Worship Me

by Craig Stewart

  His throat partly separated from the bottom of his jaw as the weight of his body pressed his head down against the sharp edge of the opening. A stream of blood gurgled from his neck all the way from the high heavens down to the lowly hordes of the faithful.

  The beast left Chris hanging there in the window like a rag doll with his carved red face looking out over the stunned masses. As the final drizzles of life trickled from his body, the muscles in his cheeks started to tense and pulled his torn lips into a devastating smile. Despite its appearance, the expression was not one of happiness or contentment; it was merely the unfortunate byproduct of a body shutting down, of life leaving.

  The monstrous theatrics of it all were more than a punishment for trying to escape; they were sadistic. Chris had been transformed into a grisly monument to the Behemoth’s savagery and it proved, as if there was any doubt before, that it had no limits.

  Tina had seen none of the attack, not that she needed to. She judged from Gary’s shivering state and the stilted quiet in the room that her son was dead. Her Chris was dead, her sweet angel.

  CHAPTER 34

  Susan had gathered the children into the far corner of the sanctuary – away from the smiling corpse that hung in the window – and distracted them with old fairytales that she could only half-remember. A few princesses had switched names and every fable had gained a dragon that was inevitably slain. This specific correlation, perhaps, was not due to a faulty recollection like the others, but rather a wishful hope on Susan’s part for a valiant knight to appear that could slay their own beast. Either way, it seemed to keep the kids contented.

  On the other side of the room, the rest of the congregation had collected the sleeping sheets and attempted to drape them over the stained-glass window. However, the window was built too opulently to be concealed. Instead they compromised and wrapped one sheet around Chris’ protruding head. The excess fabric hung down the window, which more or less covered the blood.

  There was no way to get the offending body down unless they ventured outside, but not a soul in the room was willing to take that risk, so a delicately placed sheet was the best they could do.

  Since Alex had joined the other children for Susan’s story time, Angela again wandered into the mess hall alone. Oddly, she found herself returning to the stage, though at first she wasn’t exactly sure why.

  She passed through the curtains and allowed herself to be enveloped by the solitude they provided. Rather aimlessly, as if she were in a trance, she floated about the space until she came to the empty throne.

  Suddenly, every roaming notion of woe that had rolled through her head like a choking fog became solid, giving her something to focus on and take hold of.

  Angela grabbed the chair and swung it into centre stage.

  When she stared down at the throne, she realized she had returned to the place of her attack not out of forgetfulness, fear or stupidity, but out of defiance. It was a challenge she was setting, a challenge for her dear husband to reappear. Her capacity for fear and sorrow had been tapped; all that was left was her own fury, and she wanted to share it with Rick and the beast, and if there was a bit left over, she might let Dorothy have a taste too.

  “Can you hear me?” she inquired of the invisible person sitting in the chair. It was not clear, even to her, if she was speaking to Rick, the Behemoth or God. Distinguishing between them really didn’t matter anymore. She had enough contempt to spread around and each was equally deserving.

  “I hope you can. I hope you can hear me. Cause I’ll wait, you know. I can wait here for as long as it takes for you to show. I’ll wait, so I can ask you to your face. Who are you? I think I know already, but I want to be sure. I want to look into your eyes and I want you to tell me who you think you are. And we’ll see if we agree. Personally speaking, I think you’re a murdering bastard. You’re a degenerate, nasty fucking piece of shit. That young boy, Chris? He didn’t deserve to die. But, you took him anyway. His parents don’t deserve to suffer, but they suffer anyway. None of them deserved it, not Clara, not Sandy, not Bruce, not Don. But they’re dead. It should’ve been me, hanging by my neck, not Chris. But I’m still here. So, where are you? Hiding? Are you being mysterious to teach us a lesson? To assert yourself? Prove your power? Keep us in line? Why do you do it?” The chair remained very still, and very empty.

  “Is pain a joke to you? See, I think maybe you’re just afraid. You’re pathetic and you’re afraid. And you’re hurting us ‘cause you’re scared and sad, but you don’t want to be. That’s it, isn’t it? If I’m wrong, please correct me. I’m asking you to appear on this throne and let me know if I’m way off on this. ‘Cause honestly, if you make me judge you from what I’ve seen, then I’ll just have to expose you for the miserable, petty, cruel son of a bitch that you are.”

  Again, the chair was silent.

  “Nothing? Nothing to say? Fine. I guess you either can’t hear me, or you’re everything I said you were; only worse, you’re a coward, too. I’m done. I’m not playing your game anymore.”

  Infuriated by the indifference of the throne, Angela kicked the golden chair over onto its back. It had heard her grievances and ignored them. This offense, though not the greatest she had suffered, still measured as the most personal. Was the pain she endured so insignificant?

  She stomped one of the chair’s wooden legs right off and broke the left armrest. The cheap paint was scraped away and she snapped the back frame until it twisted in the wrong direction. All of this she did to make the throne more befitting for its degenerate king.

  When her mangling of the furniture was complete, she kicked it back into the wings, where she hoped it would remain wounded and forgotten.

  CHAPTER 35

  Angela pulled back the stage curtain and stepped down into the mess hall. A quiet weeping echoed from across the room.

