Hello!
Something different this week. A much longer, darker short story which will go out in 4 parts (So I can focus on other things!) – hope you enjoy it and look forward to your comments.
The Priest – Part 1.
He had forgotten.
He lay on the toilet floor. Time; Relative or absolute? Time along with choice are our most precious possessions. A luxury we are all afforded.
The train rumbled onwards. At first, its mechanical voices were welcome, amplifying freedom and the beckoning ability to choose once again. But now the chatter irked.
How long had he been in here? What was he doing here? Where was the train taking him? Why was he locked in the toilet? He was confined once again. The train rumbled on. He was powerless.
The vision; Where had it come from? Standing in a church pulpit casting down on a garishly dressed congregation of alabaster models, their faces obscured by fluorescent light, impervious to this impassioned vision of his God. The finest sermon he had ever given. Probably too clever for this congregation.
Only one face revealed itself as he spoke. An elderly man who tapped his stick on the church flagstones in a shiftless, artless fashion as the Sermon enunciated the joys of forgiveness and fortitude to this catatonic congregation.
He began to laugh and cajoled the other lifeless figures to join him in applauding the words. None did. Instead, The alabaster figures grew into bloated, distended shapes. Sores and weal’s fixed themselves to their skins. But they remained motionless.
The old man spoke, “Bravo, Father David, Bravo. Such success in preaching cant to your flock. I now count myself as one of your disciples. How temperate you are. How prudent! Your faith, your precious sacrosanct, conceited faith. I come to claim that faith from you Priest.”
The Priest was confused. What had he had done to deserve this?
“You already know the answer. For your own glory, your own sense of destiny, you have aborted your faith.” The old man melted from view. The priest remained still, silent. He heard a noise.
Someone was knocking on the toilet door. The door handle moved rapidly up and down. Were they were coming for him? A wraith of fear gripped him. Thankfully the knocking stopped and the handle was becalmed.
Thirst. He stood but his legs could barely support his weight. Where was he? Panic. He had no control. No choice. He vomited.
Again there was a knocking at the door. More insistent this time. Fear returned. His heart raced. Again he threw up, a dry, incessant heave.
He was alone, isolated from a world that had never understood him and shunned him. Only the toilet door protected him from this harsh world. He wished he was back in his room and his choices were made for him.
The train stopped. Its clanking, harsh voices returned to torment him as it idled in rest.
For a fleeting moment, the heroin had reconfirmed his genius. Cooled the scratching madness in his mind’s eye. He could depend on it as always.
He had found Peace.
He realised he was not alone. She was there.
