over a bit of dried egg.
“I’ve already cleaned the bathroom, made your bed, and taken out the trash,” he said as he set the dish into the empty side of the small kitchen sink. “Also, I swept, dusted and cleaned the freezer, fridge and the oven. The oven is working on something called ‘self-clean’. I’m not sure how it works, but it is nearly finished.”
“Wha-wh-“ Mrs. Peterson stuttered dumbly. She just couldn’t understand it, any of it. With her fear waning came her common sense and the return of the attention to her senses. Her good sense screamed to run, that this man was a liar and easily capable of hurting her if she chose to stuck around. Her eyes watered at the thought and she sniffed, a thoughtful frown marring her wrinkled forehead as the faint scent of pine needles wafted past her. She sniffed again and glanced toward kitchen door, where her bright blue bucket and canary yellow handle was propped against the side. She glanced down at the floor, then at the coffee table and noticed how clean everything looked.
“I may have missed a spot,” the man said above the sudden sound of rushing water. “I’m not exactly an expert at this cleaning thing.”
“But why?” Mrs. Peterson asked as soon as her idled brain was capable of forming the thought. “Why would you break into someone’s house and clean of all things?”
The man sighed, his head drooping slightly, and turned off the water. “Let’s just say,” he said as he turned and leaned back against the counter. “That I am a different kind of burglar.” He dried his hands on a couple of sheets of paper toweling, rolled the used paper into a ball and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket.
“For now Grandmother, I am at your command. Anything you need done I shall do, including cook dinner for tonight. What is your first task?”
‘OK,’ Mrs. Peterson said to herself as the stranger waited...again. ‘I’ve got to stop taking those new heart medication pills. They’re obviously not working the way they should.’
“I’ve got to be dreaming this...”
“No ma’am, I’m no dream,” the man said with a shake of his head. “I’m here, right in front of you.”
“But who ARE you?” Mrs. Peterson asked. “And why are you here, in my home, helping me?”
His eyes, the only bits of him not hidden by the mask, gave her an amused if tormented smile. “My identity will not make the hours go by any faster, nor make my presence any easier to understand. I haven’t long Grandmother. Two, maybe three hours at the most and then I must be off. Please, what will you have me do?”
“But why are you-“
“I am repenting,” he interrupted knowingly. “For things I’ve done in the past. Things...I am not proud of.” He looked away for a split second, but the emotion in his eyes convinced Mrs. Peterson that this person, whoever he was, was sincere and wouldn’t hurt her. He practically breathed despair, of a loneliness that touched her to the core. She remembered that feeling, it slamming into her full force after her husband died. She had thought then that their children and grandchildren could fill that void but now, watching him, she realized how alone she still was.
‘If the boy wants to work,’ Mrs. Peterson began and smiled when the stranger glanced back to her. ‘Then by God, who am I to stand in his way?’
“Alright then dear,” she said and her smile widened at the spark in his eyes. “If you want, then you can grab the rake in that broom closet over there. The backyard is cluttered with leaves and my old, tired back is too weak to get them all.”
He jumped up instantly and quickly moved toward the closet, the rake in his hands moments afterward. “Yes Grandmother,” he said and nodded in thanks when she held the kitchen door open. He began his work immediately, the same song from earlier pouring from his lips like the swells of a river soon afterward.
“And when you’re done, I’m sure there’s something else around the house for you to do,” Mrs. Peterson said and smiled at the man’s, “Yes, Grandmother.” She leaned back and watched him work, his enthusiasm touching as he chased after each and every single fallen leaf.
(I)
The stranger stood at her front door hours later, his gloved hands clasped calmly in front of him as he waited for Mrs. Peterson to unlatch and unlock the door.
“Are you sure you have to go, dear?” she asked as she turned to smile at him. “We were having such a good time.”
“Yes ma’am, I’m afraid I do.”
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked as he reached for the door. He sighed, then shook his head. “No doubt I will see you, but you won’t see me. I’m sure our paths will cross on the street.” He stopped at her forlorn expression and reached for her hands. He clasped them gently in his own, the first time during the three hours of his ‘visit’ that he went to touch her, and gave them a gentle pat.
“I will think of you often Grandmother. I hope I have been of some use.”
“You have dear,” Mrs. Peterson assured him. Thanks to this strange young man every chore was done, the little things around the house that needed tending to were fixed, and in her belly was the most delicious meal of chicken alfredo, along with a side of garlic toast. Along with the good food came good company, though she alone at the dinner. He put away the leftovers and cleaned up before announcing his departure. Mrs. Peterson was...sad to see him go and felt as if one of her own grandchildren were getting ready to walk out of the door.
