by Amanda Long
Altered
Dorian’s Destiny Book 1
By Amanda Long
Copyright 2015 by Amanda Long
Smashwords Edition
Editing by Josephine Dillon and Michele Young
Ebook photo by Canva
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank few people who helped make this book possible.
My mom, Sylvia – You encouraged me to keep working by saying each new chapter was better than the last
Pat – You helped me see how meaningful my book could be
Josie – You wore many hats during this books journey: inspirer, mentor, editor…just to name a few. I could not have done this without you.
Faithless
Reason Erodes
Confusion Corrodes
Doubts Drown
Mistakes Mound
Belief Betrays
Faith Fades
Hopeless
Blackness creeps in
Plunging too deep
Shrouding my soul
I lose control
Been cast away
One fateful day
What was then
Now never again
Who shall be
No longer me
Chapter 1
The Church
Dorian struggled to open his eyes against the light filling the church, but the intense brightness penetrated his eyelids, sealing them shut. Thrusting his hand upwards like a shield to shade his eyes, he granted them the reprieve needed to adapt to his luminous surroundings.
Thinking it couldn't already be morning, he cast his eyes around the sanctuary, seeking another source of light. Once the amber gleam of altar candles came into view, he knew it was still night. Averting his eyes quickly from the searing flames, he finally registered his unusual placement in the sanctuary, flat on his back in front of the church's altar.
“How on earth did I end up here,” he scoffed as he tried to rise from the cold stone floor. His attempt stalled after being stricken with nausea. Minutes passed as he lay there supine; one hand clutching his abdomen, the other covering his mouth. Breathing in and out slowly, battling his unstable stomach, he eventually rolled over and rose up on his hands and knees. From that position, he attempted to survey more of his surroundings, but it was nearly impossible with thousands of black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Blinking repeatedly, he cleared his sight. He observed a dark liquid everywhere, splattering the floor and altar.
“Is that blood?” Dorian whispered suspiciously. “Can't be,” he assured himself, shaking his head.
Tackling his unrelenting nausea, he finally managed to get up on his feet, only to be struck with what felt like sledgehammers beating him on the sides of his head. Within seconds, the pain had him bowed over. With his hands grasping his knees, he tried desperately to soothe his stomach and head by continuing to take slow deep breaths. Unable to do so, he stumbled into the washroom.
Once inside the small space, he grabbed a pitcher of water from the counter with trembling hands, spilling its liquid contents all over as he tried to fill the basin. He sighed and returned the empty pitcher to the counter. Taking the linen cloth, he washed his face, hoping to calm his nerves.
What happened? Why can't I remember? Why was I on the sanctuary floor? Was that blood everywhere, and if so, whose blood was it?
All these questions raced through his mind, provoking his head to throb even more.
Withdrawing the linen from his face, he noticed a red stain. Stunned, he peered into the tiny mirror above the basin. His jaw dropped as he saw blood clinging to his face. Looking down at his body, he noticed more blood, along with a rip in the fabric of his robe. He shook his head in shock. Stripping off his ruined robe, he washed the stains from his face and body. Surprise and relief flooded him after not locating any wounds that would explain where the blood had come from.
Chilled after cleansing his body of all traces of blood, he departed the washroom in only his shorts, resolved to clean up his mess after putting on fresh clothes. He hurried toward his sleeping quarters in the back of the church, directly across from Father Murphy's room.
“Oh God, Father Murphy!” He shouted, having completely forgotten about the priest.
Dashing to Father Murphy's door, he swung it open only to find the old man snoring. “Thank You,” he whispered to God. Shutting the door quietly, he proceeded into his room. He grabbed a loose pair of pants and a tunic from his small dresser, along with his last pair of sandals from under the edge of his cot. Donning his clothing, he rushed back to the sanctuary.
I need to uncover what transpired here.
He rubbed his temple, hoping to ease the ache and dislodge any memories trapped inside.
Back amid the trashed sanctuary, Dorian inspected the scene, searching desperately for clues that might help him discover what had occurred. The brightness still filling the church made this search near impossible. Squinting, he stepped over to the candle-lined altar and gently blew, extinguishing the blinding light. He felt instant relief as the sanctuary plunged into almost complete darkness; the only illumination being the moonlight filtering in through the stained glass windows. No longer blinded by the candles, he was dismayed by the large scale destruction of his beloved church, with pews toppled over and hymnal pages strewn across the floor. Viewing the spot where he had awoken, he saw the perfect outline of his body in the blood drenched floor.
The sanctuary looked like the setting of a brutal murder. This visual caused his head to spin. Unable to comprehend the scene before him, he decided the only logical thing to do was ask God for guidance. Falling to his knees in one of the few places untouched by blood, he prepared to pray, but instead of shutting his eyes and bowing his head, he looked up to Heaven pleadingly.
