(no subject)

[mrlich]

A rather graphic little short story from me. If you are easily offended - don't read on.



It's been a while since I subjected anyone to.... errr... I mean.... showed anyone any new "Patch Stories"...

---

I see Hell in my dreams. I don't mean in some figurative or symbolic sense, I mean it in the very real and very literal way. I see the souls of men and women of every size shape and color tormented endlessly. They scream in agony and despair. They cry out for help that will never come. They are the Lost.

 

I know what you're thinking. I'm not crazy. I'm not a madman. Of course, I realize that's what a lunatic would tell you - but I'm really not. In fact, I use these dreams. I use them to motivate me. The first time I had one of these horrific nightmares, I knew that I had received my Calling.

 

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

 

Of course, I don't tell my parishioners about the dreams. They would just think that I'm nuts - and I would lose them. You see, I think that the Lord shows me what happens in Hell for a reason. He's showing me what would befall his flock if they lose their way. He shows me so that I might be inspired and do what I can to help them continue on the way to His side.

 

The sight of a child in torment - screaming in agony and not even knowing why.

 

He shows me that I might help them. I'm really not crazy. I have been spreading His Word for twenty years now, and my parishioners love me like a father figure. I help them to stay in the light because I know what waits in the shadows.

 

An image of a woman shaking her child - trying to revive it. The child has been dead for years.

 

Yes, I see Hell in my dreams, but I'm not insane. They are only dreams. Fascinations. Fantasy. But the shadows of the waking world - they terrify me. They creep closer every passing day. It seems more and more of His flock are lost and without hope of finding their way back to the light. The shadows engulf them never to let go.

 

The vision of a man struggling to climb a mud-slicked hillside to where his family burns to death in their home as they cry his name.

 

All this and these dreams are nothing. Nothing in comparison to what I saw that day. I am a man of faith. I am a man of conviction. My Lord gives me this. You can certainly understand why I thought that the man that I saw was the Archangel Michael himself.

 

I wouldn't have believed the tale if one of the other priests had told it to me, but I was there - it happened to me. And I'm not crazy.

 

I was walking home from the hospital. I had been there to deliver the Last Rites to a kindly old congregation members. Elaine. It had been hard to see her family so heart-broken, and I had needed to walk for a while to have a talk with the Father and clear my head. My heart had been heavy and maybe that's why I hadn't noticed them.

Not that I would have thought anything of it had I been paying attention - I like to try to see the best in everyone. If I don't see something good in them, I am likely to dream of them at night.

 

At first, I thought they were just hooligans. Ruffians if you will. Nothing truly wrong or terrible. At least I didn't until I saw the girl. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. She was sobbing and clutching at a baby carrier. She wasn't even trying to keep the tattered remains of her clothing on her bruised and beaten body. They were pulling it away from her the way most people would toy with a cat and a ball of string.

 

"Here now!" I said. Yes, I actually said that. I had thought it might sound authoritative, but it just sounded hollow and horrified. I think that my voice may have even cracked when I called out.

 

"Best be 'edding your own way podrayyy." One of them was close to me. Close enough that I could smell the alcohol on him along with his body odor and a number of things that I could only guess at.

 

I meant to simply ignore him and hurry to the girl's side, but something hard hit me on the side of my head and the world seemed to spin beneath my feet. I went crashing to the ground.

 

I had wanted to black out - I remember that clearly. I had wanted to lay my head on the cool concrete and just sleep, but I felt she would die if I didn't do something. I wanted help from God. I wanted something - anything to stop this madness and the girl's torture, but something was wrong. I had felt as though He was not watching that day. It seems blasphemous to say now, but it's how I felt. I was certain we were going to die. Die horribly right there on the street and I saw visions of Hell in my waking eyes all around me. I forced myself to look at my assailant. I had meant to plead with him. I had meant to beg him to let all three of us go and promise that God would look favorably upon him - for certainly He would.

 

I never got the chance.

 

A hand reached out from the shadows behind my attacker and grabbed him by the shoulder. The world seemed to slow to a crawl as I heard an explosion and my attacker's insides sprayed in tiny droplets all over my prone body. I could only watch in horror as a man stepped from the darkness while the body fell to the ground, a large gleaming gun in his hand - still smoking from the tip of its barrel.

 

He was a large man in both height and weight though I could tell you neither. He was dressed like a biker from a bad action movie - black leather covering him from shoulders to toe. His head was turned to the rest of the gang members and an eye patch over his left eye kept me from seeing what color his eyes were.

 

The gang members stood awestruck for a moment - just staring at their fallen comrade in amazed silence. They turned and looked at the man who had killed their friend as if he would give them some sort of explanation.

 

His only response was: "Please. Don't run."

 

The gang members exploded into a chaos of action. They quickly surrounded the man as I scrambled to the woman and her baby. Covering her as best I could I did not see all of what transpired and I am quite certain that I should be glad for that. What little I did see made my nightmares seem like paradise. The man who I at first thought might be Michael - the sword arm of the Almighty - was roaring. I don't mean some kind of deep yell, I mean some kind of animal bellowing. The mere thought of it now still give me chills. The screaming was deafening. The gang members were yelling to each other and at the man and sometimes it seemed - just to yell.

 

Blood flew everywhere. I heard a number of gunshots, but the battle raged long after the guns stopped belching hellfire and damnation. I'm not sure when it was that I had ducked my head into the huddled girl and child to hide my eyes, but I do remember what I saw when I finally dared to look up again. The man stood in a heap of bodies with blood dripping from his arms and fingertips. He pried a grotesquely large knife from the body of one of the fallen gang members and sheathed it at his side. He pulled two pistols from the dead fingers of two of the gang members and put them back into their holsters beneath his arms. Then he walked over to where we were huddled against a brick building.

 

He reached out a hand and I took it. I was certain this man was an angel. He had to be. No other explanation made any sense. There had to have been twenty gang members. Thirty perhaps. He was still standing. It was the only way.

 

Blood and gore smeared from his hand onto mine as he pulled me to my feet - almost forcefully enough to lift me from the ground. His strength was obscene. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. I noticed with awe that he had been shot multiple times in the chest. He wasn't wearing any kind of body armor that I knew of. Blood poured from his wound as surely as it would have from me if the thugs had been allowed to live.

 

The man reached inside his leather coat and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, snapped open a zippo lighter and lit the cigarette. As he blew the smoke out through his nostrils, the smell of it mixed with the gun smoke and the metallic smell of blood. It made be cough. When I stopped coughing, I looked up and got my first real look into his good eye. What I saw there told me I had been wrong. This man was no angel. No angel at all.

 

"Be good father." The man said with a smile.

 

He had enjoyed every moment of it.

Comments

[shellefly.livejournal.com]

I like it.
You write action very well ... and having the POV character be someone other than Patch lets us see him more clearly.

There are some mechanical issues that could make it flow better, but they're small (send me the text in e-mail if you would like edits).

You never specifically state that the child is alive, and you never state that the child is crying ... I'd like to see both. Also I'd like to see Patch touch the child's face with a bloody hand, but I'm sick that way.

[mrlich.livejournal.com]

You rawk kiddo. Expect an email with the text.