AN: I have to say now… before you read this, that I do not agree with the beliefs of either of the men. The conversation held between Mort and Alex here about religion is merely for the storyline. My personal beliefs about God (whichever God it truly is) are in no way connected to this conversation. I am, by all ways and means, an Agnostic, and will therefore promise you hear and now that this is merely Alex's ideas and Mort's ideas. So, please don't inundate my email folder with "What Would Jesus Do?" and "Read the Bible again, you idiot," letters. I will not read them, and they will simply prove to me that you are not reading the story, but merely looking for someone to create an argument with. I will not feed into these viscous, cannibalistic behaviors, thank you.

Concerning A Murder

Chapter Eight: Broken Memories and Broken Beliefs

It was dark. He couldn't see much of the room around him, only the floor directly in front of him. His eyes were adjusting slowly, but instead of seeing better, he seemed to lose vision. Anxious thoughts whirred through his mind as he stumbled over his feet and fell to the floor, coughing as his chest hit, pushing the breath out of his lungs with rapid intent. After he caught his breath, he sat up, and the room illuminated itself. Silence filled the room as he stopped coughing and looked around.

Suddenly, he heard a scream, high, terrified, unyielding fear ripping through the air in that voice. It took him a moment to realize it was his own scream, and even longer to stop the scream in his throat. He coughed again, forcing his heart to slow down and staring quietly at the bodies in the corner. They were there, all three of them, staring up at him, sitting hand in hand, dead. He could feel the scream trying to surface once more, clamped his mouth shut and swallowed back the bile that now threatened to take the scream's place.

"I don't understand," he whimpered, closing his eyes and rubbing at them vigorously. When he opened them again, the bodies were still there, staring and… laughing almost. "I know you're all dead. I buried each of you. I covered you in dirt, six feet deep. I know it. I have the calluses on my hands to prove it. How'd you get out?"

Shaking violently, he realized quickly that the bodies were not going to respond. They never did. Every time he came to this room, it always happened the same. They stared and he asked questions, only to have to answer them on his own, slowly, as he remembered just where he was. He stood and clutched at his jacket, wrapping it tighter around himself.

"I know this isn't real," he whispered to the bodies. "I know it isn't, but why can't I make you stop? Why can't I push you away?"

Then, the unexpected happened, and yet, he expected it all the same. They turned and looked away, to their right. He followed their gaze and saw Mort, standing to the edge of the room, a crooked grin on his face, his eyes sparkling with, what? Madness? That's the only thing he could call it. Madness, total, and complete.

Still, the figure, the unexpected man that had seemingly come to his rescue drew him closer. He found himself running to Mort, grabbing onto him and not letting go. Then, he heard himself muttering in a language that was as dead to him as it was to the rest of the world. A sharp pain rang out between his eyes and he felt the beginnings of a migraine he hadn't had in months. He collapsed against Mort and screamed again…

And found that scream to be just the alarm clock he needed. Alex sat up straight in bed, looking around frantically to find Mort standing over him, holding his elbows.

"You were screaming in your sleep," Mort whispered breathlessly, a note of terror in his voice. "What the Hell were you dreaming?"

Alex shook his head and looked up at the author with confusion clear on his features. He could remember the dream vividly, and his brain was working rapidly at trying to figure out just what had led to this new ending to an otherwise predictable dream.

I don't understand. What does my finding Mort mean? Dreams always mean something, right? So, what did this one mean? Did it mean that I need him for something? Is this…Alex furrowed his brow and looked down at his lap. This is it? THIS is how I'm gonna fix my problems? Mort… and me… We have a lot of the same troubles. Maybe we met each other because there's something that we need to do… to fix what we've done wrong. But… we can't bring back the dead. Mom, Dad, Jim, Amy, Ted… They're all dead.

Alex looked up at Mort again, his eyes going wide. "You…" Suddenly he understood, as if a voice had been telling him all this time and he finally decided to listen to it. Mort had killed Amy and Ted, in the same violent rage that Alex had killed his own mother… and Jim, her lover. Everything suddenly was clear. They were together now to feed each other's madness. Mort and Alex would be trapped together until they fixed things… or killed each other.

Shuddering at the thought, Alex decided to not finish his sentence aloud. You killed your wife and her lover, just like I killed my mom and hers. We're the same, in that. I see that now.

