Hard work doesn't always dictate success. What decisions are right when your reality is blurred? What would you do if you had to make a difficult decision? Which side of the coin is actually right?
...
He was a prayer to the masses and a lie on his tongue before an audience. The words that came from his mouth, were words that he did not believe. In the church, he rallied them to this cause. He smiled with them, laughed with them, embraced them, but he cared nothing for them.
Here he was at the funeral of another, a daughter lay dead, she gave her life to save her sister. She had a muscular body, unusual for her age. Everyone here had cried a river of tears except one. The younger sister did not shed a single tear for the girl in the casket. He recalled her name Ashley Glenbrook as he watched her. His eyes locked with hers for a moment. Deep beyond the blue it was like looking into a black void of nothingness. This girl was peculiar and caught his interest.
"Alessandra Glenbrook, her life was short but not one that did not contain life and blessings. She was an active member of the church, an athlete where she had a dream of pursuing fitness. However, her life was cut short by tragedy. I do not ask you to remember her in those final moments, but only in the time she had lived before to keep that moment in your heart."
The priest played his part, pretending to be genuine as he came around to the grieving parents and placed a hand upon them. He placed a hand in particular upon the mother since she seemed the most torn. Wailing like a child, he almost wanted to laugh to himself, but kept a solemn expression upon his face. He however was now close to the girl he had not seen shed a tear.
Despite being the other daughter and the girl's sister, her face still held indifference. He walked up to her slowly, gauging before he spoke, the words he wanted to ask.
"Are you okay, my child?" the priest whispered as he came to her height.
"I am fine," she replied, "you can stop pretending with me, I am not like the others, I know you for what you are?"
"Know me for what I am?"
"A fake," she said, as she walked away.
He watched her disappear into the crowds of people. The priest thought about it as he left the last remaining stranglers at the grave.
"A fake?" the priest whispered.
***
The priest slipped out of his clothes. He placed his bible he held throughout the day down. He removed his glasses from his face. It was not needed to do the work he was about to engage in. The journey that he and only a few others could do. He changed into brown robes as a knock came to the door.
"It is time, brother, time to do our business."
The priest opened the door and responded, "I am ready to do the bidding as every reaper should."
A nod greeted him, from a man wearing a similar hood. The priest closed his door and headed towards the van that waited for them. Outside in the back of the van were men and women together in more hoods. This would be a hunting night. The driver selected a victim on the road. A lonely man walking home in the dark. He moved briskly, and the driver pulled in front of him to a stop. Masked men and women jumped out and grabbed him, dragging him into the van. He kicked, he clawed, he screamed, but to no avail. They were too many hands upon him. His last fleeting resistance knocked the hood back of one assailant. It was the priest. Their faces met with shock.
"Father Matinal? Why are ---"
A hit was made to his head that silenced him. The next moment the man woke up, he found himself naked in an unfamiliar place surrounded by hooded men. They were plenty of others around half-fed and starving people and they were all underground. Father Matinal's hood was off as he stepped forward towards the man before him.
"Why are you doing this, father Matinal?" he asked, but was met with no response. Instead, a chanting began.
"We offer this man as sacrifice please look onto our devotions, we who know the truth of this world. We who have given up the lies that plague the fools. We that understand sin is not our end, but our salvation. It is a part of a man and not to be ignored. We few who frolic and let loose our desires. We few the true saviours of mankind. We offer this blood sacrifice of this one in hopes you hear our commitment. May you drink his blood and consume his soul."
He pulled hard on the shackles, but it was to no avail. Nothing he could do now would save him as his death clocked tick.
Father Matinal produced his dagger and walked closer to him.
"This is not you, father Matinal, snap out of it." Were the last audible words to leave his mouth.
Before the screams painted a sombre picture, then it was over. Father Matinal stood to admire his art piece with his bloody hands.
"Soon," he said, "we will be acknowledged."
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