哔哔

【76R】平凡的一天

一枚小小的卷笔刀，和太太们的40米斩舰刀没法比【智力-1
灵感来自拜伦的《普罗米修斯》。
*角色死亡注意

正文:
从一大早开始天就阴沉沉的，像吸满了水的棉花，轻轻一戳就会溢出来的样子。
今天仿佛会有什么大事发生。
神父这么预感到，推开了教堂的大门，深深望了隔着重重障碍的远方的耶路撒冷一眼，走回了讲坛，准备迎接并不多的信徒。

“请圣父祝福，我犯了罪，愿意在教会内悔改。”
告解室内一片昏暗，隔着木制的网格围栏，神父只能隐隐约约看见一截对于人类来说过于苍白的下巴和脖颈。
大概是妆容吧。
还有一股淡淡的硫磺味。
他画下十字，“愿圣神光照你的心，使你诚心诚意告罪并接受仁慈天父的恩宠。”
“我并不相信宗教，之前也从未忏悔过自己的所作所为。”
“我来告解我即将会犯下的罪。”
“我会在战场上欺骗我的敌人。”
“我并不善于忍受，我要主动放弃被强迫赋予的永恒。”
似乎只是想找个人倾诉，来人用讥讽的口吻一口气说完了这些，起身离开了。
无神论者。神父叹了口气。
这是今天发生的第一件不同寻常的事。

朦胧的月刚刚攀上教堂顶部的十字架，大门就发出了响声。
看到门内男人的一瞬间，听到声响赶来的神父还以为自己身处遥远大洋彼岸的某个半岛上。
原因无非是那人的皮夹克上溅满血迹，浑身戾气，一副刚处理完杀人现场便跑过来了的模样。更不用提那人脸上的两道凶狠的疤痕了。
一股浓烈的硫磺味。总觉得在哪里闻到过这个味道。神父小小地走了个神。
没有丝毫被抓到偷溜进教堂的心虚，男人面不改色地看向神父:“我来给一个熟人扫墓。”
也不用神父带路，他轻车熟路地走向教堂后的墓园，只在路过告解室时停下了一次脚步，慢慢仰头，像是在看着什么东西飘向穹顶。
……那是一抹黑雾吗？
神父不解地凝视着那一块彩绘玻璃，最终得出是自己眼花了的结论。
这是今天发生的第二件不同寻常的事。

鞋跟敲打在石砖上，发出清脆的响声。
多年的风吹雨打后，没人维护过的大理石墓碑已不再光滑，男人还带着硝烟味的指尖划过一串虚假的数字下的文字:“……他把死亡变作了一次胜利。”低沉的笑声透过面罩回荡在空旷的墓园里，像是一个在夜间徘徊于此的幽灵。
从日初就开始酝酿的雨水蓄势已久，倾泻而下，几乎是泼洒在男人的外套上。那上面沾染的那个人的血静静流淌过他自己的坟墓，腥红淡化作粉色又化作无色，融入青石板路上的小溪里。
雨过后又会随着水加入循环，完成另一种永恒。这么想来似乎还有些浪漫。
“是啊，当然了，你总是能得到你想要的。”这次是你赢了，不过，似乎也没有下一次了。

地球转过三百六十度，又是平凡的一天。有人忏悔，有人被谅解，有人死去，有人再也得不到谅解。就像以前的日子一样，是平凡的一天。

附原诗:
I.

Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?[2]
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,10
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.

II.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,[3]
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,20
Which for its pleasure doth create[4]
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die:[5]
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine—and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,[6]
But would not to appease him tell;30
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

III.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,[7]
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,40
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,[8]
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;50
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself—an equal to all woes—[9][10]
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concentered recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.