Where the hell am I? It looks like it's some kind of... field... except everything is made of stone. Even the grass is crunching into rubble beneath my feet. This is a very strange place. I'm holding my jacket tighter to my person and walk on. There seems to be a large circle of trees... all made of granite, of course. I head towards it, eager to find someone in this lifeless hole.
When I break off the stone branches in order to make it to the center, I spot a circle of people... I try walking up to one of them and prod him gingerly with my hand. He topples over and shatters into many pieces on the ground. It was a statue. Nothing but a stone statue. Fuck. I need to find a way out.
Then I spot him. He was seated in his throne, in the center of the ring of statues. Another statue, this one of an old, corpsey-looking type, with sunken sockets and a stone, grey crown perched upon his head. He stares at me. I try walking a few paces to the right. His eyes were not on me now. I heard a crunch underneath my foot. I look down and see I have accidentally crushed one of the statues' feet with my boot. I look up again.
He's staring at me again.
What the hell? Walk a few paces in the other direction. I can't see his pupils anymore. I hear a noise behind me and I turn around. Nothing. I turn back again.
He's staring at me again.
This time I run completely around. Now I can't see his eyes behind his stone slab of a throne. I hear a noise behind me again. I look towards it and back again.
His head peers at me from behind his throne, his fingers clutching the top like some derranged peeping tom.
I'm running now. I can't deny the fact that I saw him move. I just keep running. I look behind me. He's standing now, an arm weakly outstretched towards me. His mouth is open in a silent scream. I look at him while I run. But I have to blink. He didn't go far, but he was getting closer every time I blink.
I couldn't bear it anymore; I collapse on the stone ground, dazed and eyes closed.
I hear the dull thud of his feet, but I can't do anything. I feel him lift me up, but in a caring gesture. I look at him. His mouth is in a wide smile. He just wanted to befriend me. I try to free myself from his grip, but I can't break free... I can't even move my arm. I look at my left arm. It was slowly becoming stone, the fingers are locked in their position. I can't feel anything. I feel the stone reach to my chest. I try to scream but my jaw is already becoming stone. My eyes gaze upwards at him. His mouth is now contorted in a very open frown, his eyes seemingly welling up with tears. I notice a mark on his forehead that I didn't notice before.
And then my eyes were stone.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
"A Feast For Crows"
They came in flocks.
It started with doves, lightning-white, swarming across the sky like stratus clouds. They skidded across the rooftops, raking long cuts through them, creating the most horrible shrieking sound as they did so. Below, people stared, gawked.
Their eyes were beady and black, calculating, nothing even remotely natural in them. They only had one goal: to nest.
More birds came. Parrots, repeating back the screams of the people below; crows, bringing warnings of death; vultures, there to pick the bones of those that did not survive.
Their cries sounded more like thunder, and, indeed, lightning cracked, volts shooting through their feathers and connecting bird to bird. The electricity struck the ground over and over, shearing off entire patches of earth, ravaging it. Roofs caved in and fires started, burning brightly.
They gathered in a cluster, almost as if guarding something - or, as it was in this case, someone. In the center of the flock, the eye of the storm, were a group of monstrous-looking hawks, their skin blistered, throbbing with red, bulbous pustules. They carried a woman, dressed in a cloak of black feathers. She grinned madly, her teeth looking more like fangs.
The vultures carried her downwards and the woman landed on the ground in front of a tall, stone tower. Her smile didn't even falter as she was approached by several heavily-armored guards. Of course the place was guarded - she'd been expecting that.
"Halt," one of them cried, approaching her with an air of authority. "We know who you are. You are not permitted to come any closer."
The woman reacted with mock surprise. "Oh, I'm not? Why is that?"
"We know about you," the guard repeated, his comrades shifting impatiently on their feat behind him. "You're her - the Witch."
The woman's voice suddenly dropped into a deadly whisper as she moved closer. "You do not understand. My... friends, my children, they need to feed. The crop has been... ah, poor this year. They need to grow, and they can't do that without anything to feed on."
"You may not move any closer to the Observatory," the guard said, unyielding. "Do not make me use lethal force."
"Before my babies eat?" the woman crooned. "Oh, but that would would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? No, I think they should have a meal first. A feast."
She drew an old-looking stone dagger from her cloak's pocket, and traced the blade along her skin, drawing blood, and the heads of several birds emerged from the wound.
"Open wide."
It started with doves, lightning-white, swarming across the sky like stratus clouds. They skidded across the rooftops, raking long cuts through them, creating the most horrible shrieking sound as they did so. Below, people stared, gawked.
Their eyes were beady and black, calculating, nothing even remotely natural in them. They only had one goal: to nest.
More birds came. Parrots, repeating back the screams of the people below; crows, bringing warnings of death; vultures, there to pick the bones of those that did not survive.
Their cries sounded more like thunder, and, indeed, lightning cracked, volts shooting through their feathers and connecting bird to bird. The electricity struck the ground over and over, shearing off entire patches of earth, ravaging it. Roofs caved in and fires started, burning brightly.
They gathered in a cluster, almost as if guarding something - or, as it was in this case, someone. In the center of the flock, the eye of the storm, were a group of monstrous-looking hawks, their skin blistered, throbbing with red, bulbous pustules. They carried a woman, dressed in a cloak of black feathers. She grinned madly, her teeth looking more like fangs.
The vultures carried her downwards and the woman landed on the ground in front of a tall, stone tower. Her smile didn't even falter as she was approached by several heavily-armored guards. Of course the place was guarded - she'd been expecting that.
"Halt," one of them cried, approaching her with an air of authority. "We know who you are. You are not permitted to come any closer."
The woman reacted with mock surprise. "Oh, I'm not? Why is that?"
"We know about you," the guard repeated, his comrades shifting impatiently on their feat behind him. "You're her - the Witch."
The woman's voice suddenly dropped into a deadly whisper as she moved closer. "You do not understand. My... friends, my children, they need to feed. The crop has been... ah, poor this year. They need to grow, and they can't do that without anything to feed on."
"You may not move any closer to the Observatory," the guard said, unyielding. "Do not make me use lethal force."
"Before my babies eat?" the woman crooned. "Oh, but that would would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? No, I think they should have a meal first. A feast."
She drew an old-looking stone dagger from her cloak's pocket, and traced the blade along her skin, drawing blood, and the heads of several birds emerged from the wound.
"Open wide."
"Dance"
Stepping in motion, keeping within the time. We move as one, a synchronised display. All around us, the people watch us, not daring to come closer. We want to cry out, ask for their help, but she will not let us. Our bodies are no longer our own, for all we are now is her property. When she grows bored with us, her little pets, she simply snares another and the chaos begins anew.
