Dead Moon Chapel

nine

"BROTHER ATHERTON, WE ARE GOING to be late. Have you finished getting dressed yet?"

Abel sat on his floor, fully clothed. He'd been staring at a spot on the wall for the past hour, and he showed no signs of stopping. Even when Malachi rapped on the door and threatened to come into his room, Abel was as still as a stone. The week had wound its way back to Sunday, and the position of the sun told him the worship service would be starting at any minute. He didn't move.

The door opened, and Malachi stepped through the threshold. "Brother Atherton," he said. "The service is about to start. I need to be there, and so do you."

There was an argument in Abel's throat, but his mouth was clamped shut. With nowhere to go, everything he wanted to say moved down into his chest, flooding it until the tension made it hurt to breathe. That, or it was the bandages he put on tighter than usual that morning. Abel had spent the past two days being mad, but he had nowhere to put it, so he did what he could to keep himself from bursting with the expanding pressure.

Why did no one ask him if this is what he wanted?

God does not make a habit of asking us what we want, Malachi would've said if Abel had dared to ask him. He said nothing for that very reason.

Malachi escorted him down the stairwell and towards the chapel. The doors were all shut save for one, kept open just for them. It awaited Abel like a monster's eager jaws, and he would be devoured without remorse should he step through it. With Malachi at his side, he did, right into the belly of the beast.

The meeting had not yet started, but the organ was no longer providing a warm ambiance, leaving the room in the piercing silence of the in-between. Abel heard the rustle of bodies as they turned to face him and Malachi.

Eyes. Hundreds of them, studying him. Staring. Praising. Scrutinizing. Pitying. He felt it all.

That's him. He could hear their thoughts in the back of his mind. That's the one who's going to die on the Dead Moon. That's the one we're going to kill.

Malachi took him up the right aisle, and the two of them settled onto a bench in the center row. Abel could still see the splash of blood on the front of the pulpit from the day the demon attacked, even though it had long since been washed up. He couldn't enter the chapel without hearing the echoes of her screaming, and of the bishop's strange words spoken in a language he didn't know he knew. The haunting image of Zora's face plagued his mind still, but today, he attempted to soothe it with thoughts of Heaven. She was at peace, and he would meet her there someday. He would meet her there soon.

He would see Zora soon.

The thought brought him his first inkling of comfort since that night he transformed. He'd spent most of his time worrying about this new part of him that he hadn't let himself think about it until now. It did not hurt as much as he was anticipating, not when his own death was now a mark on a calendar.

That didn't make him want this any more, though. No amount of silver lining could ease the dread weighing upon his chest.

Was it really a sacrifice if he was unwilling to lay down his life?

God was not to be questioned. And if this was God's will, it wasn't his place to question it. He kept telling himself as much, trying to get it to stick.

"We were all so graciously given a choice in Heaven. We exercised our agency, and now, it is our gift. Prove that you are worthy to ascend to be with Him once again, and make righteous decisions that are pleasing in the eyes of the Lord. He has given us this gift to choose the path of righteousness, to choose faith, and to choose sacrifice."