Greqoh
10-14-2005, 08:54 PM
The Forsaken
by L. Greqoh
Greg closed the door to the small booth.
He bowed his head remorsefully and tried to speak. But the words wouldn't come.
"What troubles you, my son?" a gentle voice spoke from the next booth.
"I have sinned, father," the young man began.
"I have done things...horrible things."
"Yes, go on," the old voice spoke.
Greg began nervously tugging at the bandages wrapped tightly around his left wrist. He had wrapped his wound too tight.
"The devil plays with my mind, father. He puts horrible things in my mind," Greg reluctantly told him.
Greg heard the frail voice answer through the thin walls of the confessional.
"Everyone has evil thoughts sometimes. But the Lord gives us the power to put them away. It is just a matter of faith."
"I'm not strong enough," Greg said, clinching his fists.
His left one began stinging. Greg's anguished voice asked, "Why did he make me the way that I am?"
The aging father reassured him, "God has given everyone the will to choose between good and evil. He loves every one of us and he has a plan for everyone. You must be strong."
"I try. I try so hard, father," Greg replied, "I don't think other people...feel the way that I do sometimes."
The old father sat up uncomfortably in his booth.
He removed his glasses from his face as he stared at the thin wall that separated the two of them. He stared at it as if he could see right through it, at the troubled young man sitting next to him.
"What do you feel now?" he uneasily asked.
There was a heavy silence for several seconds. The only sound was the creaking of the old booths.
"I'd...like to kill you right now, father," Greg shamefully admitted.
The old priest was speechless..
"I'm sorry...You can't help me." Greg said as he got up and opened the booth.
"Greg, wait!" the man called as he watched him leave God's house. The only sound in the empty church was the heavy door shutting as Greg left. And the old priest knew that another soul had been lost this night.
Outside it was raining again.
Greg walked past the lit church sign, with it's optimistic rhetoric about Jesus saving souls. He decided he would never return. There was no longer anything for him there.
Greg's head was throbbing. He could feel the psychotic urges growing stronger, they were pushing their way forward in his mind.
He passed a few people as he walked the four blocks to his small apartment. He tried not to make eye contact with them. He didn't like the way that people looked when the madness came upon him..
Sometimes people reminded him of mannequins or dolls. He would look into their eyes and wonder what kinds of expressions they would make as he took them apart.
He became uncomfortably aware of just how easy it would be to kill someone. No one ever knew what was in your head.
The first thing he did when he got home was to go to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He swallowed a few aspirin, washing them down with a glass of vodka.
He stared into the mirror. His black hair had grown past his shoulders and he needed a shave badly.
As he stared at his himself, he began to see his reflection changing, melting. It took on a more sinister, demonic form. It appeared to be smiling at him.
He examined it with a mix of horror and fascination as it began to speak to him. The voice was very deep and slow, like a record about to come to a stop. It came from the grinning face.
"Pieces...bring me pieces," it told him.
He began to recoil in terror. Suddenly the phantom image lunged out of the mirror and grabbed him by the throat.
Greg struggled to break free but could not; the iron grip was choking him. He tried to yell for help, but could barely make a sound.
He began kicking the wall for help, frantically.
An angry voice came from the next apartment, "What the hell are you doing over there?"
Greg suddenly realized that the hands around his throat were his own.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. It was back to normal. Greg began to sob.
Greg probably accumulated around four hours sleep.
He had to get up early today, there were things to do.
Gail's husband had left for work around thirty minutes ago.
She sat at the kitchen table eating her toast and drinking her coffee. She was reading the morning paper and trying to decide which job interview she would go on.
She heard someone knocking at the door. Who could that be at this hour, she wondered?
Her home sat back off of the main road on a long gravel drive. It was very odd for anyone to come unannounced, especially this early in the morning.
She nervously went to the heavy security door. "Who is it?" she asked. There was no reply.
The knock continued.
Gail looked through the peep hole. Her husband had returned. His face looked like he had seen a ghost. He must have fallen ill and decided to come back home.
"Roger, are you all right?" she asked as she undid the chain on the door and unlocked the deadbolt.
As she opened the door her eyes met those of a strange young man dressed in black trench coat. He had been holding her husband's decapitated head up to the peep hole.
As her eyes fell upon the macabre expression of terror on her husband's head, she let out a long shriek of panic. She tried to close the door, but the young man was too fast.
He pried it open, and pushed her to the floor.
"Oh, my God! Help me!" she pleaded.