They say our blood is hot. They say that we must not stop, that the act of dancing will cure us. They say that God is merciful and that through this mercy, we shall be saved. But I know God has abandoned us. We know, for there is no self. We are not people, we are worthless, mere puppets on her strings. She giggles as we begin to sweat. Every time one of us falls to the ground, clutching their heart, she simply laughs and infects two more. The citizens and the councils cannot see her pulling our strings from the balcony, but we can feel them deep beneath our skin. They are all too busy building stages, buying musicians, herding us indoors like we are naught but cattle. As we continue our dance, caged like animals, manipulated by this marionette, Her strings slowly seep into their skin, the musicians, the council. The innocents.
Within a fraction of a second, the music dies. She makes a minuscule motion, a slight movement of her hand, and yet that is all she needs. Her strings are suddenly flailing wildly. People run, but where one foot takes off at a run, it comes back down dancing erratically. We dance ever more quickly, those who have been snared. Everyone runs as we cascade down the streets, but I can see our mistress finally losing her enthusiasm. One more wave, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. And faster. The quick beat floods my ears like a steel drum. As I fall to the ground, I see the others are just the same. My ears are drowning in noise, the ground hard beneath me. As my vision slips away and darkness clouds my vision, I see the Wooden Girl wander the streets of Strasbourg.
They say our blood is hot. They say that we must not stop, that the act of dancing will cure us. They say that God is merciful and that through this mercy, we shall be saved. But I know God has abandoned us. We know, for there is no self. We are not people, we are worthless, mere puppets on her strings. She giggles as we begin to sweat. Every time one of us falls to the ground, clutching their heart, she simply laughs and infects two more. The citizens and the councils cannot see her pulling our strings from the balcony, but we can feel them deep beneath our skin. They are all too busy building stages, buying musicians, herding us indoors like we are naught but cattle. As we continue our dance, caged like animals, manipulated by this marionette, Her strings slowly seep into their skin, the musicians, the council. The innocents.
Within a fraction of a second, the music dies. She makes a minuscule motion, a slight movement of her hand, and yet that is all she needs. Her strings are suddenly flailing wildly. People run, but where one foot takes off at a run, it comes back down dancing erratically. We dance ever more quickly, those who have been snared. Everyone runs as we cascade down the streets, but I can see our mistress finally losing her enthusiasm. One more wave, and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. And faster. The quick beat floods my ears like a steel drum. As I fall to the ground, I see the others are just the same. My ears are drowning in noise, the ground hard beneath me. As my vision slips away and darkness clouds my vision, I see the Wooden Girl wander the streets of Strasbourg.
Friday, September 7, 2012
"The Suicide Note of an Anonymous Mother"
It is with a heavy heart and shaking hand that I pen this, now. Ten years ago, when my daughter was born, I could have sworn that I knew such joy that I would never again feel sorrow. Had I known what I do now, I might have taken a blade to the babe's neck. My own daughter. My flesh and blood.
My husband, her father, was so enamored with her. I do not believe any child was so well doted upon, growing up – she was his sun, moon, and stars. Her pains, my husband felt tenfold. For each tear, he would shed three more. She occupied his every thought, and there was scarcely a sentence out of his mouth that did not mention her name.
It was inevitable, perhaps, that I would grow envious. Sickened each time I heard her mentioned, until there was no love left in my heart for her. A child so beloved, not even loved by her own mother!
I see now, I was monstrous. There is no abuse harsher than indifference.
As she grew older, her pull grew stronger. I hadn’t thought it possible, but her father’s love deepened by the day. Somehow, my heart was untouched. I could see in her face how it pained her, and often heard her gently crying herself to sleep.
Perhaps spite kept me from adoring her, as was proper – it seemed all who laid eyes on her cared about her, as though she were their own daughter. How could I not be resentful? What was wrong with me?
The trend continued, and I thought things would never change. Oh, how I pray now that I could go back and call attention to my own foolishness. My husband still felt my daughter’s hurts, and it seemed that this needed proving.
Early this morning, we both saw her run and take a tumble. She scraped her knee.
Not an hour ago, I walked in to find my husband, mutilating his leg with a kitchen knife, slicing the skin apart. I could see the white of his bone, his kneecap hanging loosely and blood all over the floor – I screamed. Screamed myself hoarse. He was so intent that he scarcely lifted his eyes.
I simply cannot cope.
I write this letter now with a noose laying across my lap, with one simple request to all who may read this:
Love her.
Love her, as I could not. Love her so dearly that she forgets all the years I gave her no affection.
Love my daughter, as a mother should.
My husband, her father, was so enamored with her. I do not believe any child was so well doted upon, growing up – she was his sun, moon, and stars. Her pains, my husband felt tenfold. For each tear, he would shed three more. She occupied his every thought, and there was scarcely a sentence out of his mouth that did not mention her name.
It was inevitable, perhaps, that I would grow envious. Sickened each time I heard her mentioned, until there was no love left in my heart for her. A child so beloved, not even loved by her own mother!
I see now, I was monstrous. There is no abuse harsher than indifference.
As she grew older, her pull grew stronger. I hadn’t thought it possible, but her father’s love deepened by the day. Somehow, my heart was untouched. I could see in her face how it pained her, and often heard her gently crying herself to sleep.
Perhaps spite kept me from adoring her, as was proper – it seemed all who laid eyes on her cared about her, as though she were their own daughter. How could I not be resentful? What was wrong with me?
The trend continued, and I thought things would never change. Oh, how I pray now that I could go back and call attention to my own foolishness. My husband still felt my daughter’s hurts, and it seemed that this needed proving.
Early this morning, we both saw her run and take a tumble. She scraped her knee.
Not an hour ago, I walked in to find my husband, mutilating his leg with a kitchen knife, slicing the skin apart. I could see the white of his bone, his kneecap hanging loosely and blood all over the floor – I screamed. Screamed myself hoarse. He was so intent that he scarcely lifted his eyes.
I simply cannot cope.
I write this letter now with a noose laying across my lap, with one simple request to all who may read this:
Love her.
Love her, as I could not. Love her so dearly that she forgets all the years I gave her no affection.
Love my daughter, as a mother should.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
"Heart-Shaped Box"
There was a heart-shaped box on her desk that morning. Opening it, she found that it was filled with chocolates delicately wrapped in thin pieces of tissue paper, each piece of tissue paper a different color for a different type of chocolate. Some had a coconut, some had nougat, there was even that one in the center that had an oozy strawberry filling that most people would never eat and threw away with the wrapping, but she ate it. She loved it.
"What's the occasion, Marti?" one of the other nurses asked.