“Father, I am in need of your infinite wisdom. I do not understand what has happened to me or to Your Church. I see the destruction all around me and sense in my soul, something horrible and vile has occurred. Someone has defiled Your Sacred House with unspeakable violence, possibly murder, yet there is no body, other than my own. Why did I wake up covered in blood, yet have no wounds? Why can't I remember? I have so many unanswered questions. Worst of all Father, without knowing what took place here, I don't know if I am the victim or the culprit. Please help me, Father.” With those last words spoken, Dorian bowed his head, eagerly awaiting a response.
God regarded His servant mournfully, saddened by the turmoil he was enduring. Dorian's lack of knowledge had rapidly shifted from a blessing into a firestorm threatening to consume his fragile being. Would answers extinguish the flame or feed it? Believing that the memory of what happened, at least part of it, would prove less damaging, God reached out His Mighty Hand.
The subconscious wall Dorian had erected crumbled, unleashing the torrent held behind. He screamed out in agony, clutching both sides of his head as images contained behind the protective barrier flooded back into view. Rapid flashes of memory crashed like waves of a turbulent sea inside his mind, until he no longer knelt at the altar. Instead, he watched himself tidying up the sanctuary after last night's service.
Standing at the altar, snuffer in hand to extinguish the candles, he jumped as the church door swung open and three young men waltzed in. By the way they were staggering, Dorian could tell they had been recent patrons of the tavern. Before the young men were halfway up the aisle, he approached them.
“Father Murphy has already retired for the evening, but if you want to give confession, I should be able to assist you.” None of them spoke, but the oldest of the three and possible leader of the gang advanced toward the altar, so he dutifully followed. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
A pu
nch from out of nowhere collided with his left cheek. The force of the strike knocked him backwards, causing him to topple over the first two rows of pews as he fell. The young man who had thrown the punch coldly stalked around the toppled pews, while the other two heathens ripped out pages from the hymnals.
Dorian stared into the face of the young man as he approached and was met with an evil sneer. Crawling backwards, attempting to evade the young man's outstretched arm, he begged, “Please.”
The man grasped a handful of his hair and callously lifted him off the floor, punching him repeatedly in the stomach with his free hand. Dorian could hear the other men cackling like jackals in the background. With one hand still clenching his hair, he dragged Dorian back toward the altar. Before he had a chance to wrench free, the young man reached behind his back and pulled out a dagger.
“NO!” Dorian screamed as the man plunged the blade into his abdomen. Stumbling backwards after being released, he fell to the floor, blood oozing from his wound. He watched in horror at himself lying in a pool of blood and taking what appeared to be his final breaths.
As the sea of memories calmed itself, Dorian was pulled back to the present. He immediately lifted his shirt to inspect his abdomen where the wound should have been. Unable to find any traces, he returned to his prayer.
“Lord, did that actually happen? Did I just watch myself die? How is that possible, when I seem very much alive? Did you save me, God?”
Unable to imagine another explanation, he rose from his knees, assured he had experienced a miracle. "Thank You, God, for giving me another chance. I will not let You down."
God smiled, hopeful His Servant's faithful promise would be kept.
With renewed conviction, Dorian undertook the incredible task of cleaning up the sanctuary and washroom. As he bent over to pick up the first toppled pew, the nausea plaguing him since he had awakened, intensified.
Speculating that some food might settle his stomach, he decided to eat a piece of the leftover unleavened bread from the previous service. As soon as he swallowed the first bite, he hunched over heaving, expelling the remnants of his last meal.
Once vertical again, he decided to wake Father Murphy. Though hesitant, he knew he would not be able to clean up the sanctuary in his current condition before his father awoke on his own. He thought it would be better to explain to him what happened, instead of having him walk in on the devastation unprepared and die from a stroke.
As he neared the bedroom, Dorian heard a faint thumping noise. Ignoring the sound, he continued to approach the bedroom door. As he reached out for the handle, the thumping grew louder.
What is wrong with my head, first the hammering pain and now thumping noises!
Still not deterred by the noise, he entered the room. Father Murphy still lay sleeping, snoring softly. He crept quietly to the side of the bed and stared down at the only father he had ever known, having been abandoned on the church's front steps by his mother twenty years ago at the age of two.
As he reached out to touch the man's shoulder to gently nudge him awake, the thumping in his head tripled in volume. For the third time tonight, he clutched his head in his hands. He stood still for a moment, waiting for the sound to cease. When that didn't happen and a peculiar sensation arose from his stomach – a gnawing hunger unlike anything he had ever felt before – he sprinted from the room, out of his church, and into the blackness of night.
Dorian didn't know what was happening or where he was going.
“Maybe I am dead and some sort of apparition,” he whispered, beginning to question his salvation.
He had no idea, but he knew he wasn't the same. Wandering around his humble village for what seemed like hours, he attempted to let the cool of the night calm his mind and body. As he walked, the thumping sound vanished, but the persistent pounding in his head became unbearable. Noticing how far he was from the church, he knew he wouldn't be able to make it back in his current condition.
