Judas' and Jezebels.

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An elderly woman sits in front of a desk, a stack of papers laid before her. A man sits behind in a sharp suit, absolutely frozen in time. The stage is bare save the minimalist office scene. She speaks-

I died long ago. The day an innocent babe clutched unto my finger, and I smelt the stench of sin upon its breath. The morn of which was filled with cries and blood of children, when one of my own with dirtied hands undid all that that was done, all that was taught. The day a seven year old girl spat upon my brow and the residue was my efforts that have most likely gone to vice. I died the day I learnt that sin, un-cleansable, un-repent able sin resides behind each of their little faces in the glow of morning.

The other morn- one of similar disposition as I lay in bed just after morning thanks, the wooden floorboards began to moan and creak from the corridor outside. I could smell the sin through a dozen walls, a familiar haze that seemed somehow here, at home.  I could hear the leather of a man's glove, as it peeled onto the door. He pushed-"Julius Brack." The figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the bare light that streamed in from the hallway window. He smiled at what I had said, his eyes hidden by the shadow of a low brim. The man approached, took my hand in his and answered, "Mother."

She writes-

'Murid Perpetua Derling,' That name, the name they would never call me. My children would always call me Mother. My children of course being runaways, lost causes or perhaps plainly out of control. We would take them in, give them routine, a path, the cross; for does the Bible not say 'I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'  Luke 5:1-32.

What would I leave? Though death has claimed me once before, a life remains in tact. My psalm books to waste paper depositories, my home to concrete waste! Who would I leave them to?

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She writes-

 'On the 11th of the 8th, I hereby leave all my worldly possessions to the Lord God almighty and the Christian Church, St John's Chapel.'

Murid Perpetua Derling is sat in a slumped position in bed: A dingy brown retro-styled wallpaper peels from the walls which are hung with various images of Jesus on the cross. Underneath is bare moth eaten, floorboards. A dusty combination of light rays work their way through the boarded windows to form a surreal effect upon the scene.

The next day, near to the time of the morn before, ...

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