The Priest And The Demon

Chapter 3

Safe/sāf/

Adjective 

--protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost  

***

I landed with a loud thud. It knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air. My right hand felt for the snow—found it beneath me—and my other one rose to my chest. Like that was going to help my breathing any, I thought it might—I was hoping it would.

I rose up slowly with my left hand touching to the snow. I couldn't stand yet. Instead I lifted my head to the window I just fell from. The priest's head hung out of the window with a surprised face. I smiled at him and stood without thinking.

I walked. One foot at a time I made my way away from him. Last time I glanced at the window, he was gone.

"Hey! You can't leave!"

I grunted under my breath and began to run.

"Rachel!" he yelled. "Stop."

I stopped in my tracks. My head turned slowly to him. He was standing in the snow with his gun tucked away somewhere. The priest wasn't that far from me. His black robe swayed in the wind, it made him stand out in this white place. The red didn't do much to help him blend in either.

"Do you even know who I am?" He asked fairly loudly.

I turned fully around. "You're a priest. I thought we established that," I said.

"Go with me," He sighed. "The church has plenty of food and clothing." My stomach growled at the mention of food. "I don't know how long you've been here, but I bet you're hungry."

I didn't move. I didn't know what to say, or what to do. I just stayed still, my eyes locked with his. I felt like an animal. . . 

Those eyes of his--they were oddly familiar. Too familiar for my liking. But something told me to go with him, the rest of me told me to run. Run and run.

"It's not just me there. We have women that can take care of you, children that can be your friends," he was begging. The priest held a hand out to me.

"How do you know my name?" I asked quietly.

He smiled and lowered his hand just a little. "Oh Rachel," he started. "Don't you remember me?" the man sighed. "You're the one who was sitting at the back of the church when your father died."

I flinched. No. Not him. Don't bring Dad up. I remember seeing his face in that dreaded coffin. His death was staged . . . by angels. His eyes were closed; his eye lids covered his bright green orbs. They always seemed to glow in the sun and moon light. But I couldn't see them. He wasn't ever going to be there again to tell me that everything was going to be okay. So, after I had realized he wasn't coming back, I sat in the back of the church in the lonely pews. Tears streamed, my lips had trembled, and my head hung low.

But the church hadn't cleared out just yet even though it was long past midnight. The young preacher had seen me back there, felt bad for me, and sat next to my downcast figure. He had spoken to me in the most comforting way. He had asked for my name.

"Rachel." I sniffed. "Rachel Nelson."

His arm wrapped around me and he picked me up carefully. "You don't want to say goodbye?" he had asked.