by Amanda Long
I'll stay at the cabin, meditate, and stay away from anyone I might hurt, at least until I am able to figure things out.
Judging by how low the sun hung in the sky, he knew he needed to make haste to reach his destination before darkness swallowed the forest. Redoubling his efforts, he jogged deep into the woods, following the same worn paths he and his father had traveled ages ago on their yearly retreats.
At an early age, Father Murphy taught Dorian that God would provide everything he ever needed, but that did not mean it would be handed to him on a silver platter. This important lesson truly hit home during the first of their expeditions to the cabin when Dorian was only ten and Father Murphy was much more able-bodied. The memory of that first outing crept to the surface of his mind.
“Where are we going?” Dorian chimed.
“You'll see,” replied Father Murphy, smiling secretively.
“Couldn't you just tell me where we're going, Father?” Dorian asked, yanking on the sleeve of his father's shirt.
“I could, but it wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, now would it?” Father Murphy retorted, pulling his sleeve from his son's grip.
“No,” Dorian grunted, drooping his head for a second before popping it back up and adding excitedly, “I could act surprised?”
“Why act surprised when you can actually be surprised?”
“Fine,” Dorian huffed, ceasing his attempt to pry the knowledge of their destination from his father. Thirty minutes of peaceful silence elapsed before either spoke again.
After losing sight of his son numerous times while he darted in and out to the path in front of him, Father Murphy pleaded. “Dorian, please stay on the path where I can see you.”
“Yes, Father.” Dorian replied, walking slowly beside him. “How much farther?”
“Not far,” Father Murphy smiled as they finally entered the clearing where the cabin stood.
Dorian jumped up and down with excitement. “Wow!” He squealed as he ran up the three small steps leading to the front door of the cabin. He swung it open and ran inside with Father Murphy trudging in right behind him. “Two beds on top of each other with a ladder!”
“Those are bunk beds,” Father Murphy informed him.
“Can I sleep on top?”
“Of course. Can you see me climbing that little ladder?” Father Murphy chuckled.
Dorian giggled and slapped Father Murphy's arm, “Father!” Then he investigated the rest of the cabin, observing only a small wooden table with two mismatched chairs and a log fireplace.
“Dorian, as I have told you many times, God will provide you with all the tools you will need to survive in this world. What you choose to do with these tools is up to you. So, during this retreat, the first of many I hope, we are going to take the tools God has provided us and learn how to survive on our own. Now, you see those poles in the corner? Grab them and let’s go see if we can catch our supper.”
Five years had passed since Dorian and his father had enjoyed a retreat to the cabin. Father Murphy's health had deteriorated greatly, making it difficult to transverse through the wilderness. Dorian kept his fingers crossed that at least remnants of the structure remained, enough to protect him from the elements. It didn't need to be much. He was accustomed to meager accommodations.
When he arrived at the cabin, he was pleasantly surprised. The one-hundred-year old cabin appeared no worse for wear than it had five years ago.
The front steps creaked under his weight as he opened the door. Dust billowed out around him as it swung in. Coughing, he propped open the door with a chair and unlatched the shutters, hoping to clear away some of the dust. He deposited his satchel on the bottom bunk after acquiring his Bible and withdrew back outside.
Having already wasted most of the day asleep, he chose to immediately delve into The Word of God in search of knowledge that had so far eluded him. Sitting Indian style on the soft cool grass in front of the cabin, a gentle breeze tousling his chocolate brown hair, he searched for answers. As he read, God's Words wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
One passage in particular called out to him and he spoke the words aloud.
“Proverbs 3:13-18; Blessed is the one who finds wisdom, and the one who gets understanding, for the gain from her is better than gain from silver and her profit better than gold. She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her. Long life is in her right hand; in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.”
Hours passed as Dorian read and reread those scriptures, analyzing each word, hungry for the peace it promised. Not tired, he decided to explore. He had never observed the forest at night, at least not like this. It was as if he was truly seeing it for the first time, with newborn eyes.