"Anniversary," Marti said, delicately placing the cover back on the box. "Bob always remembers and this one is special: forty years."
"No shit?" The other nurse glanced at the heart-shaped box with a twinge of jealousy. "Well, you're a lucky girl."
"I'm no girl," Marti said. "No spring chicken here. I'm nearly sixty-seven. And while it was a very nice gesture from Bob, I'm slightly worried about when I get home."
"Why? He want something kinky in bed?" The other nurse, whose name was Betancourt, was a notorious gossip.
"No, it's not that," Marti said in a whisper. Sex was still a somewhat taboo subject for her, though she knew Betancourt loved to talk about it. Nurse Betancourt had emigrated from Trinidad and still had her thick accent, which somewhat eased Marti when she talked about such a frank subject with her. "It's just my...drive hasn't been there lately."
"Ah," Nurse Betancourt said. "I understand. And Bob? What about him?"
"Oh, his...drive is fine," Marti said. "Anyway, I shouldn't be talking about this. We have work to do." She picked up a stack of paperwork and started filling it out. Betancourt sighed - her source of gossip having been cut off, she went back to checking on the various patients in their ward.
Two hours later, police admitted an unconscious woman to the hospital. An officer explained that she had been knocked unconscious during a rave and might possibly be on drugs. Marti scheduled her for a CT scan to see if there might be a concussion, then starting drawing blood in order to do a drug test. As Marti drew the blood, she noticed how the woman's hair was a vivid shade of red.
At that moment, the woman's eyes snapped opened. Marti pulled back, but she wasn't quick enough - the red-haired woman sat up with startling speed and jumped off the table. The suddenness of the movement made Marti jump herself and then trip, falling on the floor. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and closed her eyes. When she opened then, the red-haired woman was gone and the officer was calling for backup.
When Marti finally got up and brushed herself off, she noticed with alarm that the needle she had using to draw blood from the woman was now embedded in her thigh, with the plunger all the way down.
The officer helped her sit down and she delicately pulled the needle out of her thigh. The officer appeared to be panicking more than she was - she was in a strange state of calm. She knew she should be worried about the red-haired woman's blood - there might be drugs in it or HIV or any number of other viruses, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it now except take antivirals and wait.
So she did. In fact, she went back to work, since she was still on the clock. She wondered how she would relate the news to Bob - this was their anniversary and it was not going well. Her daydream about breaking the news to Bob was interrupted by Bob's voice: "Marti, what are you doing?"
"Bob?" she looked up and saw his kind, wrinkled face. "Why are you here?"
"The hospital called me," he said. "They said there was some sort of accident? I came here as soon as I could."
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Marti said. "I'm fine. I've taken a load of antivirals and-"
"Marti," Bob said, "come on, this is me."
"I'm fine," she said. "Truly."
He was quiet for a while and then said, "Okay." Then he pulled her into a big bearhug and she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be fine. There anniversary wasn't going to be ruined by one little needle.
That evening, Bob took Marti to a fancy restaurant and they sipped red wine and laughed at old stories. Marti thought she would be tired after working eight hours at the hospital, but she felt better than before. There was an energy inside of her that she wanted to release.
In fact, the drive she had been talking about earlier with Nurse Betancourt seemed to have returned. After diner, Bob and Marti went back to their brownstone and made love.
The next day, Marti felt even better. At the nursing station, she couldn't stay still, moving her hips as she filled out the paperwork, never sitting down for more than a minute. "What's up with you, girl?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"Oh, nothing," Marti said. "I just feel...good."
"Someone got lucky last night I bet," Nurse Betancourt said.
"Oh yes," Marti said. "And I aim to get lucky again tonight."
And she did. Night after night, she and Bob made love. When she had the night shift and went home at five a.m., she would even gently wake Bob from sleep and they would have soft, sleep-deprived lovemaking.
By the end of the week, however, Bob was worn out. Marti seemed to have limitless energy, especially in the sack, and after they would make love, she would sometimes request to go again. Bob would bemoan and say, "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!" Or sometimes, if he was feeling silly, he would affect a Russian accent and say, "The vodka is good, but the meat is rotten!"
Marti was getting more looks at the hospital, too. She had been nice looking when she was younger, but at sixty-six, she had too many wrinkles and not enough exercise to get rid of excess fat. But now she could see some doctors look at her with roaming eyes.
"Are you taking some sort of treatment?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"No," Marti said, "why?"
"Because you're wrinkles are fadin' away," Betancourt said. "Whatever moisturizer you are on, I want some."
Marti checked the mirror in the bathroom and realized it was true. Her wrinkles were slowly vanishing, one by one. She no longer looked sixty-six. In fact, she looked like she was back in her forties. She thought this was strange, but decided not to question it. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," her mother had always told her.
By the next week, Marti looked almost thirty. Every morning she woke up more excited and energetic than the last morning. She was applying makeup now, just some rouge and a little lipstick, but it was more than she had done before.
Bob, however, was getting more and more tired. Sometimes, he didn't even have the energy for their daily lovemaking. One morning, when she returned from the night shift, she tried to wake him up, but he was sleeping too soundly. She shook him more and he mumbled out about how he was sorry, but that it "won't come up anymore."
She knew this was a problem many older couples faced, but she didn't feel old. She felt young again. She felt new!
She ended up talking with Bob's physician and seeing if she could get a PDE5 inhibitor, which would help with any...disfunction that Bob had. She managed to get some and as soon as she convinced Bob to take one a day, they went right back on their schedule.
One morning, as she was cutting vegetables for soup, the knife slipped and she cut her finger. It stung and she instinctively placed her finger in her mouth. This simple act changed everything for Marti. The taste of her own blood was almost orgasmic. She ended up sucking a bit too much on the finger, but when she finally pulled it out of her mouth, the cut was gone. It had healed in less than a minute.
At work, she was getting more and more looks. "Tell me your surgeon," Nurse Betancourt would say. "He does great work."
Marti would just smile mysteriously (and a little seductively) and say nothing. Her home life was going a little better. They were back on their daily lovemaking sessions, but now Marti had a taste of her own blood, she wanted more.
She started giving Bob small cuts on his arms and licked them up. Then more and more, until finally it was equal parts lovemaking and bloodplay.
Finally, one evening, Bob said to her, "My only wish, Marti, is to make you happy. That's all I wanted. That's why I've gone along with all of this. But I only have so much stamina and so much blood in me. I can't keep going like this."
"But I want more," Marti said. "I have this...need. This thirst."
"Then take what you want," Bob said. "Please. I hope it will be enough."