  Next to the old piano were two hunched bodies. Their backs bobbed up and down, set into motion by the wake of their sobbing.

  As Angela stared, she came to recognize the two mourners as Tina and Gary. Understandably, they had abandoned the room where their child’s body hung and wandered into the mess hall for some solace.

  For several minutes, she stood and watched them in secret. The heartache they displayed was exactly what Angela was most afraid of. More than her own death, she feared life without her son. There could be no more terrible a thing than losing that which you lived for. She knew this fear well, as Rick had awakened it within her every time he took to the bottle. Yet, to see it so close, so tangible, it was like she never really understood the extent of the devastation until now. It was the rawness in Tina’s cries that taught it to her.

  There was nothing she could say to them, and she knew it. The only thing in the world that could bring their tears to an end would be to reunite them with Chris, which sadly was beyond Angela’s power. Still, something compelled her to offer whatever it was she might have to give. If they needed someone to blame, they could blame her. If they needed someone to hit, they could hit her. Anything they needed, Angela yearned to provide it.

  Without knowing exactly what she was going to do, Angela began her approach, but soon discovered they weren’t alone. There was a third person with them. She had been hidden from sight behind Gary’s quivering shoulders. To Angela’s dismay, it was Dorothy.

  Whatever she was whispering to them, Angela had to admit it seemed to be working. Their sobs had subsided and despite their misery, they were listening to every word. Angela had to know what those words were. What could Dorothy possibly have told them that would give them peace? She moved even closer.

  Angela brought herself to the edge of the piano where she was caught in Dorothy’s eye, and what an eye it was! If Dorothy had given an in-depth presentation with extensive visual aids, she still could not have communicated her distain better than she did with that stare. Her muddy brown irises squeezed her pupil tight, as if trying to harpoon Angela by sight alone. It didn’t want her to go away. It w
anted her to die.

  Despite this, Angela continued her approach.

  “Tina, Gary,” she began, “I’m so sorry.” She placed her hand on Gary’s back.

  To Angela’s surprise, Gary pulled away and slid closer to his wife. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way, except to recoil.

  “If you need anything. Anything. Just ask me,” she added.

  “I think you should just go, Angela,” said Dorothy confidently. Neither Tina nor Gary spoke up to defy her, so Angela had to assume they wanted her gone, too.

  She respected their wishes.

  Angela backed away from the three of them and headed toward the sanctuary. As she departed, however, a dread grew in her heart. She could feel the church getting smaller and feared that when the air ran out, exile would be on more lips than she ever would have imagined.

  CHAPTER 36

  Matthew felt a fever warmth building in Flora’s forehead. He wet a cloth and placed it against the heat. All of his actions were done absent of his mind, which was focused on the memory of Chris’ face, before it had been shattered.

  He thought of the first time Chris and he had met. Matthew was quiet in high school. He passed through the halls so silently, that no one took notice even to pick on him. He didn’t stand out in any regard, good or bad. His schoolwork was fine, the teams he played on were fine, his clothes, his attitude, his walk, everything was carefully designed to be fine and nothing more. He was so utterly unremarkable. Then Chris came. They were mere acquaintances through church and had rarely bumped into each other, until that day.

  On Thursdays his father worked late, and Matthew had to wait for the city bus to pick him up.

  With his hand full of change, Matthew stared pensively up the street awaiting the bumbling chug of bus number ten. This was the routine, and the routine was fine, until Chris saw him standing there like a lonely puppy. Matthew could not fathom why, but Chris approached him and offered him a ride. As it seemed likely the bus had died and become carrion meat for its passengers, he decided to accept Chris’ offer. Little did Matthew know that Chris only had his bike. Without hesitation, Chris hopped onto its skinny red frame and motioned for Matthew to take a seat on the handlebars. Reluctantly, Matthew balanced himself on the precarious metal rim and Chris took off.

  Together, the two of them cut through town. Matthew remembered the speed both frightened and exhilarated him. He had thought to ask Chris to slow down, especially after a few sharp turns, but the thrill of it all sealed his lips with a wide smile. So the wheels spun faster and Chris pushed on, unstoppable. He had a contagious energy. He had life. Matthew felt it that day coursing through his own sweaty grip as he tried to keep balanced on the bike. After that, he was lucky enough to experience it a few more times, but never as powerfully as he did when the ride finally ended, and Chris gave him his first kiss.

  How impossible it was that Chris would now forever only be a memory. His infinite life had suddenly become so finite, and it left Matthew aching for more. He wanted more smiles, and more kisses. He wanted to ride those handlebars again, and again. Why did he not embrace Chris sooner? Why did he treat it like a dirty secret? Now, his mourning was a secret, too. No one knew how much he suffered, so he suffered in silence.

  Flora’s lip started to tremble.

  “You need some water?” Matthew asked, not expecting a response.

  Her lips curled as if trying to form words. She had not spoken since losing her eyes, so Matthew had little hope to hold onto.

  Then came her faint voice. “The children...” she wheezed.

  Matthew had never heard such a deathly tone, especially from his grandmother. It was like every word took with it a little bit of her life.

