The students from the upper advanced english class are writing a short story over the second semester. This is part one <3
Macrina Grigore, clasa a 10a A
They all seemed to have agreed on God’s word. They all subconsciously communicated, as if the body were the eye and the mind… a simple hurdle. They called themselves “The Reapers”. They hunted the vulnerable, the addicts, the lost.
When I first came to Yorkshire, weather was most-expectantly rainy. Streetlights nodded in pain and the sky… monotone.
It had been a month since the murder, but its subsistence was inevitable, cruel, a menace to my existence. That cursed day would materialize into shattered matter every second. I sensed the smell of gas as an epiphany, omnipresent. ‘God? He was never here. His face is all covered in shroud, corruptly dark,’ my thoughts suffocate the last hope I had been holding on for the sickest time.
Rain made my eyes water and so, my capability to see basic objects around me was weaker than previously. Far, extremely far it seemed, a long figure made its entrance into Universe. Grey wool hat, baby-smooth face (recently shaved, as I have noticed a small bright red cut above his chin) and sinful green eyes.
“Are you a stranger?” he asked.
“A stranger?” I asked more than confused. Well, technically I was, but Yorkshire is A Stranger’s World.
“I said, are you a stranger to His teachings?”
Nonsense. I grip my baggage and make my way back, to the opposite street.
This almost oneiric occurrence was kept locked away in a corner of my mind… because man’s nature is to forget and fear the unforgettable.
A week had passed. When I was heading back to my lowly flat, I passed by a small building. The noise was unbearable. Women weeping and old man tenor voice were heard. A heavenly choir, I laughed.
I did not know what it was, I still don’t, but something or someone provoked me to enter. Dante’s awakening. Vergilius’ resurrection.
I entered.
“Save us! Save us, dear God, as we’ve sinned gravely!” people screeched while sitting on their blue knees.
The man. He was there.
In the next moment, unperceivable, I find myself lying on a long table similar to the one from Last Supper. I was unable to move.
“It is time, brothers and sisters, to cleanse this poor soul. Let us all cheer and pray for his redemption!” grey hatted man acclaimed.
I saw blood, I felt my insides exposed, my organs lying on the table. The man would place my organs, one by one, in his hat. As he was The Magician. Applause. This was in no world God’s work. At that exact moment, on that death ridden bed, I realized I had taken part to a ritual, a cult experiment. If only I had known that was only the beginning…