She cut him on his arm and licked the blood and then made another cut and another. Soon, she was lost in her own blood-filled world and when she finally looked down, Bob was still. She hadn't noticed as his heart stopped. Her mind was clouded with sex and blood and she took the knife and cut deep into his chest, cut further than she should have with an inhuman strength. She cut and pried open his ribcage and took out his heart.
She tried to make it beat again, but it wouldn't. So she licked the blood and then put the heart in a plastic ziplock bag and placed it in her purse. She would bring it to a doctor, that's all Bob needed, Marti thought as she cleaned up. A heart doctor.
As she walked down the street, she could feel others staring at her and she reveled in it. She walked into the hospital and up to her nursing station, where Nurse Betancourt was. "Can I help you?" Nurse Betancourt asked. "Admissions are over there."
Marti was confused until she saw a mirror. She no longer looked almost thirty. She looked younger, younger than thirty, younger than twenty. She was eighteen, if she was a day. And she wasn't Marti at eighteen, no, no mousy brown hair. Now, she had bright, vividly red hair and a gorgeously curvy body. No wonder Nurse Betancourt no longer recognized her.
Marti looked at her hair. When had it turned red? And why?
And then she finally remembered the red-haired woman and the blood. Marti licked her lips. It all came down to blood.
"Ma'am?" Nurse Betancourt said. "Admissions are down there."
Marti turned around and walked away, leaving her purse there. Nurse Betancourt would later find it, recognize it as Marti's, and look inside to see if there was any of that chocolate left from that heart-shaped box. When she found what was inside, however, she would let out a blood-curdling scream.
Marti walked out of the hospital, blood still on her mind, blood the only thing on her mind. She had to find more of it. As she walked down the street, the blood took control and threw away all of her old memories, all of her old life.
As she walked, a car pulled up and the man inside the car propositioned her. She smiled and got into the car. "What's your name, honey?" the man asked.
A song came on the radio and triggered one memory that the blood hadn't gotten rid of. It was their song. Always their song.
"Ruby," she said licking her lips. "My name is Ruby."
"What's the occasion, Marti?" one of the other nurses asked.
"Anniversary," Marti said, delicately placing the cover back on the box. "Bob always remembers and this one is special: forty years."
"No shit?" The other nurse glanced at the heart-shaped box with a twinge of jealousy. "Well, you're a lucky girl."
"I'm no girl," Marti said. "No spring chicken here. I'm nearly sixty-seven. And while it was a very nice gesture from Bob, I'm slightly worried about when I get home."
"Why? He want something kinky in bed?" The other nurse, whose name was Betancourt, was a notorious gossip.
"No, it's not that," Marti said in a whisper. Sex was still a somewhat taboo subject for her, though she knew Betancourt loved to talk about it. Nurse Betancourt had emigrated from Trinidad and still had her thick accent, which somewhat eased Marti when she talked about such a frank subject with her. "It's just my...drive hasn't been there lately."
"Ah," Nurse Betancourt said. "I understand. And Bob? What about him?"
"Oh, his...drive is fine," Marti said. "Anyway, I shouldn't be talking about this. We have work to do." She picked up a stack of paperwork and started filling it out. Betancourt sighed - her source of gossip having been cut off, she went back to checking on the various patients in their ward.
Two hours later, police admitted an unconscious woman to the hospital. An officer explained that she had been knocked unconscious during a rave and might possibly be on drugs. Marti scheduled her for a CT scan to see if there might be a concussion, then starting drawing blood in order to do a drug test. As Marti drew the blood, she noticed how the woman's hair was a vivid shade of red.
At that moment, the woman's eyes snapped opened. Marti pulled back, but she wasn't quick enough - the red-haired woman sat up with startling speed and jumped off the table. The suddenness of the movement made Marti jump herself and then trip, falling on the floor. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and closed her eyes. When she opened then, the red-haired woman was gone and the officer was calling for backup.
When Marti finally got up and brushed herself off, she noticed with alarm that the needle she had using to draw blood from the woman was now embedded in her thigh, with the plunger all the way down.
The officer helped her sit down and she delicately pulled the needle out of her thigh. The officer appeared to be panicking more than she was - she was in a strange state of calm. She knew she should be worried about the red-haired woman's blood - there might be drugs in it or HIV or any number of other viruses, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it now except take antivirals and wait.
So she did. In fact, she went back to work, since she was still on the clock. She wondered how she would relate the news to Bob - this was their anniversary and it was not going well. Her daydream about breaking the news to Bob was interrupted by Bob's voice: "Marti, what are you doing?"
"Bob?" she looked up and saw his kind, wrinkled face. "Why are you here?"
"The hospital called me," he said. "They said there was some sort of accident? I came here as soon as I could."
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Marti said. "I'm fine. I've taken a load of antivirals and-"
"Marti," Bob said, "come on, this is me."
"I'm fine," she said. "Truly."
He was quiet for a while and then said, "Okay." Then he pulled her into a big bearhug and she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be fine. There anniversary wasn't going to be ruined by one little needle.
That evening, Bob took Marti to a fancy restaurant and they sipped red wine and laughed at old stories. Marti thought she would be tired after working eight hours at the hospital, but she felt better than before. There was an energy inside of her that she wanted to release.
In fact, the drive she had been talking about earlier with Nurse Betancourt seemed to have returned. After diner, Bob and Marti went back to their brownstone and made love.
The next day, Marti felt even better. At the nursing station, she couldn't stay still, moving her hips as she filled out the paperwork, never sitting down for more than a minute. "What's up with you, girl?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"Oh, nothing," Marti said. "I just feel...good."
"Someone got lucky last night I bet," Nurse Betancourt said.
"Oh yes," Marti said. "And I aim to get lucky again tonight."
And she did. Night after night, she and Bob made love. When she had the night shift and went home at five a.m., she would even gently wake Bob from sleep and they would have soft, sleep-deprived lovemaking.
By the end of the week, however, Bob was worn out. Marti seemed to have limitless energy, especially in the sack, and after they would make love, she would sometimes request to go again. Bob would bemoan and say, "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!" Or sometimes, if he was feeling silly, he would affect a Russian accent and say, "The vodka is good, but the meat is rotten!"
Marti was getting more looks at the hospital, too. She had been nice looking when she was younger, but at sixty-six, she had too many wrinkles and not enough exercise to get rid of excess fat. But now she could see some doctors look at her with roaming eyes.
"Are you taking some sort of treatment?" Nurse Betancourt asked.
"No," Marti said, "why?"
"Because you're wrinkles are fadin' away," Betancourt said. "Whatever moisturizer you are on, I want some."
Marti checked the mirror in the bathroom and realized it was true. Her wrinkles were slowly vanishing, one by one. She no longer looked sixty-six. In fact, she looked like she was back in her forties. She thought this was strange, but decided not to question it. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," her mother had always told her.
