In the Name of the Father

[DoS Archive]

From: mickoshan@aol.com (MickOShan)
Date: 03 Mar 1998 17:43:47 EST

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

"I don't want to die."

"That is unavoidable now, my son. Your fate is in God's hands."

"I understand, Father."

There was a sharp rap on the iron door of the gray-walled cell. "It's time." In the voice of the guard on the other side of the door there was no trace of mercy.

The man bent and kissed the hem of the priest's robe before rising from his knees and taking a step towards the door. But his legs trembled and failed, and he stumbled, catching himself with a hand against the cold concrete wall.

"I'm afraid."

The priest raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over the man's bowed head. "Be not frightened, my son. It is good that you returned to the Church before the end."

The man shook his head, eyes pressed closed. "I never left it, Father."

"Time!"

The guards came into the room in a hard-eyed swarm and took him and pushed him face-first into the ragged stone and pinned his arms behind his back and tied them there with a length of heavy cord. The hood came next, blotting out his last sight of the world.

They dragged him to another room, and he felt the rough hemp slide over his head and constrict around his throat in a generous serpentine coil. Someone was talking, but he could not hear for the rushing of his blood in his ears. The black wool of the hood pressed against his nose and mouth and he could taste the rich animal smell of it, the rustle of the fabric against his hair as loud as thunder. Each thread in the hood made its delicate,
distinct impression against his skin, as sharp and clear as the edge of a knife.

There came a vision. He walked down the aisle of a church, between the rows of pews, towards the cold stone altar. The seats were empty, the prayer books unread, unopened. He raised his hands, somehow free of their bonds, before his chest in supplication. The sleeves of the black cassock he wore fell around his elbows as he pressed the rosary beads between his palms and knelt at the foot of the nave, whispered words of contrition torturously
trapped behind parched lips.

He lowered his face until his forehead touched the cool marble of the floor. "This is not me," he panted into the stone. "This is not me. Help me, Lord. If you are there, help me."

He dreamt he was back in the execution chamber. The guard turned to the level set into the wall, his movement an infinitely slow progression that seemed to take hours. His hand touched the lever, and held it there for another eternity. The lever fell. The floor opened under the man with the hood, and he vanished into the pit below, the rope tightening inexorably around his neck.

There was a shock, a jerk. He opened his eyes. Impossible bright light stabbed at his retinas.

Impossible. He was dead…

Wasn't he?