The moon cloaked the forest in a silver blue glow. He weaved through the trees with ease, escaping their groping limbs. From their hollows, dozens of eyes stared at him, but none approached. He could hear their agitated calls to one another; warnings of something new in their forest. The wind slipping through the leaves carried a strange scent mixed in with the rich musty decay.
Is that fear? Maybe the creatures are not familiar with seeing a human out here at night.
Pine needles were embedded in his sandals as he wandered farther away from the cabin. On his right, he heard the flutter of an unseen wing. He turned to see an owl swooping with its talons grasping at a field mouse. The cry of the doomed creature pierced his ears. Off to the left, he heard the bubbling of water running over stone. Eager to discover if the sounds originated from the stream where he learned to fish, Dorian hurried in the direction of the water.
Traveling only a short distance, he came upon the site of his first fishing trip. He regarded the tiny stream which, ages ago, had appeared almost a river. Scanning the stream, he found the same sweet spot he had fished so long ago. Sitting by the edge of the stream, he slipped off his sandals and submerged his feet in the crystal clear water. Shortly, his wiggling toes attracted a group of curious fish.
I wish I had my pole.
He spent several minutes enjoying the refreshing water and the fond memories it induced.
He continued to explore the forest until dawn. He had never seen so many shadows. Forging his way back to the cabin, he collapsed on the bottom bunk and slept the day away.
Over the next three days, he repeated the same routine of reading The Bible, wondering the forest at night, and resting in the daytime. Slowly, he shifted to a nocturnal way of life. The more he craved the night, the more he shunned the day. The night offered peace and solitude and the never ending mystery of the forest. The day offered the blaring sun with its burning rays. He viewed his heightened senses as a blessing – a side effect of his Salvation – but it made the daytime nearly unbearable.
On the third day of his pilgrimage, Dorian determined the time had come to return home, to check on Father Murphy. He felt he had accomplished all he could and it would be selfish of him to remain at the cabin when Father Murphy needed him. Besides, he was at peace, even though most of his questions remained unanswered.
He exited the cabin as the crimson sun finished its descent beneath the horizon, painting the sky in an array of colors, some of which he couldn't name. As he walked down the front steps of the cabin, a tuft of brown fur darted in and out of the lush underbrush invading his peripheral vision.
Before his mind could register what he saw, he was grasping the creature and pulling it up to his eager mouth. His fangs pierced the soft flesh of its neck, releasing its warm blood. This blood coursed through his body, empowering and sickening him at the same time. When the last drop spilled down the back of his throat, he pulled the lifeless body away from his mouth. He gawked at the rabbit lying limp in his hands. Shocked and disgusted by his actions, he frantically tossed it away.
“Oh God! What did I just do?”
Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, scared and as
hamed, he got up from where he crouched and bolted back into the cabin.
He sat on the bottom bunk with his knees pulled up, and rocked back and forth. His body shivered. The satisfaction he felt from drinking the rabbit's blood terrified him. Sticking his finger down his throat, he desperately wished to expel the blood, but his body wouldn't relinquish it. Instead, a deep desire for more of life's sweet essence gnawed at his insides.
Not knowing what else to do, he recited scripture – the only weapon he possessed to battle his uncertainty.
“Matthew 7:7; Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
Looking up to the heavens with hands interlaced, Dorian pleaded his case. “Lord, why? Please help me. I don't understand why I would do something like that. I enjoyed it, Father, draining that defenseless animal of its life and I so badly want more. Please remove this curse, I've been stricken with?”
He continued rocking back and forth on the bottom bunk, repeating the scripture over and over. These monotonous, repetitive acts kept his mind from his building thirst.