By the next week, Marti looked almost thirty. Every morning she woke up more excited and energetic than the last morning. She was applying makeup now, just some rouge and a little lipstick, but it was more than she had done before.
Bob, however, was getting more and more tired. Sometimes, he didn't even have the energy for their daily lovemaking. One morning, when she returned from the night shift, she tried to wake him up, but he was sleeping too soundly. She shook him more and he mumbled out about how he was sorry, but that it "won't come up anymore."
She knew this was a problem many older couples faced, but she didn't feel old. She felt young again. She felt new!
She ended up talking with Bob's physician and seeing if she could get a PDE5 inhibitor, which would help with any...disfunction that Bob had. She managed to get some and as soon as she convinced Bob to take one a day, they went right back on their schedule.
One morning, as she was cutting vegetables for soup, the knife slipped and she cut her finger. It stung and she instinctively placed her finger in her mouth. This simple act changed everything for Marti. The taste of her own blood was almost orgasmic. She ended up sucking a bit too much on the finger, but when she finally pulled it out of her mouth, the cut was gone. It had healed in less than a minute.
At work, she was getting more and more looks. "Tell me your surgeon," Nurse Betancourt would say. "He does great work."
Marti would just smile mysteriously (and a little seductively) and say nothing. Her home life was going a little better. They were back on their daily lovemaking sessions, but now Marti had a taste of her own blood, she wanted more.
She started giving Bob small cuts on his arms and licked them up. Then more and more, until finally it was equal parts lovemaking and bloodplay.
Finally, one evening, Bob said to her, "My only wish, Marti, is to make you happy. That's all I wanted. That's why I've gone along with all of this. But I only have so much stamina and so much blood in me. I can't keep going like this."
"But I want more," Marti said. "I have this...need. This thirst."
"Then take what you want," Bob said. "Please. I hope it will be enough."
She cut him on his arm and licked the blood and then made another cut and another. Soon, she was lost in her own blood-filled world and when she finally looked down, Bob was still. She hadn't noticed as his heart stopped. Her mind was clouded with sex and blood and she took the knife and cut deep into his chest, cut further than she should have with an inhuman strength. She cut and pried open his ribcage and took out his heart.
She tried to make it beat again, but it wouldn't. So she licked the blood and then put the heart in a plastic ziplock bag and placed it in her purse. She would bring it to a doctor, that's all Bob needed, Marti thought as she cleaned up. A heart doctor.
As she walked down the street, she could feel others staring at her and she reveled in it. She walked into the hospital and up to her nursing station, where Nurse Betancourt was. "Can I help you?" Nurse Betancourt asked. "Admissions are over there."
Marti was confused until she saw a mirror. She no longer looked almost thirty. She looked younger, younger than thirty, younger than twenty. She was eighteen, if she was a day. And she wasn't Marti at eighteen, no, no mousy brown hair. Now, she had bright, vividly red hair and a gorgeously curvy body. No wonder Nurse Betancourt no longer recognized her.
Marti looked at her hair. When had it turned red? And why?
And then she finally remembered the red-haired woman and the blood. Marti licked her lips. It all came down to blood.
"Ma'am?" Nurse Betancourt said. "Admissions are down there."
Marti turned around and walked away, leaving her purse there. Nurse Betancourt would later find it, recognize it as Marti's, and look inside to see if there was any of that chocolate left from that heart-shaped box. When she found what was inside, however, she would let out a blood-curdling scream.
Marti walked out of the hospital, blood still on her mind, blood the only thing on her mind. She had to find more of it. As she walked down the street, the blood took control and threw away all of her old memories, all of her old life.
As she walked, a car pulled up and the man inside the car propositioned her. She smiled and got into the car. "What's your name, honey?" the man asked.
A song came on the radio and triggered one memory that the blood hadn't gotten rid of. It was their song. Always their song.
"Ruby," she said licking her lips. "My name is Ruby."
"The Mistral"
David's mind swirled.
The events of the past few weeks replayed in his mind at a dizzying pace; his promotion to full partner at the firm, his complete rearrangement of staff, his complete domination over the other partners- he had the firm in the palm of his hands.
Then the weather changed, and with it came the nightmares - the horrible nightmares. And then the voices. Always at night or in the early mornings, when the fog hung heavy over his new, very expensive house in the Hollywood hills. Those voices, always just out of the range of being able to understand, but always conspiratorial. Always accusatory.
Then he noticed a change at the office. He saw the looks. He knew they were talking - knew they were plotting. He saw the gradual turnover of office staff. Saw his hand-picked employees being replaced by new, unfriendly faces. He knew what was happening. Hell, he had invented the technique.
He took steps to stop it, but it was too late. They were all in on it. He was so frazzled already that he snapped in the board room. Right in front of the partners. Made quite a scene. They suggested he "do himself a favor" and take a vacation. They actually said they were being generous!
Then came the insult to the injury: that fair-weathered bimbo he'd invested all that time and money (Botox and silicon aren't cheap) just left. She hadn't even bothered to leave a note!
As the world slowly began to swim back into focus he remembered what had just happened. He was driving his Mercedes up the Pacific Coast Highway when out of nowhere he ran into a heavy patch of morning fog. He didn't even have time to hit the brakes when a powerful gust of wind hit the side of the car like a battering ram, sending the car over the side of the road.
As his vision cleared, David found he was sitting on the ceiling of the overturned Mercedes. He had a coppery taste In his mouth and the side of his face felt slick. He touched his hand to the side of his head and felt the gash running at an off angle above his ear. There wasn't as much blood on his hand as he expected to see. How long had he been out?
He leaned down to look out the window, strained muscles screaming as he craned his neck. The fog was gone, so no telling how long he had been sitting there. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his Blackberry. Cracks spiderwebbed across the screen.
The driver side door was jammed shut, but with some effort he managed to get the passenger door open enough to squeeze out.
His car sat at an odd angle on a downward wooded slope. The trees were rather thick, so he couldn't tell how far down the car had rolled, but he knew it couldn't be that far, so he slowly and painfully started up the hill intending to get back onto the highway and flag down a passing car.
After a short time the slope began to level off, which was a relief for his aching body, but he found no sign of the highway. After five more minutes he knew something wasn't right. There was no way his car could have rolled that far, especially through trees. All he could think to do was to keep walking.
He came to a clearing in the trees. A thin layer of mist hovered over the clearing, casting a pale yellowish light over the grassy clearing floor.
As he stepped out into the clearing he noticed how eerily quiet it was. He was looking at the layer of mist trying to judge the time when suddenly the mist appeared to expand, enveloping the clearing in a thick fog. David stood there in the unearthly silence, unable to see as far as his own feet.
