Dead Moon Chapel

eighteen

HEAVY BASS HIT IN TIME with Abel's heartbeat. Red lights twirled around the walls, illuminating the dancing bodies around him. He stood in the center of the room, his hands dripping with blood. The eye in his right palm blinked at him, and he could feel the weight of its judgment.

There was a body at his feet. He knew this body well. Father Malachi's robes were drenched in blood that seeped from where a knife lodged itself into his chest. Streaks of crimson flowed from the corners of his mouth. Even while dead, Malachi was looking right at him. There was no life in him anymore, and yet, Abel could feel his disappointment.

Abel was not the only sinner in the room. Surrounding him, faceless people moved suggestively, taunting him. Swaying hips, wandering hands, exposed skin in places Abel was always forbidden from looking at. Still, this was not the first he'd dreamt of it. He felt hot when he looked at them. Somehow, he found it easier to focus on the dead man at his feet.

"Look at what you've done," a voice crowed into his ear. It was a woman's voice, one he could pick out easily in a crowd. "You've just killed a man. But that's alright, isn't it? Because at least you haven't soiled your precious chastity."

Abel turned to look at Zora. She stood before him, body shredded into ribbons. "I didn't mean to kill him."

"Maybe not," she said with a shrug. "But you did mean to look. You like it, watching the way they dance. It excites you."

"No, it doesn't."

"You're sick, Abel." Tears on her face glistened in the red light like blood. "You killed me, and you don't even dare to face me in Heaven."

A lump formed in his throat, but he couldn't swallow it back despite his best efforts. The lump became a knife, and it hurt to try to speak.

"You're a coward. You disgust me, Abel. Every part of you is disgusting."

"Zora, I'm so-" Abel choked on his own words as the knife in his throat broke through the skin, slicing him open. After everything, he still ended up dying with a slit in his throat.

Abel gasped and sat up in his bed, clutching at his neck with both hands. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, drenching his clothes and sticking his hair to his neck and forehead. This was the third nightmare in a row, and he swore Jericho could sense it every time he had one. For the past three nights since the incident, he was there at his bedside with a glass of water.

"You're alright," Jericho said, pushing the glass into his shaky hand. "It was just a dream."

Abel downed it without taking a single moment to breathe. Water spilled down his neck. He was panting like a dog when the glass was empty. "They don't feel like that's all they are," he croaked.

Jericho slipped a hand over one of Abel's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know. You're processing something, that's never easy. The first time is always the hardest one."

"I don't want this to be the first time," Abel said. "I want this to be the only time. I never want to do that again."

"I know, angel." He patted his hand once, then stood up. "I know."

Abel's empty eyes stared at nothing as Jericho made his way around the bed and out the door. He returned a while later with a fresh stack of clothes, sweatpants and a black sweater as always. They were loose like Abel liked them.

"You're always welcome to take a bath," Jericho told him as he set the clothes on the bed. "I know getting up is hard, but-"

"Yeah. That would be nice," Abel said in a flat voice.

Jericho blinked at him, unable to do much else when Abel climbed out of bed. It was the first time he'd done that since he fell down into it all those nights ago.