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Join Date: Dec 2003
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| 12:00, 12:00
The thought that went through his head over and over, as he lay down that night, was; “This isn’t healthy. This can’t be normal.” But for the first time in recent memory, Albert knew what contentment was, and anything that should have remained of sanity departed with this one flash of insight. Contentment, oh it had to be this, and it was this. Heaven couldn’t be so bad if Hell was so divine.
His heart rate was decreasing now, his breath slowing, as he stared up into the heavens shining through his window and contemplated his actions. It hadn't been his fault, of course; he was a complete victim of circumstance—of chance—throughout the entire affair. Yes, surely God would forgive him for this. God always forgave him, and tonight would be no different.
The clock blinked “12:00, 12:00” in red, hard-cornered digits as he made his way up the stairs, into his bedroom. A flip of a switch, (let there be light) and the sparse contents of a windowless, disarmingly quiet room were illuminated. Certainly there was no fan, no air conditioner—or air purifier, for that matter—no television or radio, but the absence of those things had very little to do with the unnatural stillness in the room. Perhaps it was that the crickets, whose soothing chirping could be heard throughout the house, had no presence here. However, the symptom, let alone the cause, failed to enter Albert’s thoughts even as he shuffled into his room.
A drawer was opened, a book removed, and his business here was done. A placid grin began to creep over the contours of his face as his fingers stroked the familiar leather bindings. If God is our Father, then the Devil must be our brother. At the very least, he had kept it in the family. Next the drawer was closed, he turned around, and he was through the same portal again. Down the stairs, “12:00, 12:00, 12:00”. The same drummer beat the same drum, and dear Albert had no choice but to continue to the same familiar march. It’s only midnight, my child; we’ve time enough. We’ve all the time in the world tonight.
How many times had this happened? He couldn’t recall any others, but the shadows in his eyes said otherwise. Twelve times and again. A million and one. It couldn’t matter, for each time was different, though everything’s the same. The Lord had forgiven him, the Lord had forgotten those crimes, and so Albert had forgotten those names, those faces, and all that peace. That same peace that was returning to him now.
This called for a celebration. This called for His incarnation. She would taste of the Lord, for the Lord would save her as He had saved Albert. She had sinned, but that too would be forgiven tonight. Albert went into his entrance room and opened the closet, removing a black, finely tailored jacket. Thus properly attired, he snapped his collar into place and moved his minds to other things.
This is a task he thought to himself, lifting a golden chalice, one intricately inlaid with icons of divinity, from his cupboard. This is my divine mission, this is what our Father has placed me on His Earth for, and I shall not dissatisfy Him. A bowl of white disks. A purple shawl. Royal crimson is the colour of blood, and our Lord was wreathed in purple as he lay dying. (For I am a jealous God.)
“12:00, 12:00, 12:00” the blinking of the clock matched each beat of the shepherd’s heart as he made his way past the living room, where his quiet sheep lay waiting. It’s only midnight, my dear, and we’ve all the time in the world.
The sun was just making its path over the sill of the window as he placed the shawl around his neck and began the familiar ritual. He opened the wine and poured it into the majestically adorned chalice, watching with eyes full of a life that had been absent from them for so long. He broke the bread … A small piece was removed from the bowl and passed through his mouth: chew, one, two, three, swallow. And though from nowhere, the ring of tiny bells echoed through his ears as he fell into the familiar path of the Eucharist. When supper had ended … He picked up the goblet once more and brought it to his lips, gulping the wine with something more frightening than greed. A single rivulet of the libation ran down his cheek, oh but that was of no consequence now.
“The Body of Christ.”
The priest waited, but the woman before him would not take this blessing. The clock blinking behind him, “12:00, 12:00, 12:00” was no longer a consolation, but a mockery of this divine task.
“Come now, my child, we mustn’t delay, for his coming is nigh and it is already midnight.” Still, she ponderously declined to partake of it, and now Albert was puzzled; Albert was worried.
“The Body of Christ, my child!” (But God would not hear him.)
But the girl had to be saved! She must be saved! The Lord would save all! Again, he presented her with his holy offering, and again she refused. In his confusion, he tipped the holy chalice, spilling out its contents and causing his blood to mingle with her wine. Hastily he funnelled as much back into the goblet (no, this is nothing but a simple cup) as he could, the two liquids alloying to form something cruel, something evil and all too natural.
“The Blood of Christ.”
Again, he was met with adamance. (The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.)
In one last moment of humanity, Albert, the man, looked into the girl’s eyes staring vacantly up into his own and caught a glimpse of himself. It seemed as if tears had been collecting in her eyes, as if she mourned not for herself, but for the inevitability of what Albert had to do. But then that moment, like all others, was gone, and all that was left was Albert, the tool of an already deceased God.
He drank from the simple cup.
“12:00, 12:00”
“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”
Last edited by Woolies; 15th December 2005 at 5:05pm.
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