Page 396 of Eternal
“Please... don’t judge me after this.”
He leans down, lips brushing mine. “I’ll never judge you.”
The church looks deceptively serene from outside, all white stone and towering columns, like a monument to holiness. But in reality it’s a cage.
Kat’s forged invitation burns in my pocket, the name Elenea Ferere printed neat and official on the paper. Damir’s right beside me, not holding my hand, but close enough that I can feel his presence.
At the entrance, the guards barely glance at us, the papers check out, the names pass, and we step inside.
The crowd is all white too. Robes, suits, dresses, smiling proudly.
The church’s interior is a contrast to the pure facade outside, ornate and chilling all at once. Behind the altar, where a pastor stands, there’s a long crimson chair, like a throne soaked in sin, in people’s pain.
The pastor begins the sermon. His voice is smooth, reverent, but I hear the lies in every word. He praises “purity” and “salvation,” but all I see is greed and cruelty masked as faith.
My hands clench at my sides. I want to tear this place down. I want to kill them all.
But Damir stays quiet, his presence grounding me. I’m not alone in this nightmare.
The pastor’s voice rises, “Welcome, brothers and sisters. Tonight we gather in grace and gratitude.”
Heads bow; hands fold. A few mouths murmur the prayer like a chant.
“The gifts bestowed upon us today,” the pastor continues, eyes sweeping the room, “but they are not without purpose. These children, pure and chosen, a sacred catalog for those who truly appreciate the divine, the innocence.”
A slow, chilling smile curls on his lips.
“Once a month, we convene here to celebrate our commitment. A communion not just of faith, but of power. And tonight, the finest offerings shall be presented.”
He pauses, letting it sink in.
I sit at the very back, Damir beside me. His fingers brush mine briefly and I glance at him.
His eyes flicker, unreadable, but I catch the faintest nod. No one else notices.
The congregation repeats the words, eyes closed, smiles fixed. Some subtly clench fists or purse lips, but none break the facade.
Damir shifts beside me, rising quietly without a sound. His chair slides softly back. He melts into the shadows near the side exit, watching, waiting for me to act.
The pastor’s voice drifts on, “Tonight, we honor tradition. Our benefactors choose from our sacred catalog, children to be delivered, to be cleansed, to be reborn in their own hands.”
I feel my heart pound and I just want to throw up. Damir is gone now.
I stand slowly, heart steadying, steps measured. My hand slides beneath my dress, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of my gun. I slid my hand down to the extra mags strapped tight to my thigh. One quick reload, and I’d be ready to take them all down.
I reach the heavy wooden doors and pull them closed with a loud, echoing slam. The sound reverberates through the hall, halting every prayer mid-chant.
All eyes snap toward me, surprise and confusion blooming on every face.
Without hesitation, I step forward to the holy water font. I dip the barrel of my gun into the water, letting the sacred liquid drip and bead along the steel like a baptism.
“Forgive me, Father,” I say, voice loud, “for I am about to sin.”
The congregation holds its breath. Then, raising the gun, I fire the first shot.
Dead. One by one. Row by row.
They run, only to drop with a hole in the head. They scream, then fall silent. Bodies hit the floor, clawing at doors I already locked tight. Then I turn and shoot him. The pastor.
