The depth of short stories and micro-fiction 2

The Torture of Divine Silence

Drogo's eyes blazed with a fire that seemed almost otherworldly as he stared up at the church he had once called home. His sister, Elara, had been taken from him far too soon, and he couldn't help but feel that god had played a cruel hand in her passing. The pain and anger had been building inside of him for months, and now he was ready to act. 

As a priest, Drogo had always been a devout servant of the lord, but Elara's death had shaken his faith to its core. He couldn't understand why god would take such a young and vibrant life, leaving him and his family to suffer in her wake. The more he thought about it, the more became convinced that god was not the benevolent being he had always believed in, but rather a cruel and heartless deity who delighted in the suffering of others. 

And so, Drogo had decided to punish god in the only way he knew how: by burning down the church that had once brought him so much comfort and solace. He had spent countless hours within its wall, praying and serving the lord, but now he saw it as a symbol of everything he had lost. 

As he approached the church, Drogo could feel a strange, unsettling energy emanating from within. It was as if the building itself was watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. He pushed the feeling aside, attributing it to his guilt and anxiety.

Stepping inside, Drogo was greeted by the familiar sight of pews and stained-glass windows, but his eyes were drawn to the altar at the front of the church. It was there that he had spent countless hours praying for Elara's recovery, and it was there that he now planned to start the fire that would consume the building.

As he reached for the matches in his pocket, a sudden, icy draft swept through the church, extinguishing the candles and sending the shadows dancing across the walls. Drogo spun around, wondering who or what could have caused the disturbance, but he was alone.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice shaking slightly.

There was no answer, but the draft seemed to grow stronger, buffeting him with an unseen force. Drogo stumbled backwards, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

And then, the whispers started.

At first, they were just a faint susurrus, a soft, indistinct murmuring that seemed to come from all around him. But as the moments passed, the whispers grew louder, more urgent, until Drogo could make out the words.

"You will not defile this place," the voices hissed. "You will not punish God."

Drogo spun around, trying to locate the source of the whispers, but there was no one in sight. The voices seemed to be coming from all around him, echoing off the walls and ceiling.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a faint, sulphurous smell, and Drogo felt a creeping sense of dread. He knew that he was not alone in the church and that whatever was with him was not of this world.

The whispers grew louder, more menacing until Drogo felt like he was being consumed by a living, breathing entity. He stumbled backwards, his eyes fixed on the altar, but as he reached out to steady himself, he felt a searing pain in his hand.

Looking down, he saw that his palm was covered in deep, bloody gashes as if he had grasped a handful of razor-sharp thorns. The pain was excruciating, and Drogo knew that he had to get out of the church, and fast.

But as he turned to run, he felt a cold, bony hand grasp his shoulder, holding him in place. The whispers grew louder, and more urgent until Drogo felt like he was being pulled apart by some unseen force.

And then, everything went black.

When Drogo came to, he was lying on the floor, his head throbbing with a dull, pulsing pain. The church was quiet, the whispers gone, and for a moment, he wondered if it had all been just a dream.

But as he looked down at his hand, he saw the gashes, still raw and bleeding, and he knew that it had all been real.

Slowly, Drogo got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the altar. He knew that he had been punished for his transgression and that he would never be able to burn down the church.

As he stumbled out into the bright sunlight, Drogo couldn't help but wonder if he had been wronging all along. Maybe God was not a cruel and heartless deity, but rather a just and fair one, who had simply taken Elara home when her time had come.

Drogo's eyes were filled with tears as he looked back at the church, but this time, he felt a sense of peace, rather than anger. He knew that he would never forget Elara, but he also knew that he had to move on, to find a way to live with the pain of her loss.

As he walked away from the church, Drogo felt a strange, unsettling energy dissipate, as if the supernatural forces that had tortured him had finally been laid to rest.

He knew that he would never be the same again, but he also knew that he would find a way to heal, move forward, and rediscover his faith in a God who was not cruel and heartless, but rather a loving and benevolent guide.