"What was all that gibberish you were muttering? Do you remember? It sounded like Latin…" Mort seemed to be filled with questions.

Alex studied his hands a moment and racked his memory for the words. He couldn't grasp them, until they seemed to float back through the haze into which his dream was rapidly disappearing.

"I don't remember all too well," Alex muttered, barely audible even to his own ears. "It was Latin, yes. It roughly translates to… 'You, the Chosen, who will die at His hands.' My father wrote it in a book before he died, said it to me. He told me to remember it, that I would know what it meant, in time."

Mort sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "No offense to your father, but I think he might have been crazy. 'You, the Chosen, who will die at His hands?' Who are the 'chosen?' And whose hands are we speaking of?"

"The Chosen Children… God's Hands. It was a theory he had, that those 'chosen,' or more specifically, those who chose to sin… would die at the hand of God Himself, and that nothing could save them. I think he was crazy, but he was also very philosophical. He might have been referring to some nonsensical dreams, or he might have had some idea of what he was thinking. I'll never know."

Mort shook his head. "Sinners have the chance to 'choose' redemption, if they atone for those sins committed. That's how church tells it."

Alex nodded. "I know, but all religion is purely conjecture. No one really knows the truth. They're all stories based off of books written by men years and years ago. For all we know, the Bible could be some collection of fictional stories written by an ancient Babylonian version of Arthur Conan Doyle."

"You're looking at it from a very pessimistic standpoint. That's not something I would expect from you, Alex." Mort leaned back against the pillows, sitting next to Alex and settling in for a good, long conversation. Alex adjusted himself to match Mort's position against the pillows, leaving a decent six inch gap between the two. "And, to continue down the path of Christianity, what about Jesus?"

"He could have been some ranting madman that people thought was a miracle worker…" ( AN::winces at the anger that one probably caused people: Please remember the disclaimer.)

"So, what you're saying is that it's entirely possible that everything that some people put their faith into, all that they live and breath, could be a lie?" Mort muttered angrily at the thought of the boy's sudden change in attitude. They'd been on the road for three weeks now, going nowhere and at times traveling the same path twice. They'd shared each other's company and gotten to know each other. Mort had even begun to think of the kid like the son he'd never had. He enjoyed their chats, but this one may have been too over the edge for him.

Alex sighed and closed his eyes. Thinking rapidly, he tried to make heads or tails of his thoughts. He leaned his head on Mort's shoulder and let out a breath, opening his eyes to study the far wall of the hotel room. A small voice with a Southern accent began to comment in the back of his mind, reminding him just what his dreams had entailed lately, and how tragic they turned out, every time.

"I guess, what I'm trying to say is…" He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to focus on each individual word. "I don't know what to believe anymore. So much has happened to make me think, and wonder about that little book that so many Christians stake their lives in. I mean, the stories and stuff… They're great. They teach us important lessons that we should learn, like treating others with kindness, no murder, things like that. But is that book even really accountable for what it holds? Does any of it… Did any of it actually exist, or do we sit in church every Sunday praying to someone who's fed up with our promises, our complaints, our wishes? I just don't know anymore, Mort."

Mort nodded his acknowledgement and closed his eyes. "It's hard sometimes, to keep faith in something so insubstantial, so intangible. I believe in the world, in computers… heh, because I can see them. I know that they're there. But, Jesus? God? Those are beings created too many years ago, with stories so out there that sometimes…"

Alex nodded and settled into the pillows further. "I think I can sleep again. I don't think the dreams will come back. What time is it?"

Mort glanced at his watch and smiled crookedly. "Two AM, Sporto." He chuckled and started to stand. "Good night."

"Stay there," Alex commanded in a small boyish tone. He reached up and hugged Mort, tears falling down his face. He closed his eyes and fell quickly into unconsciousness, muttering incoherently. Mort heard very little of what he said, but one small phrase was audible, and very heart-warming. "Don't go yet, Dad."

TBC

So… we all know now? They have become a sort of father/son relationship, and Alex's nightmares are starting to affect both of them. Things will get clearer as time goes on. I promise. As for the conversation… If you're reading this, that means it didn't offend you too much. Good. It's a good story and I'd hate for some stupid little God conversation to piss you off. Thank you for reading, and review nice things!