A slight cool breeze picked up. He sighed in relief, expecting the air to begin to clear. Then he heard the voices. Many voices, none speaking above a whisper and all just outside his range of understanding. He could only make out hints of words. He couldn't tell where they were coming from, but knew they had to be close. He called out for help. He explained that he'd been in an accident. The whispers continued. No one called back.
He thought of his nightmares. Thought about the conspirators in the mist outside of his house. Could the have followed him here? Why? He'd already been destroyed at the firm, what else could they take from him?
The oppressiveness of the fog seemed to draw back. Now he could make out the vaguest hint of trees. He made for them. The voices seemed to follow him - no doubt a trick of the fog.
He had entered the woods on the other end of the clearing when he suddenly stopped short. Had he just seen a human shape in the fog next to that gnarled tree, just out of sight, revealing only a hint of their presence? The vision was gone as quickly as it had come. He heard a concentration of whispers to his right. He whirled around and again just the impression that something had just been there, out of the corner of his eye. This time he was sure it had been the shape of a woman. Another burst of whispers from behind. This time it was the hint of two large men.
The whispering began to sound sharp and threatening. David started moving again, trying to get away from the accusatory whispers. Soon panic overtook him and he ran. He didn't care where he ran, he just wanted to be away from the whispers - away from that fog. He ran blind, narrowly dodging the hulking dark shapes of trees as they burst from the fog. Always the voices remained with him. Always catching hints of figures in the fog, just out of sight... standing there watching.
He screamed as a human shape suddenly came racing out of the fog at him. He was unable to avoid the shape and collided with it. The world spun again as he went sprawling. He landed hard on his right arm and heard a crunch. A sharp pain shot through his whole body. He cried out as he spun around, attempting to crawl away from the shape that was now laid out on the ground. The shape groaned.
"What the Hell, man!" The shape said, sitting up slowly. David could see that the shape was an old man. The old man looked at him.
"Sweet jumped up Jesus, you look rough, mister," the man said, pulling himself up.
"Help me, please!" David heard himself say. "They're after me!"
The man nodded as if he saw this twice every day. "Ain't no 'they' to it, son. It's just one and I thought it was after ME up until I ran into you. Sorry about that, by the bye, I was kinda runnin' scared there, I reckon."
"What do you mean there's only one?" David cried as the old man helped him to his feet. "What the Hell is going on?"
The old man looked at him with an expression of both surprise and pity. "You been marked by the Dark Wind, boy."
"What?"
"The Dark Wind, the Zephyrym, the Watcher in the Fog... the Mistral, for Chrissakes!"
David continued to stare at the man in disbelief. "What... the... FUCK are you talking about, old man?"
The old man's eyes darkened. "I would think a man in your position'd be a mite more polite. The Mistral has a liking for high falutin’ mucky mucks who's gotten too big for their britches. That's a mighty fancy lookin' shirt you're wearin' there."
David picked up on the insinuation. He bit back. "So why'd you think it was after you?"
The old man laughed. "You sure gotta mouth fulla spite there, boy. Everytime my momma'd curse me for bein' rambunctious, she'd finish up by sayin' 'Mistral take ya'. The way it came up on me like that I figured she'd got her wish" He looked at David sideways and spat. "That is, till I saw that it was just followin' you."
A cold breeze picked up, and with it the whispers returned.
"That's my sign to leave. May the Archangel show pity on you, son."
Panic flared in David's vision. "Wait!" He cried. "You can't leave me! Help me! You've got to hide me from them!"
"Hide you?" The old man looked shocked. "Don't you get it, boy? How do you hide from the beast once it's swallowed you?"
A sudden powerful gust of wind swirled up around the old man. An expression of absolute terror came over his face as the swirl became a tiny cyclone, lifting the old man off the ground.
David watched in horror as the old man's clothes were suddenly ripped away. The old man tried to scream, but no sound came. The old man's lips darkened as blood vessels burst in his eyes, turning the whites a bright red. The old man flailed wildly for a moment until his eyes slowly rolled up into his head and he stopped fighting. Then the wind changed course and the old man was pulled back into the mist, out of site.
David stood there frozen in horror and disbelief over what he had just seen. The whispers began accusing again. Always just out of his range of hearing, only picking up scattered words that spoke of deceit, of treachery, of betrayal.
He saw them. Under every tree, groups of four or five. Just far enough out of sight that they were only shapes, but they was no mistaking them now. Standing there watching him. JUDGING him. How many lives had he destroyed on his way to the top? How many confidences had he betrayed? How many good people had he deceived?
As the wind swirled around him faster, he opened his mouth and cried "I'm sorry!" No sound came. The wind had stolen his voice. And as his body was lifted into the air, the wind stole his breath.
Friday, August 10, 2012
"Amen"
Dear Janette,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I hear California is having good weather; perhaps you could send some of that sunshine over to us? Any break from all this rain would be nice.
The twins are getting so big these day, and they're constantly full of energy! It's a wonder Mark and I are able to keep up with them. They're always talking about your last visit, and they do miss you. If you ever happen to be in the area, don't forget to stop by so they can see you again!
And you know how much I hate to be a gossip, but I can't resist indulging for a little bit here. There have been rumors that the visits Mrs. Mason has been paying to Mr. Solomon ever since her husband left on his business trip haven't been entirely innocent. At first I put no stock in such slander, but then I saw the two of them walking down the street together, their relationship was obvious. It's scandalous, them acting like that in public! And with Mr. Mason only having been gone for a week! Hopefully the new pastor will be able to talk some decency into them!
Oh, what have I done, I completely forgot to tell you about the new pastor! We both know that Pastor Parker isn't getting any younger, and he's been looking at retirement for a long time. A new pastor has been brought into the church to take over now that Parker is stepping down. At first I wasn't sure about this Pastor Michael, what with him being a city boy and all, but as soon as I heard him give the sermon I lost all doubts. The town won't be the same without Parker, but Michael's as good a replacement as we could ever have hoped for.
Your friend,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
Father Michael has been an absolute godsend for this town. The whole place seems infused with the Spirit, and church attendance is higher than it has ever been before. Oh, you should hear him speak! Every service, I feel his words lifting my soul up, and when he describes the coming Kingdom of Heaven, it's as if I'm seeing its glory with my own eyes! “For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of The Archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God”
Of course there are still the bad apples. I had hoped that Father Michael would be able to show Mrs. Mason and Mr. Solomon the error of their ways, but they have ignored his message of salvation. Why, just last Sunday, when the rest of the town was going to church, the two of them went fishing at the lake! Yes, “fishing,” that's what they called it. Those two are absolutely shameless! Time and time again I have tried talking sense into them, but all they do is laugh me off!