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his covered cheek, grateful for his steady hands as he held her up, then opened the front door. He bowed then, deep and respectful, and raised a hand to his forehead in a silent salute.
“Goodbye Grandmother,” he said as he opened the screen door. “Thank you for everything. Lock the door behind me.”
Mrs. Peterson shut the door behind him, locked the door as promised, and turned to her bedroom. She shook her head as she walked down the hallway toward her bedroom. The unexpected occurrences of the day left her heart light, but her eyelids heavy and her body weary. She turned on the light to the darkened room and gasped, her hand grasping her heart as tears began to stream down her cheeks.
The police were called the moment the masked man stepped outside and underneath the streetlight’s blinding white light. The police had to kick down the door when they came, concerned at the unresponsiveness of the occupant inside.
Inside they found Mrs. Peterson, weeping still, staring at her small bed and the dozens of brand new $100 bills scattered haphazardly across the worn and tattered blanket.
And thus, the legend began...
Chapter One
Mrs. Peterson stepped off of the church van carefully, her wrinkled and liver-spotted hand tightly grasped around the sun-warmed steel metal support bar beside the van’s door for balance. She waited until her feet were solidly on the ground before reaching back inside for her groceries.
“Now Mrs. P.,” the van driver began as she balanced the heavy plastic bags in her hands. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with those?”
“No child, of course not,” she said with a pleased and weary grin. “I’m perfectly fine. You go on and finish your route.”
“Are you sure? Cause I can-“
“Yes I’m sure,” Mrs. Peterson replied with a wave of her arthritis-crippled hand. “I’ll see you Sunday-“
“Bright and early, as promised,” the driver said with a wave of his hand. “Bye Mrs. P.”
Mrs. Peterson gave him one last wave, then grasped the plastic handles of the grocery bags and limped her way up the cracked concrete sidewalk toward her front door. She set the bags in the seat of an old wicker rocker on her tiny front porch, opened the screen door and turned the key inside the lock of her heavy front door. She shoved it open with her shoulder, the joint screaming in protest against such action.
“I’m far too old for this,” she grunted to herself. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear, the rogue lock far from it’s gray brethren deep inside the bun at the base of her skull, and struggled to carry her groceries into the house. She kicked the door closed, dragged all but one of the bags to sit in front of her sofa, and turned back to lock her door and latch the thin, rusted chain. Her shaking fingers had just released it, and she was turning away from door when she heard the sound of something clattering coming from the kitchen.
“Those dat-blamed mice again,” she grumbled to herself and grabbed a nearby flyswatter. “I swear, if it’s that fat little brown one I’m gonna-“ She stopped mid sentence, the flyswatter forgotten as the words and the scream that was fighting to be let free froze in her throat.
There in her tiny kitchen, leaning over her sink, was a man. He was tall, dressed in all black with a ski mask over his face and hair. Broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms trembled slightly underneath his dark thermal shirt, which was tucked neatly inside his black dress pants. Dishes clattered unseen and above the noise she heard humming, his humming, as he...
What in the world was he doing?
Mrs. Peterson watched him thoughtfully, quietly, and was surprised when the masked stranger cleared his throat and began to sing.
“I . . . fall . . . to pieces...each time I see you again. I . . . fall . . .to pieces. I can-“
“What in the world are you doin’ in here?”
Mrs. Peterson gasped when he stopped, the beautifully deep tenor dying in the air around them. He turned slowly, agonizingly slow, and Mrs. Peterson gasped again when angelic, sad brown eyes found hers.
“I’m washing dishes, I suppose,” he replied in a voice that was every bit as beautiful as his singing. “It’s been a while since I last did this, so please forgive me if I’m doing it wrong.” He waited for her to say something, his head tilted to the side as dark eyes watched and patiently waited. Several minutes went by, with him waiting and Mrs. Peterson standing in perfect shock at him. He finally shrugged and went back to the dishes, his gloved hands working tediously over a bit of dried egg.
“I’ve already cleaned the bathroom, made your bed, and taken out the trash,” he said as he set the dish into the empty side of the small kitchen sink. “Also, I swept, dusted and cleaned the freezer, fridge and the oven. The oven is working on something called ‘self-clean’. I’m not sure how it works, but it is nearly finished.”
“Wha-wh-“ Mrs. Peterson stuttered dumbly. She just couldn’t understand it, any of it. With her fear waning came her common sense and the return of the attention to her senses. Her good sense screamed to run, that this man was a liar and easily capable of hurting her if she chose to stuck around. Her eyes watered at the thought and she sniffed, a thoughtful frown marring her wrinkled forehead as the faint scent of pine needles wafted past her. She sniffed again and glanced toward kitchen door, where her bright blue bucket and canary yellow handle was propped against the side. She glanced down at the floor, then at the coffee table and noticed how clean everything looked.
