Fear of God
By
Matthew R. Bell
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission from the author.
Copyright © 2014 Matthew R. Bell
Also by Matthew R. Bell
The Trials of Strength
Fear of God
Child of Recklessness
The Nightmare
I was bound and gagged. The tight wire that wrapped around my arms and legs was tied to a chair, which was bolted to the ground. The hairs on my body stood on end and sweat stuck to my face as I breathed ragged breaths. I clenched my fists, and tried to catch my bearings.
The room was dark, but spacious, and a light bulb swung above like a spotlight. After a period of my eyes adjusting, I surveyed my surroundings. The walls were cracked, grey, and withered with age. The floor, pot marked with holes of missing concrete. I appeared to be in the middle of the room, a small table to my left with a sliver tray on its surface. Its contents covered with a white cloth.
My mind spun, and one thought rung loud and clear. I did not want to find out what that tray was hiding.
My eyes were wide and shot from side to side like bullets. They searched for an exit, a door, a window, something to prove I could escape. A tear slid through the sweat on my face as that hope diminished. I wasn’t escaping, I knew that.
After a while my ears picked up on voices, whispers in the dark. I couldn’t see any movement, so I assumed whoever the voices belonged to were positioned behind me. I strained to catch their words, but before they reached my ears, they jumbled and became incomprehensible. They were fast and eager though, the two male voices trying to talk in hushed tones, but the excitement they shared animated them.
My heart pounded against my chest.
What the hell is happening?
Again my eyes bolted around the room. Tremors ran under my skin, threatening to break the surface and run in circles screaming. Then they came into focus. Not the two excited men or a much wanted exit. No, what I found was something sinister, something that forced tears into my wide eyes and a scream that threatened to burst from my throat. What I found, was blood.
Small crimson puddles on the floor. Some looked fresh as the light glinted from them, while others had dried into the stone. Horrified, I noticed the sharp smell in the air and I was surprised it had taken so long to notice. I couldn’t avert my gaze and my mind filled with horrific scenes from countless horror movies. I shivered. I could feel the rush of adrenaline, and I began a useless struggle against my restraints.
I twisted and pulled. Fought through the agony of the wire as it cut my skin as I used all the strength I could muster to free myself. I released painful gasps and sobs from my mouth, but the gag muffled their sound. My wrists stung, and blood trickled slowly from them, but I still thrashed against the restraints.
I wanted out. The chair was like an oppressive force, pushing in on me like four walls, and made it hard to breathe. But it was futile, the wire showed no signs of wearing out, and I was no closer to being free than before. More tears finally broke, and the unrelenting terror led way to helplessness. My body sagged.
I stopped, and so did the whispers. The voices were gone, and the silence that clung to the air was deafening. I could feel their eyes as if they seared holes into my back, and I gritted my teeth and shook my head.
For a few minutes nothing happened. Then, they moved. Two sets of footsteps grew closer, and the echo of their feet sounded like cracks of thunder. Part of me wondered why the sound wasn’t alerting anyone, why no one burst to my rescue from some unseen door. A figure appeared to my left, but his face was turned to the side as he grabbed the table and pulled it a few feet in front. He turned his back and started work on the contents.
I didn’t need to wonder where the other man had gone as his presence behind me sucked the air from my lungs. There were clanks and mumbles from the man in my sight, but whatever was on the tray was blocked by his body. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned. His hands were empty and he crouched down and looked me in the eye.
For a second, I couldn’t help but flinch, I couldn’t place his face but his gaze was trained solidly on me, broken and ashamed. He shouted something, but the words never reached my ears. I closed my eyes and hoped I was stuck in a dream, but his voice erupted again, and a hand grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes open to look directly into his.
For a moment nothing made sense. Then a gasp escaped my lips. Something in my mind clicked, like two jigsaw pieces snapping together. I realised something, and that something was important. Frustratingly, it eluded me, but a strong feeling of déjà vu filled my stomach.
The man smiled, satisfied, and turned back to the table. This time he didn’t take long to face me again. He cradled something in his hands and his face was focused and stern. Slow and steady, he flicked the tube and shot liquid from a long, large syringe. My heart almost stopped and I started to struggle again, a pain in my chest.
The man muttered something, and a set of heavy hands landed on my shoulders from behind and locked me in place. The syringe began to move closer, the man slouched over as he watched with fascination. A smile separated his lips as his free hand grabbed my head and forced it to the side. He was quick, the needle plunged into my neck, and the contents were expelled.
Almost instantly my body burst into flames. They lit the room with malicious light and tore across my skin. My blood boiled, and I could feel it bubbling beneath my flesh. The men took a step back and watched as the fire consumed my body, from my arms to my legs. It spread through my stomach like a fiery viper, snaked up my torso, my neck…
It snaked its way to my brain.
