Saint's Salvation_The Seven Deadly Sins

by Tiana Laveen

  Ira looked into Cruz’s eyes and watched as they changed from their natural blue color to blood red. The White man began to chant, just like Lawrence, only his words sounded like a million men talking at once. His heart pounding in a wild rhythm, he looked around and caught Saint kneeling before him. Golden smoke billowed from Saint’s nostrils and mouth. He growled, but was the sound coming from him? Yes … it was. He kicked and struggled in Cruz’s grip, but the man held on so tight, escape seemed impossible.

  “You must leave this man at once!” Cruz yelled as Lawrence began to pray.

  “Saint, Ira is usually represented as a woman, but there have been a few cases of male possession. The legend is that she came forth due to the rage and hatred of dying soldiers on the battlefield. That’s why she wanted Ira! His name is the same as hers, he was vulnerable, he’s your brother-in-law, he’s an empath, and he has a courageous heart. This was just too good for her to pass up.”

  “And that explains why the duke wants her head. She suckles off of a soldier’s pain, while he builds them up. They are war enemies. Jesus! I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming!” Jagger said, clearly in shock.

  Suddenly, Ira began to lose consciousness, his mind in a fog. He could hear the men speaking, but could no longer understand. A female’s voice spoke—so soothing, so beautiful. She promised him eternal life, status, riches…

  “Don’t listen to her!” Saint yelled out, his voice suddenly clear as a bell. “She’s lying! Demons make temporary promises that sparkle like diamonds but deliver shitty pain that lasts forever! Ira, look at me!” He looked into Saint’s eyes, only to see that his, too, were jet black, slick like a snake’s. He wanted to scream out, but another part of him wanted to gouge them and tear him to pieces. He flopped about on the floor, his shirt feeling wet against his flesh, then he spat out black, gelatinous bile and vomited on himself, the world in a whirlwind.

  “Let him go!” someone yelled.

  “Ira, listen!” Saint pushed his weight on him, shoving Cruz out of the way. “She wants you because you’re so good!” He put him in a chokehold, causing his eyes to water, and made him look in his eyes. “She wants you because you’re my brother-in-law! It’s a way for her to destroy our family! She wants you because you’re a soldier, and she feeds off war and soldiers, Ira. She wants you because all of these people love you, and she hates it, she hates all of us! She’s a liar! A seducer. She wants to kill you! You are in war right now, on the frontline of the battlefield. I need you to fight! Use love, Ira. Let go of the hatred you have for your father … for yourself … for feeling worthless. You have to! She’s feeding off it!”

  “Ira? Ira!” Pam called out, rushing into the room.

  “Pam, no! Go back to your room!” Just then, Ira broke free, mustering a strength he never knew he had, and tumbled Saint awkwardly onto his back. Cruz jumped on him and slammed him back on the floor so hard, his body cracked. Saint crawled to him and grabbed his arms and legs, making it impossible for him to move just that quickly. But he could move his head. He grinned. His neck jerked in strange, awkward ways until he was able to turn completely towards Mama, who stood in the doorway smelling of distress and feebleness. His hatred poured out of him like a fountain of lava bursting free.

  “You!” he spat. “You drove my father away, you stupid cunt! You ain’t shit!”

  “Pam, it’s not Ira speaking,” Saint stated. “It’s not your son. He’s possessed. I need you to leave!”

  “That’s why your own mother didn’t want you, dumb bitch! That’s why everyone you love leaves you! You don’t deserve love, ratchet hoodrat! Nothing’s worse than an ancient, bitter, loud-mouthed Black woman! A fuckin’ old ass, washed up chicken head from the ghetto! Gaspar is just using you. You’re nothing to him but entertainment! Nobody wants you around, Pamela! Nobody!” he said viciously at the woman who was crying her eyes out, shaking and holding on tight to the doorframe.

  Who’s Gaspar? Ira thought to himself. He knew the name, but that was it…

  Jagger marched towards her and walked her away, but she kept looking over her shoulder and back at him. Her pain tasted so damn good…

  “Look, there’s a shed out back,” Saint said, sweat dripping down his face. “We need to move him out there. This is going to get worse before it gets better and I don’t want Pam or Porsche coming out here and hearing any more of this. “Pick him up!” All four men hoisted Ira up, and he writhed about in their grip. “Go out the back door. We don’t want anyone to see us. As they made their way towards the back, Saint dropped Ira’s leg and hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was carrying several blankets.

