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Religion is supposed to be a source of comfort.
From a young age I was told this.
The broken are redeemed, the lost found.
Eternal life after death.
Given only to the faithful, to the good.
---
Horrific images were presented through stained glass.
Tales of slavery and mass genocide, justified.
Egypt stained red with the blood of the first born.
Why?
What had these children done?
The fault was with the fathers, not the sons.
---
Abraham was instructed to slay his precious child.
A test from the Lord of good, the Lord of light.
Ever faithful, he was prepared to do this.
And the lord rewarded him for this faithfulness.
Still, I ask you this.
What if it hadnât been a test?Â
---
âBe obedient to them that are your masters.â
This is a direct quote.
The Israelite's were delivered from chains.
By their holy saviorâs will.
Doesnât all slavery deserve condemnation?
It seems only the faithful can be free.
---
There is much more that I could quote.
So much more I wish I could say.
I live in constant fear of dying.
Each and every day.
Your God isnât good and your God isnât great.
Iâm cut constantly by my shattered faith.
Tears cloud my vision as I run down the empty street, coat pulled close as the rain pelts into me. It feel as if shards of ice are piercing my skin. I hardly notice, the arching of my heart more intense than the painful numbness of the cold. I feel my heart hammering in my chest. Where am I going? Not home; I canât bare to face him. I shouldnât have left, I should have just taken the verbal and physical battering. Iâve handled his harsh words and touches before. Still, this time felt âŠdifferent. Iâve never seen him so angry before. I had barely stepped into the apartment before his hand met my cheek, his barrage of insults beginning. He stunk of alcohol. A bad day at work, perhaps? Coming home late from work had just added fuel to the flame. His words still echo in my ears, clear and sharp. Terrifying. âYou whore! You were out with some other man, werenât you? Donât you lie to me!â I had panicked when he didnât stop after a few hits. Before I could think it through, I had smashed a vase over his head. Oh god, heâs going to be so angry.
My running slowly turns into a slow creep, each step making my feet feel as though anvils are chained to my ankles. My hair and clothes are soaked through. No one is out on such a rainy night. Itâs so late that most of the small shops and restaurants have closed, the only light coming from the street lamps that bathe the roads in orange light and a small building across the street. My eyes go to it, curious. What could be open so late? I walk over, the large words painted on the windows becoming clearer as I do. Merrillâs Coffee & Pastries, it reads. Without thinking, I open the door and step inside, drawn to the warmth radiating from the inside like a moth to a porch light. The interior looks like your stereotypical Hallmark movie. The floor and counters are the color of warm honey, the walls a light tan. A few tables and chairs are scattered throughout the room, large velvet couches lining the back wall. There is no one in sight; the workers were probably relaxing in the back room. After all, who would be coming in for coffee at 10:00 at night?
I make my way to a table in the back corner; the one farthest from the door. I sit with my back to the counter, hoping that if a worker immerses they will take the hint and leave me alone. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries would be pleasant under normal circumstances. The hunger that had been gnawing at my stomach when I got off shift is long gone now, replaced by this horrific sense of dread. I shiver as my wet clothes cling to my icy skin, the warmth of the shop slowly easing the numbness away. As the feeling returns, the pain does as well. My hand goes to my cheek, touching the large bruise that has already begun to form. It is likely already turning an ugly blue; makeup wonât cover this one up. Small bruises, the exact size of his fingers, litter my arms. The tears I have been so desperately pushing back resurface, spilling down my cheeks as I choke back a sob. My hand goes over my mouth, trying to silence my whimpers as I sink down, burrowing my face into my arms. It all comes crashing over me like a tidal wave, too much to bare.
Somewhere behind me I hear a groan of disappointment, accompanied by unintelligible muttering. I barely notice it, my head remaining pressed into my arms. The sound of footsteps make me tense; they are load and heavy. Just like his. âHey, can I get you something-â My head snaps up, eyes widening with fear. My gaze lands on a man a few steps behind me; itâs not him. This man is tall and massive, looking more like a pro-wrestler than someone who would be working at a coffee shop. Heâs bald, tattoos covering his muscled arms. A black bear covers his squared jawline. His eyes widen as well, flicking up and down as he takes me in. I must look like Iâve been hit by a bus; in a way I have. âAre you okay, maâam?â His voice is deep, resembling rolling thunder. It, like his presence, commands attention. I sniffle, wiping my tear-soaked cheeks and nodding. I force a small smile onto my face; Iâm sure it looks as fake as it feels. âY-Yeah, Iâm fine. Thank you.â The man reaches forward, towards my face, and I involuntarily flinch. His hand pulls back as he pauses for a moment.
