Miranda Kate’s Mid-Week Challenge : 2019/03/24

Perhaps, someday, someone will find this, my diary. Perhaps. I suppose the only reason I have for writing the words I have is my inability to let go of hope.

The truth is, I’m a dead man. I will die, in silence, locked in this room that doesn’t exist. One of many such rooms on this hallway that lies beneath the basement of God’s church. The only glimpse I have of the outside world being through the keyhole in the wall, placed there when I was sealed in this, my ten foot by ten foot tomb.

No food. No water. Nothing. Save the ability to look out into the hallway, lined with identical tombs, each with its own keyhole. It seems the church can starve me to death, and make me die of thirst, but can’t suffocate me in an airtight room.

I don’t know how long the hallway is, or if it is the only hallway, or one of many hallways. I do know, this is where enemies of God end up. Here. In a white brick room. With only an artificial light, embedded in the ceiling, that never turns off. Left here, sealed inside, to die for my crimes against the Church.

I don’t even know what crimes I have committed.

Perhaps independent thought. Thinking for myself, instead of doing what the church demanded. Perhaps that is how I wound up here.

Perhaps independent action. Giving my bagged lunch to one of the natives. Someone who does not believe in God. A heathen. Instead of letting them starve.

Perhaps because I learned to read, and write, and thus became able to read the words of the sacred scriptures on my own, without a monk, or priest having to read them to me.

Perhaps I will never know. Other than what I was told. “You have violated the directives of God, and His Church, and you have refused to acknowledge your sins, and beg for His forgiveness, or make the required sacrifices to pay for your sins, according to God’s laws.”

So, here I am. On this hallway. In a room that doesn’t exist. In a hallway that doesn’t exist. Were all such heathens as myself end up. I have examined the walls of this place. Stone. Cold, hard stone. No seams of any kind. As if the room was carved into a solid block of stone. Once it had a door. I know this, they pushed me through that door, into this place. Then, they sealed me in. A single piece of stone, with a keyhole carved into it.

I remember the brilliance of the laser beams that heated the door, and the stone of the cell, until they glowed, too bright to bear to look at. Melting the stone of each, turning it into a solid joint. Sealed. Forever.

I remember the words of the Priest who directed the Monks that sealed me in this room, “May the light of God seal this heathen inside his final home, leaving no way to escape.”

There are no days here. No nights. No time. Here, there is only waiting, and wondering, “Does it hurt to die of thirst? Does it hurt to starve to death? Does it hurt as my body slowly consumes itself trying to keep me alive?”

I suppose, in this place, in this tomb, I will learn the answers to such questions soon enough.

568 Words
@mysoulstears


It’s week 99 of Miranda Kate‘s Mid-Week Challenge. You can read about Miranda’s small fiction challenge here. Please, go read Miranda’s short tale this week, and any others that showed up. The tales are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed.

 

#MWBB Week 2.22 – A Tale Of Wrath : I Try

Brian sat in the church pew. It was Friday night, and the church was available for prayers. Those who wished to talk with God in private. The priest sat in the chair beside the altar, and was available for any who approached him.

Brian was thankful the church was available. He wished to speak with God. He needed to speak with God. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the blood on his hands. Her blood.

“She never listened! God! She never listened!” He didn’t speak aloud, his words echoed in his head instead. “I played the song for her, but she never listened!” Brian shook his head. “I even sang them to her. I did.”

The words of the song echoed in his head.

I try to say goodbye and I choke.
I try to walk away and I stumble.
Though I try to hide it, it’s clear.
My world crumbles when you are not near.

He even heard the words In Macy Gray’s voice.

“I explained, God. I did. And still, she wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t hold my hand. Wouldn’t be with me. Wouldn’t love me.”

Brian remembered his frustration. His agony. Feeling she’d stabbed him in his heart. “I loved her, God!” He quietly cried, sitting in the church, unable to raise his head to look at the cross before him.

He’d bought flowers. He knew they were her favorites. White lilies. A dozen of them. He’d bought chocolates. Godiva, in a heart container. And a bottle of her favorite wine. He put on his best Sunday suit, the gray one, with pinstripes. A clean, white shirt. A white tie. He’d bought the tie to match the lilies.

He’d been nervous, sitting in his car, waiting for her to get home from work.

He’d been furious when she’d arrived with that other guy. “God, he should have known! He should have known she was mine!”

He left the lilies and chocolate in his car. He followed them to her apartment. He listened to her laughter, he could hear her in the hall. He didn’t know what to do. Everything had gone wrong. Nothing was like he wanted it. Like he needed it.

He remembered his shoulder colliding with the door, several times, the sound of wood cracking, then splintering. He hadn’t felt anything as he broke through the door. The two of them stood there, half-naked, staring at the door in horror.

He attacked the man. He grabbed anything within reach, to help him. The crystal clock on the table by the front door. Brian stared at his hands, but the memory wouldn’t go away. That clock, striking the man’s face. Over and over, until the man stopped moving.

She clawed at him. Jumped on his back. Pounded on his shoulders. Her fingernails scraped at his neck, and face. The clock struck her head. “I told you! I told you! I try! But you never listen!” Her beautiful face wasn’t beautiful anymore. Her beautiful neck bent funny. “I can’t live without you!”

Brian stood in the church. He screamed at God, “I told her! I told her!”

He closed his eyes, and saw the blood on his hands. Blood he knew he could never wash away.

He sat down on the pew. “Why, God? Why didn’t she listen?”

The police entered from the back of the church. The priest nodded to them, and pointed to Brian.

Wrath stood in the shadow of the cross and laughed. He kept laughing long after the police took Brian away.

591 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for Year 2, Week 22 (Week 2.22) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.