  He tossed the corner of one in his mouth, and the others atop of him, burying him in a world of darkness. Ira tried to get free, but they wouldn’t let go. He bit down on his tongue. The pain throbbed within his skull but the material in his mouth prevented him from doing lasting damage. Suddenly, he could smell the outdoors, and hear every breath in stereo. The sound of an old door opening and slamming against wood echoed, and before he knew it, he was lowered onto a cold, cement ground. The sheets were ripped off his face, and the pressure of the four men clamoring all over his body sent pain like he’d never known throughout his twisting muscles. He fought and fought, and they prayed and prayed, in many languages… He was in awe how he could understand all of the words stated, in vernaculars he’d never learned.

  Ancient languages from the dead…

  “You are worth fighting for. How can a soldier fight for others, if he won’t even fight for himself?” Jagger stood over him, his eyes green, brown, and black, like camouflage. Suddenly, Ira could hear guns firing, people running and screaming. He arched his back in pain when a flow of blood gushed out of his mouth.

  “Keep fighting, Ira!” Jagger’s tears hit him in the face, and they burned.

  Soldier tears…

  Tears of hope…

  Tears of years of pain, finally released.

  “I’m right here, fighting with you, Ira … soldier to soldier! We can win this one!”

  Ira cried out in agony. His body was bruised and beaten within. Something was clawing at his insides, trying to hold on for dear life.

  “Help me! Help me, please!”

  Saint hovered above him. He saw the moon and the stars in that man’s eyes, an entire galaxy of blue, purple, and yellow planets sprinkled with galactic cosmic dust. They turned and twisted in unnatural yet beautiful ways, moving around the Earth, dancing with the sun.

  “Use your spirit, Ira.” Saint’s deep voice delved inside of him and soothed him, providing elixir to his crushed soul. “Use your faith, not your gun, Ira. You can’t beat her with a firearm. You destroy her with love and forgiveness. That’s your salvation.”

  “Come on, brother … come on!” Jagger urged. He looked up at Jagger and could see him dressed in marine fatigues. His face was smudged, and he stood poised and ready as bullets seem to whiz by his head.

  “Your father doesn’t deserve your hatred! That takes too much energy and too much of your time! The Creator wants to bless you. Please keep fighting!” Lawrence said, his voice loud and desperate.

  “I can’t!”

  “YOU CAN!” Saint roared. Gold smoke left his mouth. The thick vapor twisted and turned like a snake as it rushed towards his lips. Saint pinched his jaws, forced his lips apart, and coughed into the air, driving it even faster, forcing it down his throat.

  “Ohhh, God! It burns!” Ira screamed as he flipped and flopped about. Thick droplets of water began to fall on him—silver tears from all four them, blending, washing over his burning skin. His flesh went from a sensation of being on fire, to feeling relieved, calmed. The golden smolder from an old soul filled his lungs and he coughed up blood, his throat burning as if he’d ingested acid.

  “She doesn’t want to let you go!” Lawrence yelled in between praying. “Ira, keep moving, keep shoving her away! Think of all the good times you had with your sisters, your mother … thi
nk of all the people you helped in Iraq. Think of your future! A wife, a good job, children!”

  “Yes, that’s what I want! I forgive everybody who wronged me. I forgive myself, too! I’m askin’ my mama for forgiveness for any pain I may have caused her. I don’t want this no more! I want to be free of the pain, the depression—it’s a demon! Wallowing in my misery and wretchedness is a damn demon! GET OUTTA ME! I DON’T WANT YOU HERE NO MORE! God, please help me get it out. I need you to help me, please!!!”

  Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his face. Gasping for air, he felt the men release his arms and legs, one at a time. A rush of cool, refreshing air washed over his body like an ocean wave after a hot day on the beach. He cried out, sweet tears of release, his voice echoing in that little dilapidated shed.

  The cool air wrapped around his body and held him tight, and then he heard a deep, unfamiliar voice say, “I’ve got you. All you had to do was ask.” It wasn’t Saint, Jagger, Lawrence or Cruz…

  Who was that? Another tear wet his check.

