“I will pray for you.” He said.
It would have been funny if it was not so sad. It would have been kind if it was not presumptuous. He did not even mean well.
It was vindictive , spiteful, arrogant. The creator of the universe, overlord of the cosmos, omnipotent genie to the galaxies etc will hear me, will through my whispered petition, pardon you for your sins.
She nodded and walked on. A little way away, she smiled to herself as it occurred to her that little had changed.
In Boston, 1692, he would have hung her. A little further back, he would have set her on fire. If she was his, in any way, he would beat her. He bore the privilege of the oppressor and she carried the burden of victims. Past, present, and future.
He had done nothing but surrendered her to his gods though, perhaps things had changed.