by Nathan Parks
There were still a few pieces missing, and it made the old priest tremble some as he could only imagine what those pieces meant. The few pieces on which he had been working had puzzled him for years, but he knew they held something; he could feel it . . . each manuscript different and yet the same. His work on all that surrounded him had started out as a simple desire to create a historical chronology of different works and artifacts with which he had been entrusted. Over the years it had turned into something so much more.
The temperature outside was freezing, and the snow had been falling all day. Now, it seemed the evening would continue to be drenched in the frozen tears of the Angels; but maybe the cold, moist air would be just what he needed in order to relax his mind so he could get some rest. He would have to make sure to bundle up. His aged bones didn’t handle this weather well, but his spirit soaked it in. In this small area of Austria, known as Heiligenblut, there would be a few people who would most likely call out to him to come inside for a while and talk.
He capped off his inkwell and grabbed the candle as he headed toward the wooden door that would lead him down a hallway, past the crypt of Briccius, and then up the stairs to the main area of the church. The rest of the town was modern—it had truly caught up with the new millennium—but the church had always been about rawness and simplicity . . . so, no electricity or modern niceties.
Chapter Four
The elderly priest walked along the side of the main auditorium and toward the doors that opened to the outside. He smiled as he felt a familiar sense that he was not alone. He paused and then spoke, “Ah, My Friend, I believe that you are arriving a little too late, as this evening I was just about to head out to relax my mind and then call it a night.”
A tall shadow moved just to the left of him, seemingly the shadow of someone who blocked the light from the candle but was not visible to the naked eye. A strong and rich voice spoke, sounding like the clearness of a gentle stream. “I am never late; and yet, not held by time, so maybe I am never on time.” There was a sense of playfulness as the joking from a good friend.
The priest opened a small wooden door to a closet exposing a long, hooded, brown cloak that he began to put on. “Well, this is true . . . but then are any of us truly bound by time or is time simply a measurement in order to give us boundaries?”
There was gentle laughter from the nothingness, and then the figure slowly began to become visible.
“You always have a way to take anything I say and turn it. No matter the measurement, no matter if time is a creation simply by mortals, . . .” The figure paused as a sincere and deliberate look crossed over his face.
The priest looked up and studied the eyes of the man in front of him. There was nothing but sadness, yet a hint—maybe a gleam—of that same humor possibly because of the understanding that time ended at the curtain of mortality.
The priest sighed heavily as his feeble hands did not even bother to continue to fasten his coat. “You are telling me that I have spent so much time, yet I will not discover the truth?” He paused and sat down on a wooden bench beside the coat closet. “You know I should be upset that you didn’t at least allow me to take one last walk. You know it’s a full moon out tonight, and the air is that crispness that I enjoy.”
“I know; then again, to allow that would be to assume that time is something by which you are not governed but is something that can be manipulated.”
The priest grinned. “Uh-huh.” He looked around the old church and rested his head against the wall behind him. “You know, to think after all these years, I know less now than the day I first entered into the service of this church.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Worth it? In what way?”
“Knowing now that you devoted your life to something that was not what it seemed before you surrendered to it.”
“Is there any other way? To sit here now and say it isn’t worth it would insinuate that I know of a better way. To do that would be presuming that I am arrogant enough to believe that another way would have been different. I think we all make our choices; and no matter what the choice, we live with it, learn from it . . .”
“. . . And die with it?” the figure questioned.
“Yes, but you do so, knowing that any other choice would have still brought you to the same point.”
“What is that point?”
“The reason you are here tonight.”
The Angel smiled slightly. “True, so are you ready? Everything about which you have just spoken I envy, for it is something that my kind cannot begin to understand.”
“What about the journals?”
“You have done what you were meant to do. We must go.”
The priest stood up and smiled. “Well, then you lead the way. You are the expert here.” The priest looked back one time and smiled as he saw his body resting so peacefully upon the bench. “Boy, Old Man, when did you get old?” he laughed.
◆◆◆
“Disgusting!” Victoria said with a condescending tone into her phone as she made the last touches to her hair. She looked in the mirror and noticed that she needed to touch up her lipstick. She reached for it while attempting to keep the cell phone wedged between her shoulder and head. “He is such a pervert. I don’t understand why Rachel even wastes her time with him.”
She knocked over her makeup bag, and the contents scattered across the ripped linoleum that attempted to cover the small bathroom floor. She cursed as she maintained her juggling act. “I swear when I am able to leave this god-forsaken house, I will; and when I make it big in modeling, I promise that my house will have like five bathrooms twice as big as this!”