  God…

  As he lay back on the ground, shivering and shaking, crying and falling apart, his stomach cramped and he coughed hard. It felt like a bad case of the flu. Out came thick, twisted, knotted gray smolder, smelling of sulfur and decay. His stomach cramped and he sweated and begged for mercy until it was finally over. Ira covered his mouth with a hand once it was out, trying to resist throwing up once he smelled and saw it. He heard the men around him scrambling to their feet, and the shed doors burst open, letting in a stream of bright moonlight from the navy sky. He gasped while he struggled to sit up. Something was coming—something big, dark, and evil…

  The sound of loud galloping could be heard, but he could not see a horse. His heart beat thunderous songs within him as he clung to his shirt, gripped with a fear like he’d never known. His eyes brimmed with tears, making everything a blur.

  He heard the men yelling, and then, his eyes focused on Saint.

  Saint stood to his full height, looking like a giant made of bronze and gold. Jet black hair with a silver streak whipped about in the wind as he wrapped his long arms around the grisly fog. An ungodly scream was emitted from the mass, sounding like the wails of a million tortured souls. Saint seemed to be hugging it, clutching it, strangling it in his grip. Cruz approached, dressed in a black robe. Slowly, he reached within the fog, and slashed his arm across the grotesque mass. And then, the thing screamed no more.

  The horse’s hooves sounded now so loud, so near, they rocked Ira’s soul. The breeze blew hard, freezing him and highlighting the pain.

  Cruz thrust the head-like miasma high as one would a flag in the air, waving it about. The mass in Saint’s grip evaporated, dispersing like smoke, only it floated downward, disappearing into the concrete instead of floating upward towards the clouds. Cruz kept waving his arm, and Ira panicked for his movements sounded as if an airplane was going to land upon them and crush them under its weight. Someone, or something, snatched the smoky sphere out of Cruz’s grip, and the neighing of a stallion rang out. The distinct sounds of a charging beast commenced once again, but this time growing fainter and fainter as the invisible thing retreated into the night…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Some people dream in black and white, like swirling as they fall in love with a person sporting a different gift-wrapped packing…

  Some people dream in color, like that of the stars and the planets dancing in their eyes…

  Whatever the dream, whatever it means, it was meant for you…

  And you alone…

  Saint’s eyes fluttered when Jagger shoved his shoulder. He glanced at his watch.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  Jagger popped a tater tot in his mouth and wiped his hands on a napkin.

  “About thirty-five minutes,” he said with his mouth full. “We’ve got to get up and get ready to go. I know you’re tired. So is Cruz after what you both had to do, but hopefully you can sleep on the plane.” The big man stretched his arms. “You must’ve been having a hell of a dream. Oh, and your phone kept ringing.”

  Saint stretched his legs along the bed that was entirely too small. He wished to go back to sleep so badly, but knew it was time to rise and shine. The evening had been long and draining. Ira was back to his old self, and didn’t remember from the time he was possessed, with the exception of the sound of a galloping horse…

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “Pam and Porsche are watching television with Lawrence. Cruz is Skyping Erika and his son on his computer in the kitchen.”

  Saint picked up his cellphone and scrolled through his missed calls. He grimaced, fell back onto the pillow, and dialed the first one on the list.

  “Hakim…”

  “Hey, Saint. I sensed you were in town. Is that true?”

  “Yes…” Saint yawned.

  “Good. You know that favor I wanted for allowing you to garden in my cemetery? I need to cash in on that.”

  “Hakim, can this wait? I had a very long night and I have to get ready to catch a plane. This wasn’t a joy ride or pleasure visit.”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Where are you? I’ll take you to the airport myself.”

  “You know I’m in Blood territory right now…”

  “My job is to help protect all civilians, not just Crips. Besides, I don’t bang anymore, and I ain’t scared of a mothafuckin’ thing, busta.”

  “Let’s just meet at the airport, M.C. Hammer, and this time, leave your fan club behind. I’ll head on out a bit early, and then call you.”

  “Don’t try to stand me up, ninja. I’ll come after you. On my mama and Tookie’s soul, may he rest in peace, I will take you out, man.”

