Apocrypha - the lost stories

Fear, compulsion, they conspire against the priest and he births himself from the darken crevice, a wrinkled fetus from a fetid womb. He steps, slowly, trying to avoid the glittering snowfall of window's ice but it is in vain and he stifles a cry with every foot fall, a bloody snail.

The angel looks on with amusement, his garrotte gaze tightening on the priest, denying him the slightest freedom, drawing him closer.

The angel's mouth moves, but the words seem to come from elsewhere. They echo in the broken basin of the water fountains, the stains on the walls seem to cry out in it's voice, the burnt-out bulbs of long ago seem to flicker one last gasp in an effort to make it's voice heard. The angel has no lips, just a precise slit like a razors cut, flapping open to reveal darkness framed in sharp white points.

We've been looking for you Priest.

The crunching stops, the priest is close enough, grimy tears of rusty brown stream down his face to be flicked off a trembling lip. He can barely respond, so he just nods with what little slack the angel allows.

You have yet to tell us all your stories. We need to know Priest. Tell us your bedtime stories so that we may put you finally to rest.

Blood and urine mixes, filters through the broken shards at the priest's feet.

Tell us. Tell us.

The priest jerks suddenly, his eye twitches and the vein on the side of his neck bulges before he collapses in his own filth, a ragdoll in a garbage shoot. The angel watches impassively, it's black eyes unfathomable like the cut out eyes of a paper doll.

Another shower of glass, another descending spider, another angel. They exchange glances.

This will not do. The Priest is fragile.

You speak lies with the truth, brothersister.

You will punish.

No. You will take the Priest. Intact. Nothing will be lost.


Their dance of statements concludes, they both leave, but not before another spider, smaller and more cruel than the other, picks up the priest with it's needle arms and drags him inside.

Faintly, the priest can hear the music of harps. He remember the stories and holds on to them. Lies or truth, it didn't matter. They are his anchor as he slips fully into the black sea of his mind.

The End

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