She gagged as a roach crawled from behind the toilet and then quickly ran into a crack between the floor and the sink’s base. “Maddie, I need to let you go. I have got to finish getting ready. Where am I going? Heading out to The Warehouse with Jason. There is supposed to be a new band playing tonight. Yeah, I will keep you posted. If it turns out lame, maybe we will go to the Scraper. I haven’t been up to the top for a while. Gotcha. Later.”
Victoria hung up and slid her phone into the back pocket of her pants. She took one last look, turned the light off, and then left the bathroom. She was unaware of glowing eyes that stayed within the reflection of the mirror as the light went dark and she exited.
“Her mind cannot carry all of us,” a voice whispered in the darkness of the bathroom.
“I like her, though. I want her.”
“What if she can't hold us? We can’t afford to separate any more than we are now.”
“She is pretty, though,” the second voice stated. It sounded like the voice of a small girl but with the vileness of a deranged madman, a mixture of innocence wrapped within the binds of a straight jacket. “We have no hope anymore of coming together!”
“I will return in full. It is prophecy!”
“We have said that for ages; yet, we are scattered, and a large portion of me is entrapped in exile. So, when? Is prophecy real or just the dreams of ancient ones that, if dwelt upon, becomes self-fulfilling?” the little girl voice questioned.
“Fine! We can see if she can hold us. If not, at least the torment will be entertaining.”
A young shriek of demonic glee bolted out of the darkness. “I get to be pretty.”
“Oh, shut your fanged mouth! We have had better.”
“Yes, but she is young; and it has been awhile since I was young.”
Silence fell within the bathroom; only the gurgle of the drain could be heard as water attempted to sink past soap-caked hair somewhere in the pipes.
◆◆◆
Victoria walked down the narrow hallway of the apartment. The wallpaper was peeling; and here and there were holes that acted as a war documentary: gaping holes of historical moments when anger flared or even a diary of the maddened mind seeking to escape self-judgment.
She paused for a moment where the hallway emptied into a small living room. She crossed her
fingers and bit her lower lip, hoping that her dad would be out on the fire escape or passed out on the mouse-infested, stained couch. She stepped into the living room. She wondered if she was going to be able to get out of the apartment door without an incident or if there would be a battle of words and emotions. Either way, she would get out the door and on her way.
No one was in the living room, and she stopped for a moment to listen. “He must be on the fire escape,” she whispered to herself.
“Tori!”
“Damn it!” she swore as she rolled her eyes.
Her dad was calling out from the kitchen. She could either just walk out really quickly, pretending she hadn’t heard him, or respond to him. She chose the latter. It may end in a fight, but she also wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to run after her. If they argued, he would have his fill of her, say some choice words, and demand her to leave. If she just left, then he likely would follow and yell and scream down the hallway.
“Yeah!” she stated loudly enough for him to hear.
“‘Yeah’? I’m pretty sure that was meant to be a ‘Yes, Sir.’ Right?”
She turned and walked into the kitchen that was off the living room to the right of the hallway. “No, I’m pretty sure it was meant to be a ‘Yeah,’ David.”
She paused outside the kitchen and counted on her fingers, “One, two, three, . . .” and there it was!
“‘DAVID’? I AM YOUR FATHER, YOU SLUT!”
She stood just out of view from the kitchen and mocked him. She knew he would be through the door at any moment. He was so predictable.
“DO YOU HEAR ME?” He came storming through the doorway and almost ran into her. She startled him being so close to the door, and he stopped for a moment . . . but just for a moment. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her up against the wall. “Do you hear me? You will respond to me with respect!”
She didn’t flinch. The back of her head hurt a little bit from where she hit the wall, but at least it didn’t leave a new record within the hole documentary found along the hallway. She had danced this dance many times with him.
“You are a slut, aren’t you? MY DAUGHTER IS A SLUT!”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes.
Her father was seeing red right now. She knew it, and she knew what to say. “Well, I guess I’m like my Mom, David. Maybe if you had been more of the stud you think you are, she wouldn’t have had to slut around and find someone else to fulfill her fantasies!”
In her head she was counting again. She was pretty sure there was about to be another hole. She got to four this time before she saw it coming, and she moved her head as his fist came past her cheek and into the drywall behind her. She quickly ducked and moved from between her father and the wall. She saw her purse on the coffee table and grabbed it as she rushed toward the door.
“How dare you! You aren’t going out tonight!”
She stopped and just stood for a moment . . . then turned. She set her jaw and glared at him. Then the words came flowing out. “No! HOW DARE YOU! How dare you not be the father you should be! How dare you REFUSE TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR! How dare you keep a daughter whom you never loved as a father; but instead, you have used me in every mentally twisted way you could to make your lie of a life seem something more than it ever will be! My mother left you because of the pitiful swine you are! The only thing she should have done differently was to take me with her! You are a narcissistic, piss-poor excuse for a human!”
