Celibate Good Times
Chapter 4 † Personal Jesus
Reach out and touch faith
Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who cares
Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who's there
Feeling unknown
And you're all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I'll make you a believer
Take second best
Put me to the test
Things on your chest
You need to confess
I will deliver
You know I'm a forgiver
Reach out and touch faith
Reach out and touch faith
Your own personal Jesus...
Feeling unknown
And you're all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I'll make you a believer
I will deliver
You know I'm a forgiver
Reach out and touch faith
Your own personal Jesus
Reach out and touch faith
Silas found himself in the dark room of the Opus Dei house, the very place where he had died. Just outside, in the courtyard, his body had laid bullet ridden. He felt like a ghost standing in the shadow of his previous life. Desolate and depressed, his emotions rippled through him like stones cast in a pool of water; eyes vigilantly watching the droplets of rain roll down the window. This was the exact same window he had gazed out of before he had died… All of those memories flooded his mind as he stood in the midst of nostalgia. Silas was different now, a changed person, although he couldn't help but feel apprehensive toward the way life was heading. He was uncertain whether he had lost his mind after the ordeals in his past life. Surely after all his traumatizing hardship that he would be the perfect specimen for insanity.
It was during moments like these, when he reflected on his actions, that he would begin to question his beliefs. In his prior lifetime, those questions would have been violently suppressed. But now that he was free of that servitude, his mind had opened up to those possibilities. The main question in his mind resonated deep from within, and relentlessly plagued his thoughts during these past days.
Who am I?
Logically and within all reason, he was Silas – a former Opus Dei monk, always a servant of the Lord no matter what ranking garment he wore. Be it civilian attire, or religious, his soul remained bound by the same code. Code… now there was a word he had been avoiding since his recovery. That blasted fiasco with the American scholar and his accomplice the French cryptographer had sent… Silas halted his train of thought, letting the unfinished sentence diminish like a forgotten whisper. His mission was to reform himself; dwelling on the past would prevent him from achieving that goal. He had to accept and forgive, after all wasn't it he who owed them an apology? And when this crusade came to an end, he would apologize to them, but now was not the time. Now was time for him to seek out his first task, the true beginning of the trials he was to face.
He closed his eyes for a moment, to absorb the peace surrounding the environment before standing up. This would be the last time he would come here, to his grave – yet he could not leave without laying a flower upon the soil. Silas stopped in the courtyard, instantly focusing his gaze on the ground he had fallen upon. It was there that he stooped down, to pray for his future self and to say farewell to his past self.
Then he set off, following only his inner instincts as to where his path should lead him. For hours he walked, taking little notice in the failing light until night had besieged him. Another hour later, he found himself entering a graveyard in the more rural countryside. It was only a stone's throw away from an abandoned church; Silas observed it to be horribly run down and turned (to his dismay and disgust) into a haven for troublesome juvenile delinquents. This he could determine from the obscene graffiti on the walls and the laughter of teenagers lounging on tombstones. The scene they presented made Silas furious at their blatant disrespect for property (religious or otherwise) and their portrayal of some cult. It wasn't that they were trying to be some sort of satanic cult, but that they were treating it as nothing more than a joke. This was obvious in the way they were laughing in hysterics at the jokes they were making, and on top of all this: burning bibles amid the couple of black cat bodies. It was such a display that made his blood boil, and regardless of their age Silas would teach them a lesson.
Something made him pause before stepping out into their vision. Even he was confused at this sudden change of motion. It was his inner child, the spirit that (as his monstrous form pointed out) still huddled in a corner, that caused the action. It called out to him in a whispery voice; it called out for him to rethink his crusade. Don't follow through, the child cried trying to reach out to the older Silas. Was this his true conscious speaking? Or was this another apparition designed to test his loyalty to God? Silas was uncertain, a disposition becoming quite frequent, and didn't know who to listen to. Again the question popped up into his mind, this time in a more desperate plea.
Who am I?
Was this the child speaking? Its lips were not moving, only its eyes stared deep into his soul beginning to brim with tears. Silent up until now, his more monstrous form decided to step in before Silas could fall down in another emotional breakdown. It gripped his shoulder tightly, almost reassuring, but still quite forceful. Its brutal confidence flowing through its fingertips into his arm, as it narrowed its eyes at him as though it was disappointed. Christ's sake, man, get a grip and fulfill your mission. Silas frowned at them both, torn by the angels and demons upon his shoulders; heavy like the burden of this crusade. Eventually, the stronger spirit won out and he advanced upon the misfits standing around their bonfire.
"Have you no respect?" Silas snarled at them, eyes filled with complete disgust. They jumped up in alarm and glared at this intruder. Who was this man to tell them what to do? They were adults now, or at least they fancied themselves as such, and bearing that title they now carried their independence on their sleeves. This was a free country after all, wasn't it? They quickly masked their surprise with an appearance that came off supercilious. Their first mistake was being there at all, but their second one was mistaking the cross around his neck as a sign of his weakness. They assumed he was just some priest, who couldn't possibly hurt a fly. Well, they were in for a big surprise.
"You can't tell us what to do," one of them called out defiantly. The others seconded his opinion with a resounding volley of 'yeah'. Yet this did nothing to deter Silas in his quest of purification. He didn't wait for them to justify their due comeuppance; Silas began his chant as he kneeled down in front of a cross grave marker:
"Our Father, which art in Heaven,
Hollowed be thy name,
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven,
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us,
And lead us not into temptation,"
They didn't move, they just stood there watching this curious display. Finally, in the midst of his prayer one of them couldn't take it any longer and brandished his pocket knife. Even from his position, Silas recognized it as a brand new Swiss army make – a design equipped with multiple blades that looked sharp enough to spear an animal. Before the boy with the knife could say anything, another boy pulled out the gun he had concealed in his hooded sweatshirt.
"Shut the hell up, old man!" he exclaimed, hoping to interrupt Silas's prayer and to intimidate him into leaving them alone. That was one wish he would never comply them with, but when he made no sign of moving or halting his speech – the boy with the gun decided to take action. "I warned you, man!" And he pulled the trigger not once, but several times. The bullets pierced through Silas, splattering blood against the headstone behind him. The metallic tasting liquid poured out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin, yet even through all of this he continued.
"But deliver us from evil,
Then yours is the kingdom,
And the power and Glory,
For Eternity..."
At the word eternity, he swiftly pulled out the HK P10 from the pocket of his coat. This movement instantly silenced the lot of them, and their faces mirrored their trepidation. In their fear, the rest of them pulled out their own assortment of guns and opened fire upon him. Yet their bullets could not faze him in the least, they would pass through his flesh and then the wounds would heal as rapidly as they were ravished. He pointed it the boy in the middle, the one who had shot him first.
"Amen," and the gunshots rang out from his side. Within seconds, the adolescent delinquents were strewn about the graveyard before they even had time to flee, and Silas was standing there with his smoking pistol. After every recent kill, he felt numb and cold with the knowledge of what death was like. Certainly, he knew they deserved some form of punishment, but sometimes he wished it wasn't he that was the reaper. And now that the deed was done, his monstrosity abandoned him until the next time he was needed. Yet the child remained, huddled in his corner – lamenting the deeds of his present self.
Am I death?