  “The children fly...” she continued. As she faded, a few more words dissolved into the air, but Matthew couldn’t make them out. He thought he heard something about clouds, which reminded him of a dream he had the night before.

  “Grandma?” He gently nudged her shoulder.

  It was too late. She had sunk back into a distant sleep.

  Matthew bowed his head and wished he could join her.

  “I’m sorry, Matthew.” A soft, feminine voice spoke up.

  Matthew looked at Flora. She hadn’t moved. He turned around and saw Susan standing politely.

  “For what?” he asked in return.

  “Chris. I know you two were close.”

  Matthew froze. She knew. Someone knew.

  “I have to get my grandma some water,” he said suddenly, and stood up from the pew.

  “Do you want me to grab it?”

  “No. I can do it.”

  He turned his back to her and walked towards Don’s office.

  Susan looked down and saw a full bowl of unused water sitting by the pew.

  As Matthew drifted through the room, he kept his attention set on the office door. If he could make it that far, then he would have a refuge in which to hide the tears he knew were coming. He resented the attention they would bring. His pain was not for their entertainment. Chris meant more than that.

  He jogged up the steps, passed the pulpit and into Don’s office. Although the door was secure, and his eyes felt puffy and red, perfectly prepped for the show to begin, to his surprise, he did not cry. Instead, he felt overwhelming detachment. He had opened himself up and found there to be nothing. What brought on this disconnect when, moments before, he felt ready to scream, was a mystery to him. Maybe, he thought, his mind was shutting down as a way to protect itself from the pain. Then, he decided, if he was not going to cry, he might as well fill a glass with fresh water to take back to Flora. That way, the journey was not a complete waste.

  Matthew sauntered through the lightless office toward the glow of the bathroom. At one time, he may have been tempted to snoop around Don’s private things, but it all seemed of such little importance now.

  He stepped into the fully tiled room and was greeted by cool, even light. A small window teased in the light from outside, which was then tossed to and fro among the white tiles until it enclosed Matthew entirely. Although there was not a shadow to be found, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the room had something to hide.

  The pipes screeched, as if in pain, as a sudden rush of water forced its way out of the dirty brass tap. Matthew was waiting with his glass on the other end to catch the spurts. The faucet coughed and sputtered unevenly into his glass, as if sickened by its own discharge. Despite the pipe’s whining, Matthew waited until the water flowed over the glass’ edges before turning the tap off.

  It was when the drain in the sink finished its chugging that Matthew took notice of the sound of plastic ruffling behind him. The crinkling sound of the material had a playful quality to it, like a grocery bag teased in the breeze.

  When he first stepped into the bathroom, he hadn’t given the shower much thought, nor had he worried about the thick plastic curtain that was pulled closed around it. However, his attitude changed as the noises became more prominent. The window kept the breeze out. In his mind, that left him with only two options: he was either hearing things that weren’t really there, or there was someone behind the shower curtain. After he heard what sounded like a hand running down the length of the plastic, he feared the latter was true.

  In this instance, his feeling of detachment served him well. It allowed him to ignore his terror and spin around to face whatever it was.

  Once he made the turn, Matthew stared into the ethereal emptiness of the opaque curtain. The texture of the grey material resembled an unsettled fog and kept most of its secrets well hidden. It wouldn’t even allow Matthew to get an idea of the size of the shower, let alone what was inside it. There was only infinite blankness.

  Slowly, a focal point began to emerge from the mist. It was only a dark blotch at first, but it grew larger as it moved toward Matthew. Although it was getting closer, it remained shrouded, almost deformed by the curtain.

  Matthew didn’t budge from the sink
. His suppressed fear had caught up with him and had taken hold of each of his limbs. He was terrified to behold the thing that was slinking forth, yet his curiosity forced him to keep looking. He wanted to see, but was also afraid to get what he wanted.

  The approaching phantom finally reached the edge of the curtain and pressed itself against the plastic. It had the makings of a face, the face of someone familiar. It was Chris staring back at him.

  The lively eyes of the boy Matthew loved had been stolen away, replaced by two drained, white globes. Chris’ features appeared intact for the most part, but the dark red gashes that cracked his face were noticeable through the hazy vista. His ghostly qualities extended beyond the way he looked. Chris remained inhumanly still, like he was fixed on something, and when he spoke, the dead air from his lungs took a stony toll on his voice.

  “Matthew...” came Chris’ frigid whisper.

  Before he could reply, Matthew had to wait for his mouth to stop quivering. Although it was a mere shadow of Chris’ sweet voice, Matthew still reveled in hearing it again.

  “Oh my God. Chris.” The cup slipped out of Matthew’s hand and shattered across the tiles. “Chris, I thought we lost you. I thought I lost you.”

  “Not lost. I’m found. For the first time. You can be too,” breathed out the apparition.

  “I want to be. I want to be with you. It’s all I want.”

  “Join me.”

  “How? Tell me!” Matthew whimpered desperately. The tears his eyes had prepared for had finally arrived. He shed them in front of Chris as a testament to their love.

  “I’m in the woods now, with the beast. Join me.” His head cocked to the side and crinkled the plastic.

  “What are you saying? What do I have to do?”