*
I burst back into reality. For a few seconds I refused to open my eyes, in case the fire would return and the men still watched. A crisp wind blew in from my bedroom window and a radio echoed through the house downstairs. I allowed myself to breath and gulped down air. It had only been a nightmare, a sick concoction of my mind.
I opened my eyes slowly as my heart continued to pound against my chest. I dripped with cold sweat and shook. I hated nightmares. I hated their undiluted ability to evoke emotions I did my best to avoid. I hated that even when you woke back to reality, its grip never really let go.
My body was stiff and coiled. It struck me how nightmares were a lot like long runs, only with the sheer terror vacant from the latter. I took another deep breath and turned my head to the side, checking the alarm clock next to the bed. I shot upright, too fast as the world spun and then righted itself quickly. I was late again.
I wiped at my forehead as I got up and manoeuvred around the mess of the room. I grabbed some clothes from the wardrobe and the door swung shut, the mirror attached to its front catching my appearance. My blond hair jutted out in awkward places and I was pale and shiny. Dark rings circled my green eyes. I rubbed at them, a feeble attempt to remove the black bags. I sighed and headed for the bathroom, hoping a warm shower could wash away the remnants of the night.
The warm water cascaded down on me and instantly, the tension I had built unfurled. I felt better as the nightmare slunk back to the recesses of my mind. It was nothing to worry about, nothing that would happen in reality. I took my time and when I finished, I pulled aside the shower curtain and scanned the room for a towel.
‘Crap,’ I whispered. The towel rack was empty.
I jumped out the shower, opened the bathroom door, and careful to hide myself in all my glory, called downstairs.
‘Mum?’ I shouted. ‘Could you get me a towe
l please?’
I shut the door and waited for a response. Instead, a few seconds later, the door moved to open. I pounced at it surprised.
‘Mum!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m naked!’
‘I gave birth to you sweetie, I’ve seen it all before,’ she laughed, squeezing her hand through with a towel.
I grabbed it and shut the door again, cursing myself for walking into yet another of her jokes, but I smiled.
‘Maybe your old age is getting to you, but things change in twenty years!’ I said, knowing full well I was being baited.
I heard her laugh as she trudged downstairs. I dried and got changed, exited the bathroom and put my dirty clothes in the basket to be washed. I headed downstairs and entered the kitchen. The radio was on, playing some upbeat music from the 80s, the music my mother loved. She was there too, at the sink cleaning dishes. She turned as I sat down at the kitchen table and flashed a good-morning smile.
Rebecca Bishop was in her mid-forties, but she had retained her youthfulness and looked no older than thirty. Her dark brown hair cradled her face, and her mahogany eyes emanated kindness. To me, the woman had no bad bone in her body, always doing what was best for others.
I poured some cereal and got to work on it when she turned. I knew what was coming, the conversation about to unfold. My mother gave a weak smile.
‘Lucas, honey, your Dad phoned earlier,’ she said. ‘He has to work late again, so it’s just us tonight.’
It sounded like no big deal, something any mother would say to her child when a father had to work late, but that was the way it had always been. My father, Richard Bishop, worked at the local hospital, so his time was always spent there. Two years my mother’s elder however, and he looked his age, and then some. His blond hair had turned grey and the lines that pot marked his face only seemed to deepen every time we saw him.
‘But he’s a busy man, you know how it is,’ she said, a hint of disdain in her voice.
Busy man or not, it was my mother who was affected most. The reason the hints of loneliness and pain echoed in her voice. She respected and loved her husband, but anytime the conversation of spending more time with his family came up, she was shut down. Didn’t we know how important his work was? The people whose lives he could save? The money he earned to keep us comfortable? It was a financial and guilt tripping conversation stopper. Like that matters when your wife, who you promised to love and cherish, is in pain and alone.
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth against the wave of anger that always came during these thoughts. I loved my father, but he could be a heartless bastard sometimes.
‘We both know he can’t keep up the work he’s been doing,’ I said finally, trying to reassure her.
‘You’re right, but when does he ever listen to us?’ she laughed, but it was hollow.
That was true, but what was also true was the danger to his health. The long hours, stressful conditions and everything that his work entailed had hit him like a truck. My father was getting older, and the work was becoming harder. His face nearly matched the colour of his hair, and it grew greyer as time went past. My mother had suggested a holiday, but he had looked at her as if she had thrown a dead animal at him. It was never mentioned again.
I stood up and kissed her on the cheek. This woman deserved better, but she would always be there, for both of us. I washed the bowl I’d used then headed into the hallway to collect my things. I was just about to say goodbye and open the front door when my mother called out from the kitchen. She slouched into the hall, a look on her face I couldn’t read, and pulled me into her arms.
‘You know I love you right?’ she whispered like she was out of breath. ‘No matter what, I love you.’
Her vice-like grip tightened, and I struggled to free myself. I looked into her eyes, and up close, could see the fear and desperation written in them as they crinkled at the sides. My heart quickened and the hairs on my body felt electrified.
‘Yeah, Mum, I know. I love you too,’ I said. ‘Is everything okay?’