âYou sure donât look fine. Did you get mugged?â I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to calm my nerves. It doesnât help. âI just fell down some stairs. It was slippery and I wasnât watching where I was going.â I mumble. My eyes focus on the wall, the floor, the coffee maker. Anything but the man standing in front of me. I hear him let out a low sigh and hear the rustling of clothes moving. Before I can look up, heâs placed his large jacket around my shoulders. Itâs so large I nearly disappear inside of it. âWell, be more careful. Someone might think you got beat up.â There is a knowing tone to his voice. Itâs clear my lie didnât do the trick. âCan I get you something? A scone? A cappuccino?â I shake my head again. âIâm sorry, I donât have any money.â The man shrugs. âItâs on the house. Think of it as a thank you.â My eyebrows furrow in confusion. âThank you? Thank you for what?â A small smile tugs at his lips. âKeeping me company. It gets lonely working the late shift, you know? Iâm Joseph, by the way.â I feel a smile of my own beginning to form. âClara. Itâs nice to meet you, Joseph.â
I donât know how long we sit and talk. No one else comes in; by now itâs past midnight. The shop should have closed over an hour ago. Joseph doesnât seem to care. He sits across from me, tending to my injuries as he chatters on endlessly. He talks about his childhood, going into elaborate stories about baking with his mother and going on adventures with his brothers. He grew up in Montana; a far cry from the sprawling city he now finds himself in. He moved here three years ago after his mother died hoping to start a bakery. Things didnât quite go as planned, to say the least. I donât mind letting him take the lead in the conversation department. I hardly have any stories that are worth sharing. Heâs in the middle of another wonderful story when I hear the bell ring, signalling that another has entered the shop. I look up, heart plummeting. Heâs standing there, soaked to the bone and red with anger. A bandage is sloppily wrapped around his forehead, blood soaking the material. âThere you are.â He growls, stalking towards me. I fumble over my words, not sure what to say, just that the pain is about to return.
Joseph is on his feet before I can form a response. He positions himself in front of me, blocking my view. âWho are you?â He asks, eyes narrowed. His arms are folded across his massive chest. âI happen to be her husband. Get out of my way, Iâm taking her home.â Joseph snorts, shaking his head. âI donât think the lady wants to do with you, mister.â He looks back at me for confirmation. âAm I right?â I hesitate before mustering up a nod, an anxious lump forming in my throat. âSee? Now, I think itâs time you leave.â Joseph takes a step forward, placing a hand on the otherâs shoulder. âI donât give a shit what she wants! Sheâs my wife and Iâm taking her with me!â He tries to force his way past, Josephâs large frame easily blocking the way. âIâm warning you, leave.â He growls. I hear the familiar sound of a fist hitting a jaw and Joseph stumbles back, hand shooting to his face in pain. His brown eyes fill with anger. Before I can blink, the sound of glass shattering fills my ears. Itâs just me and Joseph again, cold air hitting us through the newly broken window. The rusty smell of blood wafts in from outside accompanied by the cold breeze. I donât look, instead burrowing my face into Josephâs chest as the tears return.
It looks like a scene out of a horror movie. The dirty shag carpet is covered in blood splatters and broken glass. The paintings of calm landscapes that hung on the wall have been slashed to ribbons. A light in the far corner of the room is flickering, having been busted at some point during the conflict. The sound of groans leak from behind the barricaded doors and windows, accompanied by load thumps and the occasional scream from somewhere in the distance. The windows have been covered with wet toilet paper, blocking the view into the clinic. Desks and chairs have been pushed in front of the locked wooden door; they are the only thing keeping the hoard of beasts at bay.
Abrams glances around the waiting room, observing his companions. To say everyone in the room is a wreck would be a drastic understatement. They had managed to push the creatures back but at great cost. Only five people, including himself, had survived the first wave. The first is a young woman, in her mid-twenties by the looks of it, with a septum piecing. The second is a middle-aged man with bright, eed hair. The last two are a young couple, a dark haired girl and a tall boy, sobbing and clinging onto each other for dear life. Each one of them is covered in scratches and blood stains; in much better condition than the various mutilated bodies that litter the floor. They look terrified; he is sure that he appears the same to them.
Abrams couldnât have anticipated what the day would bring when he woke up that morning. When he had arrived at the fertility clinic earlier that day, he had been expecting another bland day at work. It had started off that way, at the very least. The clinic had opened on schedule and a few patients came and went with no issues. Then, around noon, they heard the screams. Outside the building, it sounded like the entire city was under attack, cries of pain and the sound of breaking glass filling the air. Some of the staff rushed outside, trying to find out what was happening. Abrams had watched through the windows as they were torn apart. The creatures...they were like nothing he had ever seen before. They were like no horror heâd ever read about in his H.P. Lovecraft books.
