Page 41 of Judas

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

The flesh sizzles; it’s a welcomed alternative over the belting hyena as he sings. His voice fades out along with the pulsing ofPsychoKiller, switching over to another upbeat tune. The throb of bass has my eyes twitching, shifting from one direction to another as I lay here and stare into the fucking empty.

Car parts dig into my back, the door above me keeping us confined—bound—but I've become accustomed to the company that I keep. Rather, the company that keeps me. Dragging me around with the bite of an invisible noose, rubbing the flesh raw. They demand more of me, of the girl that I was born as, who has since mutated into this haint.

I smell it before I can ever sense the blood, copper and the stench of life while it clings to the red cells threatening to burst. Seems my nails have gouged so deep into the skin of my thumbs that the sharp blades of keratin have begun to nick at the bone. Slowing, I draw my hands close to the front of me and rub the fingers of the opposite hand over the serrated skin. Smearing the blood over my flesh. My blood isn’t the problem, it’s his. I can still taste his foulness, from when I tore into him when he dragged me up the embankment and went to toss us into this pit.

“Where are we?” I ask aloud. Feeling them always. Seeing them on occasion.

Alone.

Together.

Nowhere.

They answer, “Helpful,” hissing my reply.

It’s crowded in here, in my mind, the four of us fight to exist. Each of them warring to take the wheel and run the rest of us right up to the fires that were lit to wipe our kind from existence. Liza is the calmest and immensely calculated. The other two seeher as the matriarch. She leads, she lets the others bleed, and demands sacrifice. Kate’s dark and depraved—tortures, maims and guts. I can feel her scraping and gnawing inside of me. It is her tongue which glides along my throat when I must speak. Her sheer viciousness keeps the vessel alive and awake, physically protecting us and ensuring survival.

You spill nothing of me, child.

The last scorns me followed by Kate’s cackles behind her.

“I— I…” my words stutter. I look away, back to the nothingness as if I am a miscreant—a lesser. The sane part of me jolts from a sudden screech as the sheer intensity of it threatens to rip the remnants of my mind down to the individual fragile fibers. Shying away from the anarchic energy does little to prevent my body from flipping onto my belly.

Weight presses down on our back, creeping up my spine until the vertebra pop and pressure pins my face to the unforgiving surface below. The mass magnifies, seconds passing in eternal increments, before a scream rattles the bones inside of my chest. A warm ooze begins to pool in my ears, threatening to trickle out of the end of my canal; roll down the side of my neck, and continue over across my throat like a violent slash.

“P—please!” I squeal.

Nothing comes, no forgiveness, no release. Just the ever-present rattling of the chains in my head that keep the terrors at bay. They clank, scrape against the hard recesses of my thoughts, and groan with the same weight that presses me to the floor. Louder they become; slowly at first, then the rattling builds in intensity until it resembles a million bound souls marching to their pre-determined torment. Dragging me against my will, bloodied fingertips digging into brimstone all to save me from their deafening chant.

Serve the Lord.

Serve the Lord.

SERVE THE LORD.

“No!” I cry and defy.

Madness bleeds into the remaining crevices of my minuscule soul, choking the sound of my cries. Still, the weight persists. Breaths of life no longer able to fill and expand my lungs—left to the crushing load.

L…let it end. Please.

Suddenly a blinding light appears above me. A gust of cool air blankets my battered skin, and now I notice I’m alone. No wraiths are cornering me in the blackness—scrawling their touch across my flesh, or chattering insistently in ears that have become so raw they could bleed.

Not only am I alone, I’m nowhere close to being face down. My back is warm against the hard barrier beneath, letting me know I’ve been here quite sometime. The dull ache of unstretched limbs announces itself when my muscles attempt to flex and when it does, the feeling is unbearable. Choosing to remain stark-still, I blink my bleary eyes over and over, willing them to clear and adjust.

I need to see, need to prepare the vessel for war.

A figure looms over me, towering, showering me with the blazing radiance of a savior come to pluck each one of my souls apart and divvy them among the levels of hell. When a hand reaches in, it brushes over the side of my face and I wince away from its touch. In those seconds of panic, I can’t help but cower in the back of my prison—away from whatever is trying to confirm my existence.

The hand doesn’t stop; it reaches again and pins me. I snap at it, growl, punch, and scratch, but when I close my eyes, the world resets.

Once again, I’m staring into the luster. Begging it to burn away my retinas so we no longer have to witness what happens to the vessel. But it doesn’t; the touch is reverent, delicate even. Thelonger I focus on the way my skin warms under the caress of this… being… I find its thumb rubbing away the salty tracks of my tears. Another ethereal hand joins the first, just as warm and comforting as the first. Consoling me where I can no longer hear the chortling of the voices.

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