Mercy Ray Jackson: The Long Way to Redemption

When it rained outside and there would be no power, Mercy would sit by the fireplace; her hands neatly folded in her lap and gaze fixed on the orange flames. There would be a candle burning in some corner of the room and on days like that, Mercy would feel particularly lonely when the unwanted solitude would cave in on her. On days like that, one would want to be in the company of someone they cared about, to share a story with or a joke over a cup of warm tea. But Mercy didn’t have someone to do these things with so she just sat in her chair, staring into space as her mind unleashed her demons upon her, one at a time. She would often see faces she wished with all her heart to forget, but the Higher Power ordained the cruelest of punishments upon her. She was made captive of unwanted memories that were an inescapable kind of torture. She would look around the room she sat in and notice how the opulence of the room starkly contrasted with the poverty of companionship in her life. Then her sight would settle upon three pictures in antique frame that contained three faces smiling at her. They haunted her but she could not let go of them. She wanted to cling to the memories of all the good times spent with these people.

In one of the frames was a little girl who had blonde hair and green eyes. She was dressed in a pastel pink dress, white socks and matching pink shoes. She was holding Mercy’s right hand and both had white flowers in their hair. The little girl, Mercy remembered, loved listening to bluesy tunes and had an insatiable hunger for books.

“If I could change my name, I would change it to Portia.” said the little girl to her as they were sitting in her office one afternoon.

“But I like the name Ella very much.” said Mercy, looking up at Ella with a surprised look mixed with amusement. ”Don’t you think it’s a nice name?”

“Yes, it is nice, but Portia is better I think.”

“Is it really the name you like very much or the character?” said Mercy smirking as she looked at the play Ella was reading, “The Merchant of Venice”.

“Both,” said Ella with a smile. Mercy rolled her eyes at her and continued with the article she was proofreading for the paper where she worked.

In the picture Mercy and Ella were at the spring festival where the local theatre group was performing “The Merchant of Venice”. Mercy had to refer to Ella as “Portia” for the entire evening upon her insistence. 

The memory of the evening sometimes, instead of lifting Mercy’s spirits often left her feeling even more deflated as she would remember all that she lost or rather in one sense gave up. On days like this, Mercy thought of all the different people she had wronged in the past and how she wished to turn back the clock and make things right. The need for redemption would get so overpowering, which, when coupled with a lack of means would prove so overwhelming for her that she would want to scream and shout and beg for just one chance at making things right. But what would be the point in screaming and shouting when no one could hear her? Hence, Mercy would sit by the fireplace, calmly enduring her punishment, waiting for the pain to pass as it would and then wait for it to return, as it always did.