Suddenly, Abrams becomes aware of how quiet itâs gotten. The other survivors seem to have noticed as well, glancing around the room uncertainly. The shrieks and moans from outside have suddenly stopped. It feels as if the entire world has gone completely silent. The only noise Abrams can hear is his own breathing. Then, from outside the barricade door, they hear a voice. âPlease, let me in!â The voice is that of an older woman. It sounds so familiar, Abrams just canât put his finger on it. Everyone remains silent. âTheyâve gone for now but they will be back soon! Please, let me in! Before they tear me apart!â Now Abrams recognizes that voice; itâs his mother. Heâs about to run toward the door when he hears the girl with the septum piercing speaks up. âDad, is that you?â Her voice is hoarse from screaming.
Abrams pauses, eyebrows furrowing. No, she couldnât have heard right. The girl has to be mistaken. The voice is clearly that of a woman; of his mother. âLet me in. Please, please let me in.â The voice pleas. The other survivorsâ eyes widen. âThatâs my grandmother.â The dark haired girl says. Her boyfriend shakes his head, seeming just as confused as Abrams. âNo, thatâs my father.â The red haired man, who has remained silent up to his point, gets to his feet and moves towards the door. Abrams is instantly on his feet, blocking his path. The red haired man frowns, trying to move past him. âThatâs my grandfather out there! Move out of the way!â He growls. âSomething isnât right! Everyone is hearing someone different! Doesnât that strike you as odd?â The red haired man shakes his head, trying to shove past him again. âI know my grandfather's voice!â
The voice behind the door shifts, tone becoming less frantic and more angry. âLet me in! Donât you hear me? Theyâre going to tear me apart! Let me in! Let me in!â There is a harsh pounding at the door. The force behind the knocks makes Abrams cringe; it sounds loud enough to break through the wood. This doesnât happen, though the knocking continues endlessly. By now the red haired man has paused, eyes widening. âM-My grandfather has never yelled like that...â He murmurs. As the furious screams and pounding continues, the rest of the group becomes more and more uneasy. Abrams still hears his motherâs voice, though her loving and soft tone as been replaced by inhuman screeching. It is uttering words his mother would never dare speak. âDamn you! Selfish, thatâs what you are! My blood is on your hands! It will be your fault when they catch me! It will be your fault when I die! Damn you!â
Then, without warning, the screaming stops. All is quiet once again. The dark haired woman is choking back a sob, burrowing her forehead into her boyfriendâs neck. The red haired man stands next to Abram, warily staring at the door. The girl with the septum is fumbling with an inhaler, hoping to calm her rapid breathing. There is a knock at the door, this time accompanied by a different voice. Itâs a deep voice, seemingly male, that rolls like thunder. âYour friend is smart.â It says. It sends a chill down Abrams spine; he feels like heâs going to be sick. âWell, no matter. Eventually, you will let me in. Everyone opens the door with time. Why prolong the inevitable? Why not just open the door now? That would be quicker, wouldnât it? It must be awfully uncomfortable in there...â It purrs.
Authorâs Note: This is a little blurb I wrote during creative writing club today. We were given 20 minutes to write about an object in the room or a certain concept we had been holding onto. I picked a bird painting hanging on the wall and this was the result. Enjoy!
Valerie gazed at the painting hanging on the far wall. The painting had tormented her since she was a girl. Ever since her family had first bought the painting from a local yard sale, Valerie had been aware of itâs terrifying secret. It pictured a bird sitting upon a branch, a pale blue sky as the background. Shades of blue, orange, and white made the painting pop against the dull tan wall. The painter had used a technique that brought texture to the birdâs feathers, making it appear almost three dimensional from a distance. To the average viewer, it would have been nothing more than a piece of artwork adorning an otherwise bland wall. To Valerie, it was a symbol of pure terror. No one else noticed how the bird shifted positions ever so slightly, how itâs eyes seemed to glint when you walked by. If they had, they wouldnât even know half of the truth. Valerieâs eyes narrow at the painting as she moves to her bedroom down the hall, shutting and locking her door. The clock showed that it was a quarter past nine; it would begin at midnight. That gave her a few hours to sleep peacefully before the bird came to life, just as it did every other night. It would fly down the hall, diving down and smashing into her bedroom door. No one else would hear it, too deep in their slumbers to notice or care. Valerie would be left in the dark, staring at her bedroom door as moonlight illuminated it, listening as the bird slams over and over into the wood. It had done this every night for the past ten years. She wasnât sure what it was trying to do and, if she was honest with herself, there were times when she debated opening the door just to see what would happen. Â It was her fear of the unknown that kept her curiosity at bay. The birdâs attacks on her door had become more frenzied over the past few months. It seemed to be growing impatient, itâs determination to break through her door showing in the constant thuds and occasional angry chirps. Valerie had long theorized about the truth nature of the painting; was it haunted? Cursed? Any explanation would be better than continuing to face the unknown.
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