Song used is Chris De Burgh's "Saint Peter's Gate". Don't own anything.
God bless.
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Voices Of The Dark
Darkness. Pain. Cold. And constant soft rocking.
He was drifting in space, on the edge of reality and delirium, numb, mute and blind.
There was time when he sensed - he could only sense - that for a breif second a vast field of blue opened before him, heard rustling and splashing of water, gulls screaming, and then again he fell into complete blackness void of sounds,of colors,of life itself. He wanted to scream out, but couldn't.
When did the pain return, he could not tell. It could have been Song usedinutes and could have been ages. Still in the dark, he felt it growing' climbing up his spine; he also sensed that the rocking had stopped. For some reason, he felt fear.
Am I dead? Where am I? WHO am I?
And then, a gentle sound of guitar playing and a soft, low voice filled his ears
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I was lost in the dark and the fear was in my heart
All around me the forest and the rain
Then with a flash of the light I saw it in the night
I must be getting near Saint Peter's Gate
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A small bright dot appeared somewhere far, far away, in the depths of the darkness and started to get closer. A small flickering flame, which was getting stronger and brighter... And suddenly he wasn't cold anymore.
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As I walked through the door he was standing in the hall
An old man with a beard of shining white
He said "I've been expecting you, let me show you to your room"
And he took me all the way by candlelight
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Inside the flame, now rich red and golden and burning right in front of his eyes, a figure appeared. A man with extremely tired, wrinkled face and kind, smiling eyes, clad in white hospital robe. The man grinned and bekoned him to follow, as the flame started to drift away. Somehow, follow he did.
Father?
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And lying there on the bed a book black and red
My name was written on the front in gold
And when I opened it up there were pictures of my life
And the voice began to call from down below
Nobody will get through
Nobody not even you
Can escape the judgement day
Nobody will be spared
Haven is only there
For the ones who satisfy them at
Saint Peter's Gate
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An image of his father faded away as the flame unfolded into a gigantic book, opened in the middle. One page read "Martin" on top of it and featured a picture of a boy about tweleve years old, strawberry-blond hair cut just above his ears and wearing a pair of cargo pants and an oversized T-shirt. He stood on the lawn in front of a small cottage, smiling into the camera as he was about to saddle the bike.
There were a couple of smaller pictures underneath the large one - the same boy sitting on the floor indian-style and playing a video game; half-lying on the sofa reading The Lord Of The Rings, eyes shining with fascination; now a little older, in school uniform, sitting behind the desk picking stares at a long-haired, pretty girl seated a few rows away; him and the girl in bed, he's asleep while she is lying looking at him a sad, haunted look on her face. In the last picture, edges of which were blackened as if burned by fire, he stood on the desk with his hands crossed above his head and his teeth bared in a manic scowl.
On the other page, a youth in black jacket, shirt, tie, red leather pants, and motorbike boots lounged lazily on the backseat of a car. A wide mocking smile dominated his face, painted with red, chaotic patterns save for the eyes, which were outlined with black mascara. Long dreads lay on his shoulders and on top of the teen's head sat a peaked cap with a pair of googles worn on it. In his one hand the teen held a gun. The other, extanded forward, was smeared with red. Blood was dripping from the fingers. On the background, behind the back window, stood a city in flames.
Smaller pictures featured him standing up in a police car, with a dark-skinned girl whose hair was braided and face paint similar to his, by his side; smashing a half-emptied beer bottle against the wall; pointing a gun at a kneeling boy's head while around them gethered figures in coveralls whose faces were hiding behind motorcycle and hockey hemlets with wires attached to them ("LocoZ" was spray-painted on one of the helmets), all of them armed; standing with his hands folded as behind him someone tied to a pile was screaming in agony, burning alive.
On top of the page four letters were forming a name.
"Zoot".
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"Come with me" said that old man as he took me by the hand
"There is someone here that you have seen before
In this room on the left a man who did his best
To bring joy and happiness to one and all"
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Before his eyes stood Zoot, smiling down at the baby lying in his arms. And on the background, a small plastic bag of raisins was slowly falling to the ground.
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"But in this room on the right a dicator in life
We've been waiting for him here as you can tell
For all the blood he's spilled and for all the ones he's killed
We condemn him to eternity in hell"
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Again, a boy emerged from the darkness, tied to the pile, engulfed in flames, flopping his head back and forth in agony as sparks flew from his burning hair. The flames rose and pain grew along with them, consuming him. And then, just as it reached it's peak, the boy at the pile looked straight at him. He looked back - at himself.
Finally, he was able to let out a scream. As he did, another voice broke into his nightmare. A panicing child's voice.
"Lani! Lani, Robbie, come quick, I think he's dying!"