“I may have missed a spot,” the man said above the sudden sound of rushing water. “I’m not exactly an expert at this cleaning thing.”
“But why?” Mrs. Peterson asked as soon as her idled brain was capable of forming the thought. “Why would you break into someone’s house and clean of all things?”
The man sighed, his head drooping slightly, and turned off the water. “Let’s just say,” he said as he turned and leaned back against the counter. “That I am a different kind of burglar.” He dried his hands on a couple of sheets of paper toweling, rolled the used paper into a ball and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket.
“For now Grandmother, I am at your command. Anything you need done I shall do, including cook dinner for tonight. What is your first task?”
‘OK,’ Mrs. Peterson said to herself as the stranger waited...again. ‘I’ve got to stop taking those new heart medication pills. They’re obviously not working the way they should.’
“I’ve got to be dreaming this...”
“No ma’am, I’m no dream,” the man said with a shake of his head. “I’m here, right in front of you.”
“But who ARE you?” Mrs. Peterson asked. “And why are you here, in my home, helping me?”
His eyes, the only bits of him not hidden by the mask, gave her an amused if tormented smile. “My identity will not make the hours go by any faster, nor make my presence any easier to understand. I haven’t long Grandmother. Two, maybe three hours at the most and then I must be off. Please, what will you have me do?”
“But why are you-“
“I am repenting,” he interrupted knowingly. “For things I’ve done in the past. Things...I am not proud of.” He looked away for a split second, but the emotion in his eyes convinced Mrs. Peterson that this person, whoever he was, was sincere and wouldn’t hurt her. He practically breathed despair, of a loneliness that touched her to the core. She remembered that feeling, it slamming into her full force after her husband died. She had thought then that their children and grandchildren could fill that void but now, watching him, she realized how alone she still was.
‘If the boy wants to work,’ Mrs. Peterson began and smiled when the stranger glanced back to her. ‘Then by God, who am I to stand in his way?’
“Alright then dear,” she said and her smile widened at the spark in his eyes. “If you want, then you can grab the rake in that broom closet over there. The backyard is cluttered with leaves and my old, tired back is too weak to get them all.”
He jumped up instantly and quickly moved toward the closet, the rake in his hands moments afterward. “Yes Grandmother,” he said and nodded in thanks when she held the kitchen door open. He began his work immediately, the same song from earlier pouring from his lips like the swells of a river soon afterward.
“And when you’re done, I’m sure there’s something else around the house for you to do,” Mrs. Peterson said and smiled at the man’s, “Yes, Grandmother.” She leaned back and watched him work, his enthusiasm touching as he chased after each and every single fallen leaf.
(I)
The stranger stood at her front door hours later, his gloved hands clasped calmly in front of him as he waited for Mrs. Peterson to unlatch and unlock the door.
“Are you sure you have to go, dear?” she asked as she turned to smile at him. “We were having such a good time.”
“Yes ma’am, I’m afraid I do.”
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked as he reached for the door. He sighed, then shook his head. “No doubt I will see you, but you won’t see me. I’m sure our paths will cross on the street.” He stopped at her forlorn expression and reached for her hands. He clasped them gently in his own, the first time during the three hours of his ‘visit’ that he went to touch her, and gave them a gentle pat.
“I will think of you often Grandmother. I hope I have been of some use.”
“You have dear,” Mrs. Peterson assured him. Thanks to this strange young man every chore was done, the little things around the house that needed tending to were fixed, and in her belly was the most delicious meal of chicken alfredo, along with a side of garlic toast. Along with the good food came good company, though she alone at the dinner. He put away the leftovers and cleaned up before announcing his departure. Mrs. Peterson was...sad to see him go and felt as if one of her own grandchildren were getting ready to walk out of the door.
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his covered cheek, grateful for his steady hands as he held her up, then opened the front door. He bowed then, deep and respectful, and raised a hand to his forehead in a silent salute.
“Goodbye Grandmother,” he said as he opened the screen door. “Thank you for everything. Lock the door behind me.”
Mrs. Peterson shut the door behind him, locked the door as promised, and turned to her bedroom. She shook her head as she walked down the hallway toward her bedroom. The unexpected occurrences of the day left her heart light, but her eyelids heavy and her body weary. She turned on the light to the darkened room and gasped, her hand grasping her heart as tears began to stream down her cheeks.
The police were called the moment the masked man stepped outside and underneath the streetlight’s blinding white light. The police had to kick down the door when they came, concerned at the unresponsiveness of the occupant inside.
Inside they found Mrs. Peterson, weeping still, staring at her small bed and the dozens of brand new $100 bills scattered haphazardly across the worn and tattered blanket.
And thus, the legend began...