Barely able to stand, he entered a nearby barn and gradually climbed up into the hay loft. Finally, collapsing from the excruciating pain, he didn't awaken until the next evening.
When he finally awoke, the pounding in his head had lessened and his nausea had subsided.
Maybe it was all just a terrible dream?
Sluggishly rising from his bed of hay, he glanced through a crack in the old barn roof and noticed the sky was almost black. Slowly making his way down from the hayloft and out of the barn, he headed back to the church. Worried about Father Murphy in his absence, he ran. When he reached the doors of the church, he was traveling so fast, he didn't have time to stop. He barreled through the front doors and skidded to a halt just before smashing into the rattled priest.
Father Murphy stood in front of the now spotless altar, glaring up at his adopted son, eyes wide with worry. “Just where have you been, young man? And what in the world happened in this sanctuary? When I walked in this morning, I nearly had a heart attack after seeing all the blood. I then found your robe in the washroom with more blood. Do you realize how worried I've been? Explain yourself.” Father Murphy vented all his concerns and frustrations at his son without taking a breath. Folding his arms tightly across his chest, he waited impatiently for the explanation.
Dorian had never seen his father so agitated or worried. Regret over running away the previous night permeated his mind, however at the time it seemed like the only solution. He kept his own eyes trained on the floor, unable to look his father in the eyes. He felt shame for leaving such a mess. Finally caving under that questioning gaze, he looked at the portly man in front of him. Meeting eyes, he saw such love – the same love he saw twenty years ago and every day thereafter.
When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Father, I am so sorry. I did not mean to worry you. I hoped what I experienced last night was just a bad dream, but after seeing you so worried and the mention of the destruction of the church, I know that is not the case.” Shaking his head, he glanced around the sanctuary, unable to comprehend the drastic, sudden transformation. “How did you get it cleaned up so fast?”
“Never mind my methods for sanitizing my Father's House,” Father Murphy snapped, shaking his head. “Finish your story.”
“Yes Father,” he replied. As he replayed the events of the following evening to the priest, the thumping returned. “No!” He yelled, clutching the side of his head.
Father Murphy reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder, “What's wrong? Are you ill?”
“It's nothing, Father,” Dorian blurted, pushing his hand away and stalking off toward his room, anxious to put some distance between himself and his father.
“Where are you going? You haven't finished your story.” Father Murphy followed after his son.
Much younger and faster than the old man, Dorian was in his room grabbing his satchel and filling it with supplies before his father darkened his doorway.
“What are you doing, Dorian?”
“Something bad has happened to me, Father. I don't know what it is, but I think it best if I leave,” he stammered while actively working his way around the room, gathering anything he thought he might need. He wasn't sure when or if he would be returning.
Father Murphy remained in the doorway, his mouth opened in shock by what he heard. “What are you saying? What about your studies and your future in the church?”
“It will have to wait. I can't stay here.”
The whole time they had been talking in his room, the thumping in his head continued to get louder. So loud in fact, he had a hard time hearing what was being said. Finally, with his pack full of everything he thought he might need, he reached over and grabbed his most prized possession from the bedside table. He placed his Bible gently in the satchel. Father Murphy had given it to him the night he had been abandoned. He had taught Dorian how to read and understand The Book, telling him everything he would ever need to know could be found within its divine pages. Now more than ever, he hoped that wa
s true. Shouldering the satchel, he trudged out of his room past Father Murphy.
As they passed each other in the doorway, Father Murphy reached up and touched him on the cheek, “But you're my son.”
“Not anymore,” Dorian declared, jerking his father's hand away. He then turned from the priest and left. He hated himself as soon as the words exited his mouth, but the cruelty felt necessary; with how he felt, he couldn't risk being followed. As he walked away from his home, he turned back one last time, tears streaming down his face.
Will I ever get to return?
God wept as He witnessed Dorian abandon his home, his father, and his church. This desperate act had Him admitting His Failure to keep His Servant from the groping hand of evil.
Chapter 2
Into The Woods
Dorian entered the forest that hedged the backside of his village while his mind wondered backward over the last twenty-four hours of his life.
Until yesterday, his life had been simple, straight forward, and spent studying God's Word in preparation for the day he would take over his father's position as priest. The events of the past day, however, had thrust him so far off his chosen path, he wasn't sure where he would end up or who he would be when he got there.
Who were those men? What could have motivated them to vandalize a House of God and commit murder? Why me? Why was I saved? Why do I feel altered? What was that thumping sound and the hunger that followed? Why did I feel like a threat to my own father's safety?
So many questions tugged at his consciousness. Shaking his head, he tried desperately to free his mind from the inquisition, but the confusion and doubt had already taken hold; coiling themselves deep within his soul, striking relentlessly and spreading their poison. These emotions were foreign, unfamiliar occupants in Dorian's thoughts, and he was at a loss over how to deal with them.