In the past I may have ignored such blatant disregard for our Lord, but Father Michael has taught us the risks of such passivity. By tolerating sinners in our company, we put our own souls at risk, and may lose our chance to achieve the Kingdom of Heaven! After witnessing part of its glory through the words of Father Michael, none of us want to let that slip through our fingers due to the actions of a few.
Oh, but what am I saying! Surely you're interested in more than just church talk. School will be starting for the twins' soon. 2nd grade already! Time really does fly. And I'm glad to hear that you've found a new job. I was so worried after your last letter, but now things are finally looking up for you! And I don't want to hear any talk from you about repaying me for the money I sent you. That was a gift, not a loan. After all, hasn't our Lord commanded us to be generous with one another?
Your friend,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
The pictures you sent were wonderful! California really is such a beautiful place. If Mark wasn't so busy with his job and me raising the twins, we'd come visit you in a heartbeat!
But enough of my daydreams. I bring good news! We have solved our problem with Mrs. Mason and Mr. Solomon. All of us had hoped that we could convert them through the power of prayer, but their hearts were turned to stone. But even in the face of such adversity, Father Michael showed us the way to salvation. If the sinners could not be brought down the path of redemption, then we had no choice but to get rid of the sinners, lest they corrupt our salvation.
None voiced dissent to the plan, for we had all been filled with the Holy Spirit, and could hear its call for righteous judgment. The two were found in sinful company inside Mr. Solomon's house, and brought out before the church. Each of us took up a stone, and cast it at the sinners.
The Devil tried to stop us by sending a sheriff to interrupt the punishment. But Father Michael stopped him, and with the power of the Lord filling his voice, cast out the evil possessing the sheriff and sent him on his way. And now that the infection of sin has been cut away from us, and at last we can work on preparing ourselves for the Kingdom of God.
We're still getting wet weather here. I know I should be grateful, since they say it's good for crops, but I wish I didn't have to clean up so much mud from the floors every day. At least it keeps me busy, now that the twins are in school all day.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
I still haven't heard from you since my last letter. I pray that you're alright. If you've run into any trouble, don't be afraid to let me know.
Things have been busy here! We thought we'd solved all our sinner problems, only for more to emerge. Liars, cheaters, adultery, blasphemy, thieves, we've discovered every sin imaginable lurking in our town. Father Michael warns us that we must be ever vigilant for those who stray from the path of the Lord, and we have been. If we want to achieve the salvation Father Michael promises us, we must punish all those who seek to sabotage our journey.
Mark is worried by all the sinners we have been forced to send to Hell, and I share his feelings. To think that such evil could exist in our town? Every day there are more names on Father Michael's list, more punishments that we must give. It hurts me to do this to people I had thought were my friends, but I do this for all of our sakes'. A single sinner in a community of holy men, and the whole community is corrupted, says Father Michael.
Of course the forces of evil seek to thwart us at every stage. Some men from the government came by the town and threatened to arrest us all. They said they had received word that the people of our town had murdered people. Murdered! We have done no such thing! All we have done has been the righteous punishment of God! As he had with the sheriff, Father Michael spoke with them, and through the power of the Lord turned them away. But it has reminded us to be always on guard for those who treacherously try to steal the Kingdom away from us.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
They say that the Lord seeks to test our faith through adversity, and if that is so, then this is the greatest test I have ever faced. I write this to you with a grieving heart, but also with the knowledge that I have done what is right.
I woke up last night to find Mark and the twins gone, and a letter on the kitchen table. It was from Mark, saying he had taken our children and left. His faith had wavered, and in that moment of weakness he had let the voice of the Devil whisper lies into his ear, telling him that we were not the followers of God, but an insane cult, and that our righteous judgment was murder. The Devil convinced him that he had to protect our children by taking them far away. I know he only meant the best for our children, but could he not see that he was not saving them, but ensuring their eternal damnation?
I rushed to Father Michael to tell him what had happened, and the Father assured me that everything would be alright. The twins were under the protection of an Angel, and they would be returned to us. And sure enough, Father Michael spoke truthfully. Mark was stopped by the sheriff as he was driving away from town, and brought back to face the judgment of the Lord.
As I cast my stones, I told myself that it was for the sake of our children. I know that Mark understood that. For their sake I had to remove all obstacles on the path to salvation. I know Mark understood that. I know he did. Even in his weakness of faith, all he wished for was their well being. If only he had not allowed the Devil inside his heart, he too could join us as we ascended to the Kingdom of God.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
Rejoice, for I bring good news! The time for us to cast aside our sinful earthly bodies and allow our spirits to ascend has come! Out of a town once filled with so many, now only twelve of us remain. We are the last few, the ones who have kept our faith through all the trials and tribulations, not once straying from the path Father Michael laid out for us!
I once thought that Father Michael was a messenger from God, but I never imagined how true that would be! He has shown to us his true self, and he is a being of beauty and perfection, who has graced this Earth for a short time to show us the way to Heaven.
The gallows are being constructed in front of the church, and all of us are dressed in our finest. Tears of happiness come to my eyes when I look at the twins and realize that soon they will be leaving this cruel world behind, and spend eternity in the glory of Heaven.
Father Michael is outside now, standing by the gallows, his true appearance shining like the brightest star in the sky. When he speaks, it is with a voice that shakes the ground itself. He tells us that the time has come for us to Embrace the Archangel, and become one with Him.
But do not feel sad, dear Janette! We shall not be parted long. For the Archangel will one day come to visit you as well. One day, all the people of the Earth will learn to embrace him, and we shall be brought together in His presence.
Until that wonderful day arrives, your friend,
Rachael
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I hear California is having good weather; perhaps you could send some of that sunshine over to us? Any break from all this rain would be nice.
The twins are getting so big these day, and they're constantly full of energy! It's a wonder Mark and I are able to keep up with them. They're always talking about your last visit, and they do miss you. If you ever happen to be in the area, don't forget to stop by so they can see you again!
And you know how much I hate to be a gossip, but I can't resist indulging for a little bit here. There have been rumors that the visits Mrs. Mason has been paying to Mr. Solomon ever since her husband left on his business trip haven't been entirely innocent. At first I put no stock in such slander, but then I saw the two of them walking down the street together, their relationship was obvious. It's scandalous, them acting like that in public! And with Mr. Mason only having been gone for a week! Hopefully the new pastor will be able to talk some decency into them!
