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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2051954
Rated: ASR · Novel · Dark · #2051954
Just a brief sample of a recent project.
Blood dripped off the stone altar in a steady rhythm. Drip, drip, drip. He was mesmerised; the way the blood glistened in the half-light seemed inviting to him, almost hypnotising. The girl was still alive, her chest rising and falling shallowly; barely moving. To him, she was nothing. He didn’t know her, even though she’d been in the cellar with the others for almost three months. He tended to avoid them, not because their gaunt faces and hopeless stares evoked guilt within him, but because it was not his duty to deal with the sacrifices; he was more important than that. Instead, the others looked after them, or at least kept them alive. Their health didn’t matter, as long as they were living. The angels had told him he was doing well, and he’d relayed this praise on to the others. They had all been overjoyed that their efforts had been noticed, and yet each was slightly dismayed that the angels hadn’t spoken to them personally. He had just shrugged, telling them that he just had a connection; something that allowed the angels to send their voices to him in the form of whispers. Whispers in his head. The angels picked the sacrifice; he was simply following the orders from a higher power. The girl had screamed, just as everyone before her had screamed and shouted to the heavens, but, of course, the heavens were where the orders came from. She’d pleaded with him, prayed that he would not kill her, and yet, eventually, she’d begged for death. The angels would answer her prayer, he knew, but not before her blood filled the Baptismal font.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2051954