MARIEL

20~ Father God ~

January 1st, 1998: Moscow, Russia

Fr. Paul hadn't realized how difficult it actually was to smother someone beneath a pillow. The movies had always made it seem easy. A one minute job. Maybe two, tops. As curious about death as he'd always been, he'd never stopped to research the length of time it might take to complete such a task.

As sweat poured down his face, he struggled to contain his gasps, glancing desperately towards the doorway to ensure no one would enter. Beneath the pillow, her cries vibrated his hands.

This wasn't working. Natasha was thrashing too much.

So, crawling atop her body, Fr. Paul kept the pillow over her face and added pressure with his arm.

'Kill the bitch, kill kill kill!' The humanoid jumped up and down with glee.

Nurses laughed loudly outside the room, the sound fading as they passed the door.

The muffled cries turned to gurgles. The gurgles transitioned to agonal breathing. Next, the breathing stopped.

His torso felt like it was closing in on his lungs. Wheezing, Fr. Paul raised the pillow. Natasha's eyes were nearly closed, and wicked marks across her throat formed, as if in judgment of his actions.

A male voice laughed outside the room. Foot shadows beneath the crack of the door stopped, hesitated, and then moved on.

The infant let out a raspy cry.

Fr. Paul's eyes shifted. Gasping, he covered the infant's face with his shaking hand. His entire palm covered the child's face. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes.

Tears trickled from beneath his eyelids.

He was killing a baby. His own son. And, for what? His own pride? Once the baby was dead, where the hell would he go? He had no plan. He'd never planned for this.

'He cannot die,' the humanoid hissed.

Strangely, Fr. Paul believed him. Or, perhaps he had a conscience left, and was looking for a reason to stop the act of murdering a child. He didn't know.

But, he needed to figure out a plan.

Keeping his palm over the boy's mouth, Fr. Paul glanced around. There was a window, but he was on the upper floor. There was no viable way to get down without falling to his death. There was no way to leave the room without being noticed.

He'd fucked himself.

'Take him to the Kremlin,' the humanoid cackled.

"You want to guide me there without getting caught?" Fr. Paul growled, keeping his voice as low as he could. He could feel the baby's breath on his palm. A part of him simply wanted to kill the boy and run.

The floor vibrated. The bed began to creak. Eyes wide, Fr. Paul looked around. The vibrations became stronger. The visitor chair rattled against the hard floor, and the vibrations jostled Natasha's head.

'The gate is open! Boss is coming!' The humanoid bounced and clapped.

Footsteps ran past the door. Someone sounded frantic. People yelled.

Grabbing the infant, Fr. Paul dove from the bed. As his feet struck the floor, he was nearly shaken from his feet.

The electricity flickered. The hospital equipment buzzed on and off. The infant began to cry again.

Fr. Paul lost balance. He landed onto his hip, and the baby struck the floor. The infant screamed louder. So did the people outside the room.

But, cutting through the panicked cries, Fr. Paul heard a voice he'd never heard before. It called his name, sending a level of terror through his body that was unmatched to anything he'd ever experienced.