  “Oh, I’m fuckin’ petrified, mothafucka. Got me shakin’ at the damn knees. I know my panicked face is lying around here somewhere. I’ll let you know when I find it.” Saint disconnected the call in a huff.

  “This is totally random, but your mother-in-law’s chicken and waffles are amazing,” Jagger said behind a smirk, rubbing on his belly. “Too bad you missed ’em.”

  “I haven’t eaten all day. Is there any left?”

  Jagger looked at him as if he were crazy. “Of course not!”

  Saint shook his head at the man. “Thanks. At least you fuckers are consistent. Anyway, I’m sure you heard. I have to meet with Hakim.” Saint reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his white sneakers. “Here we go. I’m sure he’s on some bullshit as a parting gift. Who knew airports could be so full of drama?”

  Saint sat across from Hakim, who was slurping on a cold glass of Coke from Planet Hollywood inside of L.A.X airport. The man was dressed in blue and silver from head to toe. Gripping his green smoothie, Saint itched to get out of there and back home. Perhaps a good game of the dozens would force the ogre to cut him loose.

  “You look like one of the Commodores,” Saint teased. “Are you about to Sail On? Wait a minute! Parliament Funkadelic circa 1978 is more like it! Maaaan, I love funk music.” Saint grinned, showing all of his teeth.

  “Here you go with that bullshit, Saint.”

  “You about to get onto the Mothership, huh? If you heeeear any noise, it’s just meeee and tha boys, hit me! You gotta hit tha band!” Saint sang, rocking in his seat and banging a beat on the table between them. Hakim slammed his smoothie down on the table and grimaced. “You look like those intergalactic soup-brained mothafuckas that like to stand on the street corners in Brooklyn, yellin’ at people, thinkin’ they’re woke. Goddamn Hotepicon. Maybe like Transformers, only you’re full of shit. Bullshitters! Ho-teps, in disguise! Bullshitters! More than meets the third eye! Are you tired of me yet? I sure as hell hope so.”

  “Funny man strikes again… This is serious business, you walkin’ fortune cookie. I bet you didn’t predict gettin’ fucked up on account of that slick mouth of yours, Saint. But you don’t have time for that, right?”

  “Oh.” Saint noisily slurped the last of
his drink. “Today I got time, Cuzz.”

  “Uh huh. Now that you got what you wanted from me you’re no longer concerned. Ya damn Crab Rangoon. Look.” the man leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Here’s what I want from you. I want—”

  “For me to call the UFO that gave you your clothes and ask for them to beam them mothafuckas back up?”

  “No. I want you to speak to the brothas about the Queens.”

  “What are you talking about?” Saint raised a brow in bewilderment.

  “Don’t try to play me, Saint. I know all about that Rainbeau Knight shit you’re doin’.”

  “Listen.” Saint tossed a napkin onto the table. “That’s not my demographic. I’m not your cup of tea, and I wouldn’t be theirs, either.”

  “You just did to me what you preached in your books you don’t want done to you and others.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You stereotyped me, man. I don’t give a fuck who is suckin’ off who. I don’t care about Black women dating White men, Asian men, Hispanic men, purple men, you name it. Now yeah, I’m an advocate for Black love, but that don’t mean I’m knockin’ someone else’s hustle. In this fucked up world, we need to get in where we fit in. All I care about is the fuckery out here in these damn streets!” The man brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his suit. “I looked beyond all of that, the race shit you talk about, and I read a book of yours after our meeting. I saw the potential you have to help not only your demographic, as you call it, but the brothas, too. Your message is universal, man.”

  Saint looked at Hakim for a long while, trying to figure out if he was pulling his tail or not. He appeared sincere.

  “All right, so what do you propose?”

  “Just one time, for one night only, I want you to speak to these Black male Angel Children, Saint. Many are having trouble finding a mate. We can make excuses, but it matters that many of us didn’t have the right role model, if any at all, in our homes. A man teaches a man how to act, how to treat a lady. The absence of that has created chaos in the Black family and Black community. It’s hard out here, and it’s even harder for King Angel Children such as you and I. We can’t hide this shit as well; we’ve got too much going on. We need a woman that’s understanding, caring. Not all of us can date other Angel Children. Civilians outnumber us by the thousands and it’s like a 70%-30% split for female and male A.C.s. We have to date civilians, too, if we want to survive.”