A New “Old” Story
I wrote this about 2 years ago (most of my new stuff is out in cyberspace trying to get published). I was told it had some nice writing in it but didn’t quite work as a story. Looking back at it I think I agree but, I was put on a word limit so I guess it was a successful exercise. Let me know what you think.
There is no color yet it is blinding. There is no noise but the silent cries of the dead is deafening. I don’t exist and it is maddening. I am not in heaven, its promised kiss eludes me and I am not in hell for I don’t feel its icy sting. Then I am summoned.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living.’ is his greeting. It’s the same every time, that officious little prick. He calls himself Lazarus but I know it’s not his real name. I’ll learn it soon enough. Then he will suffer.
I don’t know how long I have been dead. Lazarus has command over my soul and has imprisoned me. ‘I have need of your abilities again.’ He speaks behind a pane of black glass, his voice distorted and mechanical. The glass is painted with symbols, triangles and goat heads, swirls and stars. I cannot approach. I have tried but it lights my soul on fire. The pain is excruciating, it is like nothing I could have imagined when my body was flesh. God, I will make him suffer one day.
He wakes me from my purgatory, gives me orders that I must obey, only to be imprisoned again. ‘There is a new threat. Kill him.’ The command is cold and simple. The target appears to me in my mind and I am off.
The night is crystal clear. The moon and the stars bathe me. I can feel their luminescence surging through me, light-waves bending in endless cycles of bright and brighter. I burn and my soul cries out for salvation but there is never an answer.
I approach the house of my prey. The front door is painted with simple talismans of half-moons and pentagrams. Red paint, coarse and with dried smears, give the impression that these scriptures were written in blood. My arrival is expected.
I pass through the door, the talismans don’t even sting, and I make my way upstairs. The air shrieks as I travel trough it, then dies as thunderclaps.
My prey’s flesh ripens with sweat and gooseflesh. I can see, no taste his fear. I absorb its acid, rancor and I am not surprised that I have learned to like it.
I laugh. It booms like tortured screams and pierces the prey’s soul like icy shivs. I can smell urine running down his leg. I can feel the beat of his heart. His eyes grow wide. He holds up the Jatuka Ramatep and I laugh harder now, at his pathetic charm, and the room trembles.
“Please, tell Nahema I’m sorry!!”
Nahema! At last I have a name. This must be who my captor is! The prey is shaking now, on his knees praying, begging and crying. Although he doesn’t know it, he has given me valuable information. I decide to end his life painlessly. I place my hands on his head. My touch rots his flesh; it curls and gives off the sweet odor of decay. Before he has a chance to scream, in one quick motion I twist of his head. His soul passes me by, a whisper in a hurricane.
I begin to dissipate as I get summoned back to my prison. It won’t be long before I am free Nahema, then you will know true pain.