I am aware this is more than 2,000 words, but I am writing it for a school project, and it would be nice to get some feedback. It might get incoherent towards the end, because I haven't got round to polishing that bit yet, but I was just wondering what people think.
Silence. Complete, eternal silence from that one. His hour of repayment would be today, and it would be duly so, he was not just a murderer, a conspirator of actions against the state and nation, like most of the people here. He had committed great acts of extreme evil, and I was one of the suffers, as good as being stabbed, he had stolen something of great value from me, and ruined my soul. I had tried to forgive, tried to forget and turn the other cheek, but how was I when he had done what he had done. I had heard the innocents cry for justice, which they would not get, and the guilty plead for mercy and forgiveness, pleading that went to me. To god through me, for as their protectors in their time of need here in their final resting place, I prayed for their souls each night, so would god to take them into his arms. Every night, without fail I would do my duty for those that needed it most, even if they did not deserve it. Apart from this one. Not him, the silent pagan. Thing, that sat in the circle, carved by him of symbols into the floor, an unholy, pagan ritual which openly challenged the true God with own dark gods. Blasphemous fragments of a deranged mind, unhinged by something darker than the deeds this lost sheep had performed, it would be the last time I gazed upon this lost one though, and a good dismissal would be just in gods eyes, before he was sent to the underworld.
Again he passed my home; I could hear the soft leather on his spoiled feet patter off the concrete floor. Filth. Like all good little Christians, he would turn and bless those who sinned, it would be an ‘honour’ to be sent to ‘heaven’, the place in which life was spent in wealth and glory and good health. True sin. A blessing would be given to each member of the cul-de-sac, I would hear him, his noise rising each day as he neared me, when he would stood and regard me silently, then move on, later. To the others, the words “God Forgives” were always spoken, the only time they had been spoken to me here was 5 years before, on my first day. And then, on the first of new days, he spoke the same words again.
“Those that repent”, I finished what I was saying, and walked into the room, it was different to the others, the paint had been scratched off of the walls, but not in a crude manner, it had been delicate and organised, like a slow, planned eradication of paint off of the wall, where once had been a sickly pea and olive colour to the room, there was now only grey. In place of the paint, intricate symbols and pictures, a life’s work in the eyes of some, a work of art in others. In mine, a work of open defiance to me, and to my god. Here, I should have the power, yet the symbols granted this man great power, for some reason, he was able to defy all the authority of my honourable position, and take the power to himself. And it had stayed since they were etched into the concrete walls, as no-one dared go in and remove them, the inhabitant was too dangerous, it was deemed. And so, the ritualistic images of violence, hate and destruction stayed there, but the truly great work of art of the place was the ring in the floor, where small runes had been carved, where a small story was portrayed, each line from one part flowing into another, it had been noted by many of the guards, but none knew why that was, but everyone knew the story. It was his own creation, a story he had enacted his self.
“Gods bless those that make the world listen, Gods listen to those who make the world fear them and Gods obey those who make the world stand still.” He said, “And those that let the world move them are sinners in their eyes”. He said it with a sigh, as his hand scraped against the floor, a small spoon in his hand, grinding at concrete. He knew my next question, the one burning in my mind, I could not see the next part of the circle, the final part, he kept it hidden, and I did not ask, I would not give him the satisfaction of revealing a stone best left unturned. Again, his hand ground against the stone, a small scrape, each time taking out a small fraction, fragments splintering out, each grate making a small noise, a noise which played repeatedly, defying the silence which he would soon have.
“Your collar blinds you to the truth.” He was a dog, a pawn of his religion, enslaved to his corrupt masters by his devotion, and was kept devoted by the rigorous regime that commanded him to lay anything else aside, but it was a fine balance. A small change in life could tip the weight of the white robed yet bloody handed cardinals aside, “Remove your chain, that white collar round your neck that binds you. Be without burden, and a true cause will guide you. Should you make the gods listen and if you cast corrupt fallacies aside.” It was an easy task, warping another’s beliefs, provided the person had them, and this creature would be the last one to be honoured by me, my duties as a servant of the gods, a messenger, to deliver what is right to those who will not listen, and set the world free for those that will. To be honoured with the ideals of true power, of serenity, of freedom and of enlightenment to be placed into his heart and mind, was my last task.
Before he could reply, I held up my hand, I could hear footsteps coming, echoing through the narrow corridor outside. I could almost see the waves bouncing off of the steel blue walls, a loud, sharp sound, echoing,
clack, clack, clack. He would be the last servant, ready to have his feet washed, while he delivered my food. It was amusing how they compared it to a religious event, in their eyes, they were trying to emulate their god, but in truth, the farce made the image of their saviour into that of mine. Servant of the Gods. Metal on metal, grinding,
clack, silence,
patter
The plastic clattered lightly on the floor, the tray was set down for him, his last meal, he wouldn’t get anything else from us, apart from what he rightly deserved. He put the cutlery provided at his side, he always ate with his hands,
“It is wrong for a person to use tools that there is not need for” he had said to me before,
“What is given to us by our benefactor is surely enough, even you are not too short-sighted to see that? Yes?” He proceeded to eat, fat and oil dripping from his jaw and fingers, breaking into the cracks and indents in his hands and face, fat solidifying on his fingers, forming stalactites before falling into puddles on his crossed legs, and flowing onto the concrete. For the first
the chicken bone was cast aside, and he picked up water. However, instead of drinking, he poured it, and it fell, seemingly as a slower speed than possible, as it fell into the crevices in the concrete, flowing along in a story.