Believing God had interceded once already by freeing his memory, Dorian hoped he would receive God's Hand again soon. Finally, as the sun rose on his fourth day in the wilderness, he drifted into a fitful sleep, waiting for God to intervene on his behalf. He tossed and turned as his mind’s eye relived his appalling deed. Again and again he felt the rabbit squirm to be free of his deadly grasp; he felt it shudder and die as he siphoned the last drop of blood from its body.
He awoke the next evening, curled in a fetal position. His body writhed in agony as he stretched and sat upright. He shook his head to rid himself of the horrific images saved there, but they seemed to be permanently engrained in his being – just like his hunger for blood, which was even stronger than before.
“Father are You listening? I need You, I still feel the hunger inside me.” He grabbed his abdomen, wishing he could reach inside and rip out the hunger. “I don’t know how long I can resist the urge. Please take this curse from me? I can live with the memory of what I've done. I can endure the dreams that will plague me nightly. It would be a fitting punishment for my depravity, but I can't bear the possibility of repeating my actions. What if it was a person? Father Murphy? Could I stop myself? Would I even want to?”
He abruptly had a terrible flashback of his last conversation with Father Murphy.
What if it’s too late? What if I have already killed someone? Didn’t father Murphy say that the three men who attacked me were missing? No, I would know if I had done something so vile.
Unable to believe he could be a murderer, he pushed these thoughts from his mind and returned to his prayer.
*****
For days, he refused to leave the confines of the cabin, praying nonstop for God to save him. On the fifth day of his confinement, the stark reality that his prayer for a cure might not be answered weighed on him heavily.
Looking to the heavens, Dorian begged, “Your Word told me that You would go before me, You would be with me. You would not fail me, nor forsake me, to fear not, nor be dismayed. Is Your Word not true? Please, save me! Why won't You? What have I done to deserve this?”
Never had God felt the necessity to speak to Dorian; countless times His Presence had been sufficient to soothe His Servant's soul – not now, however. Entering Dorian's mind, He whispered, “DORIAN, BE STILL AND LISTEN, MY SON.”
Dorian jumped at the sudden intrusion in his mind. Tilting his head slightly, he asked, “God?”
“YES, I AM.”
Dorian swelled with hope as God confirmed His Presence. He knew his prayer was about to be answered.
Sensing this resurrection of hope saddened God, who was not manifesting His Voice to deliver good news, but the news Dorian most feared. “I AM SORRY FOR YOUR SUFFERING, BUT I WILL NOT RELEASE YOU FROM THIS BURDEN.”
“Whhattt?” Dorian sputtered.
Ignoring his question, God continued His Message. “YOU HAVE DONE NOTHING TO DERSERVE THIS BURDEN, BUT YOU WILL HAVE TO BEAR IT NONETHELESS.”
“Why?” Dorian whimpered; his hope replaced with despair.
“YOU POSSESS A PURE SOUL, MY SON. HAVE FAITH IN YOUR ABITLIY TO CONQUER THIS BURDEN ON YOUR OWN. REMEMBER, I AM ALWAYS WITH YOU.” God severed their connection before the turmoil radiating from Dorian overwhelmed His Spirit.
“What if I can't?” Dorian waited for an answer he knew wouldn't come. He had felt his Heavenly Father's presence vanish after His last Word. “Please, Father, come back! Please reconsider your answer!”
He sat in silence, reflecting about the past few minutes. He sighed not knowing which was more shocking, the deeply one-sided conversation he had just had with God, or the fact he wasn't going to be cured. He felt deflated. Covering his face with his hands, he wept until no more tears would come.
Unable to accept God's Judgment, Dorian decided to take matters into his own hands. “I can't live like this. I won't,” he vowed.
Chapter 3
Death
Dorian spent hours pacing the floor of the tiny cabin, contemplating how best to do the deed. He wanted something simple, quick, and hopefully not too painful. Luckily, not many options existed with his limited resources, but planning one's own demise can be quite the daunting task.
Without a large body of water nearby, he knew drowning wasn't a possibility; even the creek he and Father Murphy fished from was barely deep enough to submerge his foot. Jumping off a cliff was out, and he surmised he didn't possess enough rope to hang himself. That left only one option.