Greg had been waiting patiently for two weeks. He studied their patterns and habits. He examined their house. Today he would make his move...
by L. Greqoh
Greg closed the door to the small booth.
He bowed his head remorsefully and tried to speak. But the words wouldn't come.
"What troubles you, my son?" a gentle voice spoke from the next booth.
"I have sinned, father," the young man began.
"I have done things...horrible things."
"Yes, go on," the old voice spoke.
Greg began nervously tugging at the bandages wrapped tightly around his left wrist. He had wrapped his wound too tight.
"The devil plays with my mind, father. He puts horrible things in my mind," Greg reluctantly told him.
Greg heard the frail voice answer through the thin walls of the confessional.
"Everyone has evil thoughts sometimes. But the Lord gives us the power to put them away. It is just a matter of faith."
"I'm not strong enough," Greg said, clinching his fists.
His left one began stinging. Greg's anguished voice asked, "Why did he make me the way that I am?"
The aging father reassured him, "God has given everyone the will to choose between good and evil. He loves every one of us and he has a plan for everyone. You must be strong."
"I try. I try so hard, father," Greg replied, "I don't think other people...feel the way that I do sometimes."
The old father sat up uncomfortably in his booth.
He removed his glasses from his face as he stared at the thin wall that separated the two of them. He stared at it as if he could see right through it, at the troubled young man sitting next to him.
"What do you feel now?" he uneasily asked.
There was a heavy silence for several seconds. The only sound was the creaking of the old booths.
"I'd...like to kill you right now, father," Greg shamefully admitted.
The old priest was speechless..
"I'm sorry...You can't help me." Greg said as he got up and opened the booth.
"Greg, wait!" the man called as he watched him leave God's house. The only sound in the empty church was the heavy door shutting as Greg left. And the old priest knew that another soul had been lost this night.
Outside it was raining again.
Greg walked past the lit church sign, with it's optimistic rhetoric about Jesus saving souls. He decided he would never return. There was no longer anything for him there.
Greg's head was throbbing. He could feel the psychotic urges growing stronger, they were pushing their way forward in his mind.
He passed a few people as he walked the four blocks to his small apartment. He tried not to make eye contact with them. He didn't like the way that people looked when the madness came upon him..
Sometimes people reminded him of mannequins or dolls. He would look into their eyes and wonder what kinds of expressions they would make as he took them apart.
He became uncomfortably aware of just how easy it would be to kill someone. No one ever knew what was in your head.
The first thing he did when he got home was to go to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He swallowed a few aspirin, washing them down with a glass of vodka.
He stared into the mirror. His black hair had grown past his shoulders and he needed a shave badly.
As he stared at his himself, he began to see his reflection changing, melting. It took on a more sinister, demonic form. It appeared to be smiling at him.
He examined it with a mix of horror and fascination as it began to speak to him. The voice was very deep and slow, like a record about to come to a stop. It came from the grinning face.
"Pieces...bring me pieces," it told him.
He began to recoil in terror. Suddenly the phantom image lunged out of the mirror and grabbed him by the throat.
Greg struggled to break free but could not; the iron grip was choking him. He tried to yell for help, but could barely make a sound.
He began kicking the wall for help, frantically.
An angry voice came from the next apartment, "What the hell are you doing over there?"
Greg suddenly realized that the hands around his throat were his own.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. It was back to normal. Greg began to sob.
Greg probably accumulated around four hours sleep.
He had to get up early today, there were things to do.
Gail's husband had left for work around thirty minutes ago.
She sat at the kitchen table eating her toast and drinking her coffee. She was reading the morning paper and trying to decide which job interview she would go on.
She heard someone knocking at the door. Who could that be at this hour, she wondered?
Her home sat back off of the main road on a long gravel drive. It was very odd for anyone to come unannounced, especially this early in the morning.
She nervously went to the heavy security door. "Who is it?" she asked. There was no reply.
The knock continued.
Gail looked through the peep hole. Her husband had returned. His face looked like he had seen a ghost. He must have fallen ill and decided to come back home.
"Roger, are you all right?" she asked as she undid the chain on the door and unlocked the deadbolt.
As she opened the door her eyes met those of a strange young man dressed in black trench coat. He had been holding her husband's decapitated head up to the peep hole.
As her eyes fell upon the macabre expression of terror on her husband's head, she let out a long shriek of panic. She tried to close the door, but the young man was too fast.
He pried it open, and pushed her to the floor.
"Oh, my God! Help me!" she pleaded.
Greg had been waiting patiently for two weeks. He studied their patterns and habits. He examined their house. Today he would make his move...