The first chapter had involved water, where one of the unholy creatures had tried to desperately survive, he had fought and fought, but his faith in his own body could not let him swim to his safety, so he had stayed trying to reach upwards, never travelling across the expanse which could have saved his life. At the end, I had looked down on him, and he looked up, panting as he struggled to stay afloat, fighting to survive, pleading for his life, pleading to his god, to escape from his watery grave. Holy water.
He had been found in a tube of water, by me. One of the priests of whom I was going to see, and he had been floating in water, he had not been drowned, he had been left, which was a far worse punishment, left until his body had resigned, and left his lungs fill with water. He had drowned only 20 feet to safety, where the tube had continued, and ended up, giving access to air, yet my fellow brother had not had the confidence in his body to do so, and he had died. A single white rose had been placed in his hand, and his face had been lifeless as he had been carried away. The water had continued it’s path now, and it was in the second part.
It had been horrifying, her face, her perfect face in a look of dread, pain, yet slight satisfaction. “Why?” I asked, his lifeless eyes looked down, they saw nothing, yet everything, he knew where the water was. He smiled and looked up, “She screamed” He said.
“She Screamed” She had done, as the gods let their weight on her shoulders “Like no human should, she had cried he pleas of mercy through her own grave, and they echoed to my ears” another servant of Christians, much like the black garbed monster before me, thinking himself better in his own arrogant world, because he was blessed by a false god thought up by old men as an excuse for creation, in a hypocritical society, a religion that would preach a thing yet practice another.
His daughter. She was the one; the box that had stopped the holy earth from touching her Christian face had done well to protect it from the trial that her body had failed at. The mask that had concealed her had been cast away soon into the test, revealing, like a plug, the true nature, the screaming had resounded. She had stood with he head through the wooded square, and she had screamed. When the box had been placed over her head, she had screamed, the echoes inside only inciting the fear further, making her trembling body tremble more, and her screaming echo as dirt and stone had piled on top of her. She had failed the test, failed in her struggle, as she was crushed beautifully and the music of stone piling on stone with creaking wood and crunching bone had played in my ears, along with the strong vocals from her dying lungs. It had ended in a slow crescendo as the stones stopped falling, the bones quietened, the wood snapped, and the screaming ended. A single white rose adorned her hair.
He was trying to play with my mind, his words, few for the thoughts that they incited, cut deep, he had killed and he was proud of it. That, a few times before, I had seen, but it was always bravado, however, this time, he was genuinely proud of the murder, the murder of the one person who meant anything to me any more, and now he was sure that the pain he was causing me was for the greater power of his religion. Why was he this sure? Was he insane? That was the assumption of most people, however, there was something, and he had picked up my unsureness, “Repenting now will not save you life” I panicked, what did he mean?
I stood, not for the first time in my room, but the last, the man opposite spent time walking round, however,
legs are for walking was something I was always taught,
not wasting time and the only time I had walked was to access something I needed, and now my access was to away from this place. It pained me greatly, as it always did to walk, after what they had done to me, false medication, damaging me permanently, but I got up, refusing the help offered, I did not need it, I would make my own way as I always had. Since it’s creation, I removed myself from the sacred circle, within which a new chapter had started.
He had been higher than a priest, he had been one of the true corrupt, so a test of true faith was needed, the true test of faith, if faith is light, is darkness, and that was where he had been, for days, each hour, presented with a dilemma, renounce his faith, or jump in faith. For the first week , had sat, saying nothing, then, on the 9th day, he had jumped to the light, where a small light, perched on a spike had resided, where a small light glowed red, with the blood of a bishop.
Faith had been everything to me, and now he was questioning mine, as he had done to the bishop. Before, everything had been clear, but his speech had rattled me, if he was dedicated enough to kill, was he right about the high clergy? The man walked in front of me, he knew where I was and he stood so I could still not see the last part of the circle, until I walked out, the guard following me, and the murder following him.
While I could not see him, I could hear the sound of his shoes as he walked,
clack, clack, clack. The priest spoke, “Water, Earth, Darkness and Air.” Air was the final test, a test of truth, where the unholy priest had made to resemble a Christian angel, and cast off of the spire of his church, surely a Christian angel made of a holy Christian and the eagle which adorned the country’s coins fused would be enough to fly, should the religion be true? It was not and he died.
It had been disgusting, what he had done to the priest, the wings of an eagle had been brutally sewn onto him, while he was alive, and he was then cast from his own church, to his death, his body was barley recognisable, and a white rose had been in his hand. There was one left however, “Where is fire” I had turned now, and was looking straight into his lifeless eyes, he smiled and shook his head, “You will find out.”
The feet stopped, and metal upon metal grinded as a key slipped into a lock, and old hinges grinded in protest as the door was opened, signalling a response from the feet to continue. “First, fire was for me, as a test, it was only for me” The fire had cleansed my eyes, from the world, and to prove myself worthy at the end of my deeds, fire had to test my eyes. I walked in, and though I could not see it, I knew an angel was there, a wooden creature, similar to the commonly conjured angel, with a steel halo, it opened it’s arms and I sat in it’s lap, letting it grip my wrist. “Look at the circle” I said to the priest.”
Impatient, I ran to his cell, to find the circle, and the final story, and as I reached, the circle finished one part of the last chapter, and moved onto the final, within, I stood in horror,
I heard the grip of a leaver, ready for the final movement, I smiled,
Slam
A White Rose.
Explosion.
