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“This is your body,” my voice is low and raspy. It’s not mine, but one of the spirits. I dip my fingers into an especially deep wound, causing the sacrifice to moan in pain. The spirits stir inside me. They like that, and that pleases me. “It will be given up for you.”
When the symbols are complete, I stare at the sacrifice.
I want more.
This time, I dig my fingers into her wounds and coat my hand with her flesh and blood.
There’s a special message I want to leave this time. I smear the blood on the walls.
The spirits are worked up in a furor. They’re still hungry as well. They’re demanding something special. I have to give it to them.
I grab the knife and slit her throat. Patiently, I wait for all her blood to drain out of her. I watch it ooze from her like a waterfall and pool all around my feet. There’s so much of it, it spills out the door and onto the grass, warm and thick. Finally, when it lessens, I sever her head from her body. It’s not an easy thing to do. When I’m done, my body is finally prepared for the final blessing, hard and swollen.
I set her dismembered head on the floor near my feet, then open my pants. I fist my shaft, my hand covered in the Holy Communion.
“Accept the sacrifice,” I begin to pump and work the white seed of anointment from my body. “Take her soul, she’s yours.” My hand begins to move faster. “She is my gift to you.” The tremors of euphoria start to shake my body. “Yes! Look favorably upon me,” I growl. “So that I may fulfill my destiny.” The first burst shoots from me and explodes onto the sacrifice, blending with the thick red blood and the torn pieces of flesh. The Eucharist. I keep pumping until I’m empty. Panting, I say, “Thank you for accepting my gift. Bless me with your power.”
There’s one more thing the spirits want before the final act.
I tuck myself back into my slacks, then pick up her head. I walk to the front of the house, where he defiled my queen earlier, and place the sacrifice’s dismembered head in front of the door, marking it with ceremony, wiping away the sins they committed. Next to the sacrifice, the head, I write the message in her blood. Then I go back to the building.
Time to finish with the consecration of the sacrifice for the sin of Envy.
I grab the can of lighter fluid and squirt it over her body, and just enough of a trail to lead to it. I pick up my whip and my knife, then light the fire.
“May the fires of your powers grow stronger.” When I turn and leave the building, with the body now covered in flames, I mumble, “Praise be.”
As I walk back toward the tree line, across Ignatius Beauchamp’s lawn, to the boat waiting in the swamp for me, discontent grows in my belly, dark and angry. It seeps through my body and leaves a foul taste in my mouth.
This time, I don’t smile. Satisfaction does not come.
As I climb into the boat and push from the water’s edge, images of the punishment and revenge that are coming fill my head.
This time, I smile.