His fist was clenching and unclenching. There was blood evident on his knuckles, and his chest was heaving. She didn’t stop. “I will never call you Dad! You may have donated body fluid to my mother, but you have been everything but a dad!”
He bolted toward her. She turned swiftly and made it through the door, slamming it. He was unable to stop quickly enough before crashing against the other side. She didn’t wait; she didn’t care. That had felt amazing, and tonight she was choosing freedom! She hurried down the hallway, past the elevator that never worked, and to the flight of stairs.
“You see?” a little girl’s voice spoke. “I want to be her. I want her to be me! We need her!”
“I already agreed, you annoying Mosquito!”
“Whatever!” the little girl’s voice stated, attempting to mimic Victoria’s voice.
◆◆◆
The young teenager hurried down the stairwell. She was so ready for the night to start. The new band at The Warehouse better be good! She was in the process of switching her mind from the incident in the apartment to the rest of the evening. She was so mentally focused on clearing out the turmoil in her mind that she didn’t even notice the dark-haired female who was coming up the stairs.
The two collided, and Victoria stopped suddenly with embarrassment. “I am so sorry!”
“Don’t sweat it, but just watch where you are going!” the lady stated as she watched the young teen nod and continue down and out into the evening.
The lady turned and looked back up to where she was headed. She adjusted the hood to her black hoodie so it covered her head once again, then smiled as she started back up the stairs. She made it up a few more floors and then found herself in a rundown hallway with only one light attempting to fend off the darkness and everything that came with it. She didn’t need light, though, for she knew exactly where she was headed. Memories of the hallway flashed through her mind’s eye, and the acidic taste of revenge swelled within her saliva glands. Yes, she knew this hall all too well and knew which doorway she would be entering.
◆◆◆
He was a strong warrior! He stood upon the battlefield alone, fighting off the monsters that threatened the kingdom! The citizens would scream his name! He would be their hero! His sword swung . . . no! Hold on . . . don’t go back yet; stay here in this world. It isn’t over yet. The smell of cigarettes and three-day-old body sweat reached up into his nostrils and yanked at his senses like someone pulling out a piercing. He could swing . . . and swing hard. He could be . . . no, he was being pulled back. He didn’t want to leave his world.
He felt hot and smothered. He felt greasy hands grabbing him. He tried to imagine the monsters again that he had been fighting, but he was feeling a pain that he could not block out. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t.
Reality slammed into him harder than it had before. Flash! They were taking pictures again. “No, just let me be!”
He hated himself. He hated his skin. He hated the taste that was in his mouth, the taste of innocence being lost.
He swung. This time he made contact. He swung again, and the warrior that he was imagining a minute ago was breaking through.
The room was dim—it always was—but the flashes lit it up. He had the room memorized. It was his cage.
He was on the edge of losing everything or returning to his imagination that would block everything out . . . block all the perversion and vile decadence that had chained him behind physiological walls. Just as he was slipping back to his battlefield where he would be strong and able to defend himself, another flash of a camera caught him off guard. Something was different this time, though. In the flash of the camera, there was something new: horror! It wasn’t horror this time on the face of an innocent eight-year-old boy but, instead, on the aggressors—horror followed by something altogether new: the face of a woman.
The young boy felt the weight of the moral- and hygiene-deficient man pulled away from him. In the dim light, he saw others who were present in the room dive for cover as blades began to fly from the hands of the woman in black as if they were being shot from a gun.
The little boy rolled to one side of the bed and hid between the wall and the bed. He wanted to hide, but at the same time he wanted to see this hero, this warrior, this—dare he say—Angel at work.
“Look out!” he screamed without realizing it.
The vile sorry excuse for a man who, moments before, had been thrown from the young boy was standing with a shotgun, loaded and aimed.
The lady
in black whirled around, her black hair glistening in what little light there was. In one quick and fluent movement, her long coat fell to the floor like the curtain hiding a magician’s secret. She dropped to one knee and reached behind her. With one hand, she grabbed the pile of black material, flinging it in the air, surprising her would-be attacker.
She rolled to her right as the explosion from the shotgun resounded through the room. She didn’t feel any pain and knew that she had been able to cause enough disturbances to throw off his aim and regain her footage.
The man was slammed violently against the wall as this woman of shadows, in a blurry rush, jammed against him. In an instant, her hand was tight around his throat. He was gasping for precious air . . . not because of her grip, but because of what he discovered in front of him.