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Member
Join Date: Nov 2008
Posts: 5
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First post, novel prologue [adult language and theme]
Hello, first post here. Looking for insight regarding the prologue to my novel. This is the initial rough draft, so feel free to tear it up! Thanks!
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Father David Richardson closed the double entry doors to Sacred Fire Cathedral just after his secretary stepped out into the cold Chicago rain. After ensuring that the doors were locked, he rushed back through the cathedral to his private office. The little shit had told. Stephen, the altar boy had gone to his parents, who had gone to the police. It was only a call from some overly ambitious reporter at the Sun-Tribune asking him for a quote on the matter that had given Richardson enough time to clear out the evidence. Richardson had dodged two prior investigations, using his status within the Church to his advantage. But Stephen had mentioned the video camera. The police were going to be very interested in his films.
Richardson stopped at the door to his office and fumbled for the key. His heart racing, a crazy notion flashed through his mind that somehow the police would be inside when he opened the door. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his robe as he unlocked and then opened the door.
An empty office greeted him. Ornate redwood desk, standing lamp, telephone, bookshelves packed to overflowing. Warm light filled the room. Richardson took a deep breath, told himself to relax. He would destroy the videos, and wiggle through one more investigation. Perhaps the monastic life wasn't so bad, after all. Richardson closed and locked the door to the office. He went to the east wall of the office and removed the framed portrait of Holy Father Simon XV from the wall, exposing his safe. Hands shaking, he keyed in the seven digit passcode, turned the handle and opened the thick steel door to the safe.
The safe was empty.
No, no, no! This is not happening!
“Looking for these, Father?” said a voice from behind him.
Richardson jumped at the sound and spun around. A figure garbed in a black monk's habit stood behind his desk, drumming black gloved fingers on a stack of DVDs. The figure's face was buried deep within the cowl of the habit.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want? How did you get in here?” asked Richardson.
“The Holy Father is very disappointed in you, Father Richardson.” the figure said.
Richardson reached for the phone on his desk, lifted the handset.
“You can't be here” said Richardson “This is my private-”
The figure raised one black gloved hand and pointed his hand at the outlet where the phone line was plugged in. With a gentle crook of his index finger, the figure motioned to the outlet. The line grew taut, and then snapped, leaving the plug in the outlet. Richardson felt the blood drain from his face.
“I've come to hear your confession, Father.” the figure whispered.
Richardson sneered.
“I don't know who you are, or what kind of cheap parlor trick you're trying to pull here, but you are not authorized to hear my confession.” He said.
“You disappoint me, Father Richardson.” the figure said “Your level of contrition leaves something to be desired. No matter. We can dispense with the formalities. What do you say we skip confession and go straight to penance?”
The figure placed a straight razor on Richardson's desk next to the stack of DVDs.
“Cut yourself, Father.” the figure said “Bleed for me, just a little.”
Richardson snatched up the razor and scowled.
“I'm giving you one more chance to leave,” Richardson said, “before I turn this on you. I am not a violent man, but I will make an exception for a psychopath in my office.”
Richardson raised the razor into the air, punctuating his words.
The cloaked figure began to speak. Rolling syllables flowed from deep within the hood. Rapid fire words in a language long dead penetrated Richardson's brain. David Richardson did not understand the words, could barely make them out. But something began to tickle in the back of his brain. Something buried in the speech sliced through Richardson's indignation, through his very conscious mind. He did not even register that hot tears flowed down his cheeks. Using the razor, he sliced his robes gently and
deliberately. A vertical incision from the collar to the floor. Discarding the garment, he stood only in a white t-shirt and a pair of blue and white striped boxer shorts. These too fell under the razor, until Father David Richardson stood naked before the figure in black. His jaw hung slack as he stood, mezmerized.
“Very good, Father. Let's start on the chest. Not too deep, though. We're going to be here for a while.”
Richardson had no choice. He raised the razor in his right hand and slowly made a shallow cut just above his left nipple. Though he could not disobey, he felt the burning pain as the blade sliced his skin. Somewhere deep in his mind, Richardson screamed. Blood welled from the cut, and Richardson's arm went slack to his side, still holding the razor.
“Excellent” the figure said. “What shall we write on, David?”
The figure glanced at the north wall of the office. A calendar hung there, along with a corkboard covered in memos and handwritten reminder notes. The figure waved a hand at the wall, and the calendar and corkboard flew off the wall, striking the opposite wall and sliding to the floor. The figure appraised the blank white painted wall, and turned to Richardson.
“There you are, David,” he said “a blank canvas, just for you. Now pay your penance, Father, just as I instructed you.”
Richardson touched his left index finger to the cut on his chest, wetting it with blood. He shuffled to the blank wall and began to inscribe.
Four hundred and seventy eight cuts later, a like number of inscriptions filled the wall. One per cut. Father David Richardson slumped at the base of the wall. Further cuts would serve no purpose, as there was no heartbeat left to pump the fluid out.
Uriel lowered the cowl from his head and smiled. Floor to ceiling, the priest had written over and over in his own blood:
I WILL NOT FUCK THE ALTAR BOYS I WILL NOT FUCK THE ALTAR BOYS
Uriel bent over Richardson's corpse and gently dipped one finger into his cooling blood. He licked the
blood from his glove, savoring the taste. Then he straightened, closed his eyes, and walked through the wall into the cold rain beyond the cathedral.
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