Oh, what have I done, I completely forgot to tell you about the new pastor! We both know that Pastor Parker isn't getting any younger, and he's been looking at retirement for a long time. A new pastor has been brought into the church to take over now that Parker is stepping down. At first I wasn't sure about this Pastor Michael, what with him being a city boy and all, but as soon as I heard him give the sermon I lost all doubts. The town won't be the same without Parker, but Michael's as good a replacement as we could ever have hoped for.
Your friend,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
Father Michael has been an absolute godsend for this town. The whole place seems infused with the Spirit, and church attendance is higher than it has ever been before. Oh, you should hear him speak! Every service, I feel his words lifting my soul up, and when he describes the coming Kingdom of Heaven, it's as if I'm seeing its glory with my own eyes! “For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of The Archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God”
Of course there are still the bad apples. I had hoped that Father Michael would be able to show Mrs. Mason and Mr. Solomon the error of their ways, but they have ignored his message of salvation. Why, just last Sunday, when the rest of the town was going to church, the two of them went fishing at the lake! Yes, “fishing,” that's what they called it. Those two are absolutely shameless! Time and time again I have tried talking sense into them, but all they do is laugh me off!
In the past I may have ignored such blatant disregard for our Lord, but Father Michael has taught us the risks of such passivity. By tolerating sinners in our company, we put our own souls at risk, and may lose our chance to achieve the Kingdom of Heaven! After witnessing part of its glory through the words of Father Michael, none of us want to let that slip through our fingers due to the actions of a few.
Oh, but what am I saying! Surely you're interested in more than just church talk. School will be starting for the twins' soon. 2nd grade already! Time really does fly. And I'm glad to hear that you've found a new job. I was so worried after your last letter, but now things are finally looking up for you! And I don't want to hear any talk from you about repaying me for the money I sent you. That was a gift, not a loan. After all, hasn't our Lord commanded us to be generous with one another?
Your friend,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
The pictures you sent were wonderful! California really is such a beautiful place. If Mark wasn't so busy with his job and me raising the twins, we'd come visit you in a heartbeat!
But enough of my daydreams. I bring good news! We have solved our problem with Mrs. Mason and Mr. Solomon. All of us had hoped that we could convert them through the power of prayer, but their hearts were turned to stone. But even in the face of such adversity, Father Michael showed us the way to salvation. If the sinners could not be brought down the path of redemption, then we had no choice but to get rid of the sinners, lest they corrupt our salvation.
None voiced dissent to the plan, for we had all been filled with the Holy Spirit, and could hear its call for righteous judgment. The two were found in sinful company inside Mr. Solomon's house, and brought out before the church. Each of us took up a stone, and cast it at the sinners.
The Devil tried to stop us by sending a sheriff to interrupt the punishment. But Father Michael stopped him, and with the power of the Lord filling his voice, cast out the evil possessing the sheriff and sent him on his way. And now that the infection of sin has been cut away from us, and at last we can work on preparing ourselves for the Kingdom of God.
We're still getting wet weather here. I know I should be grateful, since they say it's good for crops, but I wish I didn't have to clean up so much mud from the floors every day. At least it keeps me busy, now that the twins are in school all day.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
I still haven't heard from you since my last letter. I pray that you're alright. If you've run into any trouble, don't be afraid to let me know.
Things have been busy here! We thought we'd solved all our sinner problems, only for more to emerge. Liars, cheaters, adultery, blasphemy, thieves, we've discovered every sin imaginable lurking in our town. Father Michael warns us that we must be ever vigilant for those who stray from the path of the Lord, and we have been. If we want to achieve the salvation Father Michael promises us, we must punish all those who seek to sabotage our journey.
Mark is worried by all the sinners we have been forced to send to Hell, and I share his feelings. To think that such evil could exist in our town? Every day there are more names on Father Michael's list, more punishments that we must give. It hurts me to do this to people I had thought were my friends, but I do this for all of our sakes'. A single sinner in a community of holy men, and the whole community is corrupted, says Father Michael.
Of course the forces of evil seek to thwart us at every stage. Some men from the government came by the town and threatened to arrest us all. They said they had received word that the people of our town had murdered people. Murdered! We have done no such thing! All we have done has been the righteous punishment of God! As he had with the sheriff, Father Michael spoke with them, and through the power of the Lord turned them away. But it has reminded us to be always on guard for those who treacherously try to steal the Kingdom away from us.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
They say that the Lord seeks to test our faith through adversity, and if that is so, then this is the greatest test I have ever faced. I write this to you with a grieving heart, but also with the knowledge that I have done what is right.
I woke up last night to find Mark and the twins gone, and a letter on the kitchen table. It was from Mark, saying he had taken our children and left. His faith had wavered, and in that moment of weakness he had let the voice of the Devil whisper lies into his ear, telling him that we were not the followers of God, but an insane cult, and that our righteous judgment was murder. The Devil convinced him that he had to protect our children by taking them far away. I know he only meant the best for our children, but could he not see that he was not saving them, but ensuring their eternal damnation?
I rushed to Father Michael to tell him what had happened, and the Father assured me that everything would be alright. The twins were under the protection of an Angel, and they would be returned to us. And sure enough, Father Michael spoke truthfully. Mark was stopped by the sheriff as he was driving away from town, and brought back to face the judgment of the Lord.
As I cast my stones, I told myself that it was for the sake of our children. I know that Mark understood that. For their sake I had to remove all obstacles on the path to salvation. I know Mark understood that. I know he did. Even in his weakness of faith, all he wished for was their well being. If only he had not allowed the Devil inside his heart, he too could join us as we ascended to the Kingdom of God.
Your fellow daughter of God,
Rachael
********
Dear Janette,
Rejoice, for I bring good news! The time for us to cast aside our sinful earthly bodies and allow our spirits to ascend has come! Out of a town once filled with so many, now only twelve of us remain. We are the last few, the ones who have kept our faith through all the trials and tribulations, not once straying from the path Father Michael laid out for us!
I once thought that Father Michael was a messenger from God, but I never imagined how true that would be! He has shown to us his true self, and he is a being of beauty and perfection, who has graced this Earth for a short time to show us the way to Heaven.
The gallows are being constructed in front of the church, and all of us are dressed in our finest. Tears of happiness come to my eyes when I look at the twins and realize that soon they will be leaving this cruel world behind, and spend eternity in the glory of Heaven.
Father Michael is outside now, standing by the gallows, his true appearance shining like the brightest star in the sky. When he speaks, it is with a voice that shakes the ground itself. He tells us that the time has come for us to Embrace the Archangel, and become one with Him.
But do not feel sad, dear Janette! We shall not be parted long. For the Archangel will one day come to visit you as well. One day, all the people of the Earth will learn to embrace him, and we shall be brought together in His presence.
Until that wonderful day arrives, your friend,
Rachael
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