Das Blut in der Kirche / The Blood in the Church
By: A-chan achan@dork.com www.defiled.org
He couldn't quite remember how he had ended up in the church. He sat in a pew, katana resting beside him, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He could still hear them, the frenzied shrieks of the innocent mingling with the singsong melody of a crazed man. A child's wail as it tried to wake its dead mother. The final cry of a friend.
His breath came in ragged gasps; his body shook with sobs that would not come. They couldn't come. Couldn't.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wooden pew. Quiet and serene, calm and tranquil. Focus on the peace. Focus. Breathe in...
He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He noticed the blood pooling on the floor from a flesh wound. Blood, drip, drip. A puddle of Hell.
That's what it was... a crimson puddle of Hell on Earth.
A choir began to sing from the loft up above, practicing the hymnals and melodies and songs they would use to praise their God at next Sunday's mass. The sweet sound plagued him, the lovely voices of the choir in harmony with the accompaniment ate away at his tainted soul. He was not religious; a devout atheist. There was no God on High, no God to guide mortals through their lives, only a Satan-Lucifer-Devil with horns and a thirst for man's blood. Blood, drip, drip.
The choir began the third verse of their hymnal. A clear voice in the back sang louder than the rest. A tenor, Aya thought absentmindedly. He gingerly touched the blood caking on his cheek. It would scar.
/we all do extol you, our leader triumphant/
Blood, drip, drip. He was the leader, and he had failed the mission. Failed them all. Father, mother, sister; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. It was all the same now. Blood, drip, drip.
/and pray that you still our defender will be/
He should have defended them better, his mind cried brokenly. Blood, drip, drip; he could have. A few minutes earlier, that's all it would have taken to save her and him and oh, God him too... Clear purple eyes stared at the crucified Jesus above the altar, unseeing.
/let your congregation escape tribulation/
There was no God, he thought drunkenly. Only blood. Blood and guilt and sorrow and pain. Blood, drip, drip.
/your name be ever praised, o lord, make us free/
There was no freedom, no redemption from this Hell. Hell on Earth with the Devil and the sorrow and the pain and the blood... oh, the blood...
Drip, drip.
Aya's head slumped forward onto his chest as he finally fell into a peaceful slumber. While he slept, a single teardrop of blood fell from a violet eye and stained the marble floor of the church.