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Eleven
Retribution Of Sloth
This place stinks.
Seeing the level of deterioration the church fell into only solidifies my belief I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. This is my calling.
People don’t care anymore; they don’t believe anymore. That’s the problem. If they actually had any fear of God, or even the devil, they would have some self-respect. They’d have some shred of decency. But they don’t. They used to at least put on a show of faith and devoutness, fake as it may have been, but they don’t even do that. And those that do are so dirty, there isn’t one place that could be considered sacred ground. Not one church is holy, they’re all filthy, everyone in them is immoral, even the priests and ministers.
People have become lazy and slovenly in all things. Especially their religious practices.
Everyone and everything is infected with greed, they have no room for religion, or the word of God. That’s why so many turned to voodoo, to give people what they deserve, to punish them for their crimes. It made a home for itself in this crescent shaped place, saturating the ground with power since the beginning.
It seems they’ve forgotten about that too.
It’s my duty to remind them, and what better way than here, in what was supposed to be the house of God.
I was chosen because I am pure. I purge myself. It is my honor to do the same to the sacrifices to prepare them for salvation. It’s truly offensive to have to dwell amongst the scum of the earth, but I have no choice. I have to in order to find those who will become devoted through sacrifice.
This one was chosen especially for this ceremony.
I’m almost giddy with anticipation. To know that my queen will soon sit upon her throne is more than I could have hoped for, the perfect climax to the purging. When I found out she was here, it was a sign from God. For now, I must pave the way for her ceremony. It infuriates me to know she’s tainting herself with the likes of him, but she will be cleansed soon enough. Beauchamp will serve his own purpose.
I’m going to have to purge myself with extra care during tonight’s ceremony because of the hate I have for Ignatius Beauchamp. Tonight could not have come soon enough.
Getting the sacrifices isn’t difficult. It’s the time I have to spend with them pretending to placate them that I hate. They’re disgusting and vile and impure, it makes me sick. The only thing that gets me through it is knowing what’s waiting for them. Their purification, the fact they will be given for the greater good.
With the offering laid out on the altar, gagged of course, I proceed to inscribe the necessary symbols for tonight’s ceremony while I chant the prayers. My body hums knowing the queen will see my drawings, that she has already been witness to my work. I’m going to leave her something special this time. I wonder what she thinks, I wonder if she’s figured it out, if she knows what all this is for. When it’s her turn, when the night for her ceremony comes and I’m reciting the incantations as I place the markings precisely where they need to be, it’ll be as if we’re joining together. She’ll understand, because she’s the daughter of the greatest queen of all. Her blood is pure and will be spilled in the final sacrifice, consecrating the final act. A ceremony that will be like our wedding.
“It’s almost time,” I tell the offering.
She’s whimpering. At least she’s not screaming anymore. I hate it when they get hysterical. It’s so tedious.
As I draw the last symbol on the floor, my body is almost completely prepared for the ceremony, rigid and hard. It’s exhilarating, I can feel the power flow through my veins, burning me and igniting the spirits. The prayers flow freely from me, Catholic and African, older than anything in New Orleans. The room is cast in candlelight, the entire altar surrounded by dozens and dozens of candles, white, red, and black, each one a representation of a specific purpose. The smell of incense mixes with the odors of rot and decay, appropriate for tonight’s ceremony. And gasoline.
The abdication of Sloth, The Deadly Sin.
I face the offering on the altar. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have been chosen,” I tell her.
Her body planks and her back arches off the hard surface as she fights against her bindings and screams into the gag. Her nakedness glimmers in the flickering flames and my manhood pulses as I imagine the purification of her flesh.
I strip off my clothes, fold them and place them in a neat pile off to the side, next to the tools, along with the items I found in the back that were left by the priest. Then I pick up the cat-o-nine-tails. I approach her as her wild eyes follow my every step. “I chose you for tonight, you should feel special.” I drag a finger down the center of her torso, beginning at the base of her neck, between her breasts, down the concave of her abdomen, and stop at her mound. “Do you feel special?” She nods slowly, her wide eyes locked on mine. I know she’s lying, but it still pleases me. “You look so much like our queen, only in the eyes, steel blue like hers.” But this one is grotesquely skinny. “You will be properly sanctified.”
Then I flick my wrist, swinging the whip, the sharp tips embed themselves in the flesh of my back. I suck in a sharp breath as euphoria floods me. “Yes!”
I can hear the offering scream somewhere at the fringes of my quickly dissolving lucidity.
This is the beginning of the ceremony, the first draw of blood. The Communion words flow from my mouth, “This is my blood…,” my voice is loud.
Whack!
“…It will be shed for you…” it’s getting gravelly.
Whack!
“…The new and the everlasting covenant.” My jaw is tense, my teeth grinding together.
Whack!