After deciding his course of action, he abandoned the cabin, along with all his belongings. He did not want his sin to stain that special place. He wondered the forest searching for the perfect spot for his final resting place. About to give up, he saw it; a massive oak several feet wide stood in his path. Walking up to the ancient tree, he placed a hand on its rough brown bark. “I am sure you have witnessed much during your lifetime. Please forgive me for involving you in my sin,” he apologized as he stroked the tree.
He found two giant roots extending out from the oak, forming an almost perfect chair. Sitting between them, his back resting against the trunk, he allowed the tree to cradle him for a moment before executing his plan.
Clutching the knife in his trembling hand, he hesitated, unsure in his ability to break one of God's Ten Commandments. “Thou shall not murder, but would it not be more just for me to end my own life than to take another?”
He assumed this act of defiance would purchase him a ticket to Hell, but could that be worse than his existence now? Instantly, he saw himself in the fiery pit, naked, being consumed by Hell's fire for all eternity while pieces of scripture played in his head. “No murderer has eternal life, murderers shall have their part in the lake that burns with brimstone, a second death.” He pushed the disturbing images away before they took hold and he changed his mind.
I could be wrong, maybe God will forgive me, when He sees that my reasons are pure.
Stealing his nerves, he slowly drew the blade across his wrist, splitting the tender flesh. Switching hands, he repeated the process on his other wrist.
This whole ordeal began with the spilling of my blood. It is fitting that it should end that way as well.
Not wishing to see the damage, Dorian closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rough bark, patiently waiting for the inevitable to happen.
He wasn't sure how long it would take to bleed to death, but he assumed it wouldn't be long. “I'm sorry, Father,” he spoke to both his earthly and heavenly fathers, “But I cannot live as a monster.”
Minutes past as Dorian's chest gently rose and fell, taking in what he thought were his last breaths. Sure enough time had elapsed for nature to run its course, he braved a look. Blood had flowed down from both wrists to cover the roots of the old oak, but only a tiny stream now escaped from the slices.
I should be dead or still bleeding. Maybe I'm not cutting deep
enough?
Dorian grabbed his knife once more. This time, he pressed down as hard as he could as he ran the blade across his wrist. He exerted so much force, he carved straight through flesh and tendon all the way to bone.
He screamed out from the intense pain. Gritting his teeth, his left hand now useless, he made several more gashes along the same arm up to his elbow. Leaning his head back again, he tried to collect himself enough to remain alert. Not even waiting a minute, he investigated his handwork.
There was a great deal more blood, however, when he looked at his other wrist, only a thin pink line remained; the cut was completely gone.
What?!
Not believing what he saw, he looked back at his mangled arm and noticed all the deep gashes he had made minutes before were healing themselves before his eyes.
No! Why can’t I harm myself? Maybe I’m just not inflicting enough damage.
With this thought in mind, he decided to thrust the knife into his heart. Picking up the knife for the third time and without hesitation, he plunged it deep into his own heart. Blood sprang from the wound, soaking his tunic. Relief flooded his mind at the thought of his ordeal being over. He leaned back and shut his eyes for the last time, knowing there was no way he could survive now.
After several minutes, Dorian's eyes burst open. Shocked and dismayed, he saw his knife still protruded from his chest.
I'm still alive! That's not possible!
Flying into a frenzy, he jerked the knife from his chest. He stabbed and sliced himself repeatedly in any place reachable – arms, legs, chest, and stomach – only to see the wounds heal almost as soon as he moved onto the next target.
Seeing the futility of his fit, he flung the knife aside with such anger, it imbedded itself into a nearby tree up to the hilt. Tearing at his hair, he screamed to the heavens. “Is that it then?! You deny my prayers for healing?! Now, as I try to do the right thing by taking my own life to protect the lives of others, You won't let me die!