Part of me didn’t want to know the answer. Her fear was contagious and I hated it with a passion. For a second my mother stood there and stared at me, words on the tip of her tongue. She shook herself, and the look was gone, her eyes kind and warm again. Another quick hug and she laughed.
‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘You know me. I worry over everything: You, your father; the bloody weather. You know anything and everything.’
I noticed her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but she was right. It was a trait she had passed on to me, a nervous disposition for anything that threatened our predictable little lives.
‘I think your old age is getting to you,’ I teased as I tried to lighten the mood. ‘Soon the midlife crisis will kick in, and it’ll be motorbikes and shopping sprees for you.’
She slapped my arm and gasped in mock horror.
‘I’ll have you know, son, your mother still has it,’ she said, hand on her hip as she threw her head back and winked.
‘Well,’ I chuckled, ‘I’m gonna go before it starts driving around town in leather.’
Again she laughed and turned to the kitchen, but then stopped. She turned back and looked at me.
‘I think it’ll be okay, now that I think about it, I think it’s that time of the month,’ she winked knowingly as I gasped.
‘Mother!’ I screamed. ‘I’m your son. I don’t want to hear about lady times!’
She escaped to the kitchen laughing at my shocked face before I could think up another retort. I smiled and cringed, some of the tension in the air was gone, but my stomach felt tight, and something bit at the back of my mind. I knew something was off at that moment, something I should have followed, but like any conflict, I passed it off.
I did what most people would have. If death himself had appeared at the door, no doubt I would make him tea and ignore the obvious, only coming to my senses when it was already too late.
‘Love you, Mum!’ I called as I opened the front door and lingered. ‘See you after!’
‘Bye, son!’ she called.
Before I could run back inside and question the feeling I had, I turned and stepped outside.
The Tragedy
I entered the dull grey day outside. The clouds hung in the sky, dark and depressing, as the weak sun tried bravely to shine through the gaps. A thick fog lingered on the ground from early morning. Winter was kicking into full gear, and mist came with every exhale of breath. I exited the garden and started down the street.
Greystone wasn’t a large town, and since I lived in the centre, it wouldn’t take long to reach my destination. A town like that and everyone knew each other, tourists were rare and if you asked someone outside, they would have no idea the town existed. Even certain maps didn’t have the location marked on them, and on others, it was a tiny pinprick in a sea of green. Greystone was almost completely surrounded by mountains and glens, a tiny unknown town in the mountains of Scotland.
It was claustrophobic at times. There were a lot of places crammed into the town: A college, a like-new hospital, Doctor’s surgery, secondary school. We were too far from most places to travel to daily, and there was only one bus that left town to the bigger city twice a day.
I turned onto Main Street and greeted those I knew as I passed them. It was busy, as usual, adults headed for work and children slouched to school as they tried to avoid the first few minutes of class. Younger kids screamed at their mothers for sweets, while shops were bursting, and the road was filled with cars.
I reached the end of the street and turned the last few corners. The building I headed for loomed in the distance. I used to chuckle when I was young, the town seemed repulsively keen on keeping to the colour schedule laid out by its name: Grey. I approached the entrance, the building a square block of concrete, completely unappealing. Its front was glass, with its name above the doors, Greystone College.
The grounds were empty, so I entered through the front doors and passed rec
eption. I walked the long hallways with their strong smell of bleach and shiny white tile. When I reached my class I hesitated. Despite my best efforts I was late a lot, and the walks of shame always filled me with dread. All eyes would turn to me and the teacher would make a fleeting comment about being late, and I hated being the centre of attention.
I shivered and took a deep breath, then opened the door with a knock. As predicted, dozens of eyes shot in my direction, and Mr Williams made that comment.
‘Nice of you join us, Mr Bishop,’ he said, sarcasm dripped from his words. ‘I’m sorry we had to start without you, but there are only so many hours in a day.’
I mouthed sorry and headed for the safe haven at the back of the class. As you entered the room, the left side was raised a few feet like a stage. The teacher’s desk and whiteboard were there, as if whoever designed the room wanted the faculty to feel superior, and to talk down to their students. To the right were tables and chairs, arranged randomly around the room.
After I took out my things, I sat in a sort of daze. For a while I tried to pay attention, but the restless night before caught up with me and after a few hours, my head hit the table.
*
I sat in the cafeteria during lunch and ate without much interest. I couldn’t focus on much and all I wanted was to sleep, but I vowed to make it to the end of the day. I wanted to leave and check up on my mother, but part of me scoffed at the worry and boiled it down to paranoia.
When the bell rang I returned to class for the final time. I was almost asleep when Gina, the receptionist, entered the room. I didn’t hear what she whispered to Mr Williams, or see the worried glance they shot me, but they started in my direction.
There was a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up ready to apologise.
‘Son, can you come outside with us for a second?’ Mr Williams whispered.
Fear of God (Trials of Strength Book 1) Page 1
